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29
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WHY HAROLD DID NOT GO TO VASSAR.
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The cottage in the lane, as its name implied, was not very pretentious, and all its rooms were small and low, and mostly upon the ground floor, except the one which Jerrie had occupied since she had grown too large for the crib by Mrs. Crawford's bed. In this room, in which there was but one window, and where the roof slanted down on both sides, Jerrie kept all her possessions--her playthings and her books, and the trunk and carpet-bag which had been found when she was found. Here she had cut off her hair and slept on the floor, to see how it would seem, and here she had enacted many a play, in which the scenes and characters were all of the past. For the cold in winter she did not care at all, and when in summer the nights were close and hot, she drew her little bed to the open window and fell asleep while thinking how warm she was. That she ought to have a better room had never occurred to her, and never had she found a word of fault or repined at her humble surroundings, so different from those of her girl friends. Only, as she grew taller, she had sometimes laughingly said that if the kept on she should not much longer be able to stand upright in her den, as she called it.
'I hit my head now everywhere except in the middle,' she once said. 'I wonder if we can't some time manage to raise the roof.'
The words were spoken thoughtlessly, and almost immediately forgotten by Jerrie: but Harold treasured them up, and began at once to devise ways and means to raise the roof and give Jerrie a room more worthy of her. This was just after he had left college, and there was hanging over him his debt to Arthur and the support of his grandmother. The first did not particularly disturb him, for he knew that Arthur would wait any length of time, while the latter seemed but a trifle to a strong, robust young man. Mrs. Crawford was naturally very economical, and could make one dollar go further than most people could two; so that very little sufficed for their daily wants when Jerrie was away.
'I must earn money somehow,' Harold thought, 'and must seek work where I can do the best, even if it is from Peterkin.'
So, swallowing his pride, he went to Peterkin's office and asked for work. Once before, when a boy of eighteen, and sorely pressed, he had done the same thing, and met with a rebuff from the foreman, who said to him gruffly: 'No, sir; we don't want no more boys; leastwise, gentlemen boys. We've had enough of 'em. Try t'other furnace. Mr. Warner is allus takin' all kinds of trash, out of pity, and if he says "No," go to his wife; she'll get you in.'
But the Warner factory, where Harold had once worked, was full of boys, whom the kind-hearted employer, or his wife, or both, had taken in, and there was no place for Harold. So he waited awhile until Jerrie needed a new dress and his grandmother a bonnet, and then he tried Peterkin again, and this time with success.
'Yes, take him,' Peterkin said to his foreman, 'take him, and put him to the emery wheel; that's the place for such upstarts; that'll take the starch out of him double quick. He's a bad egg, he is, and proud as Lucifer. I don't suppose he'd touch my Bill or my Ann'Lizy with a ten-foot pole. Put him to the wheel. Bad egg! bad egg!'
For some moat unaccountable reason, old Peterkin had a bitter prejudice against the boy, on whose account he had once been turned from the Tracy house; and though he had forgiven the Tracys, and would now have voted for Frank for Congressman if he had the chance, he still cherished his animosity against Harold, designating him as an upstart and a bad egg, who was to be put to the wheel. So Harold was 'put to the wheel' until he got a bit of steel in his eye, and his hands were blistered. But he did not mind the latter so much, because Jerrie cried over them at night and kissed them in the morning, and bathed them in cosmoline, and called Peterkin a mean old thing, and offered to go herself to the wheel.
But to this Harold only laughed. He could stand it, he said, and a dollar a day was not to be sneezed at. He could wear gloves and save his hands.
But the appearance of gloves was the signal for a general hooting and jeering from the boys of his own age who were employed there, and who had from the first looked askance at Harold because they knew how greatly he was their superior, and fancied an affront in everything he did and every word he said, it was spoken so differently from their own dialect.
'I can't stand it,' Harold said to Jerrie, after a week's trial with the gloves. 'I'd rather sweep the streets than be jeered at as I am. I don't mind the work. I am getting used to it, but the boys are awful. Why, they call me 'sissy,' and 'Miss Hastings,' and all that.'
So Harold left the employ of Peterkin, greatly to the chagrin of that functionary, who had found him the most faithful boy he had ever had. But this was years ago, and matters had changed somewhat since then. Harold was a man now--a graduate from Harvard, with an air and dignity about him which commanded respect even from Peterkin, who was sitting upon his high stool when Harold came in with his application. Billy, who was Harold's fast friend, was now in the business with his father, and as he chanced to be present, the thing was soon arranged, and Harold received into the office at a salary of twelve dollars per week, which was soon increased to fifteen and twenty, and at last, as the autumn advanced and Harold began to talk of taking the same school in town which he had once before taught, he was offered $1,500 a year, if he would remain, as foreman of the office, where his services were invaluable. But Harold had chosen the law for his profession, and as teaching school was more congenial to him than writing in the office, and would give him more time for reading law, he declined the salary and took the school, which he kept for two successive winters, going between times into the office whenever his services were needed, which was very often, as they knew his worth, and Billy was always glad to have him there.
In this way he managed to lay aside quite a little sum of money, besides paying his interest to Arthur, and when Maude came home from Europe in March he felt himself warranted in beginning _to raise the roof_. He was naturally a mechanic, and would have made a splendid carpenter; he was also something of an architect, and sketched upon paper the changes he proposed making. The roof was to be raised over Jerrie's room; there was to be a pretty bay-window at the south, commanding a view of the Collingwood grounds and the river. There was to be another window on a side, but whether to the east or the west he could not quite decide. There was to be a dressing-room and large closet, while the main room was to be carried up in the centre, after the fashion of a church, and to be ceiled with narrow strips of wood painted alternately with a pale blue and gray. He showed the sketch to his grandmother, who approved it, just as she approved everything he did, but suggested that he submit it to Maude Tracy, who she heard, had become an artist and had a studio; so he took the plan to Maude, explaining it to her, and saying it was to be a surprise to Jerrie, when she came home for good in the summer. Maude was interested and enthusiastic at once, and entered heart and soul into the matter, making some suggestions which Harold adopted, and deciding for him where the extra window was to be placed.
'Put it to the east,' she said, 'for Jerrie is always looking toward the rising sun, because, she says her old home is that way. And, besides, she can see the Tramp House she is so fond of. For my part, I think it a poky place, and never like to pass it after dark, lest I should see the dark woman standing in the door, with the candle in her hand, crying for help. Where was Jerry then, I wonder! In the carpet-bag, asleep, perhaps. Wouldn't that make a very effective picture! The storm, the open door, the frantic woman in it, with the candle held high over her head, and Jerrie clutching her dress behind, with her great blue eyes staring out in the darkness. That is the way I have always seen it since you told me about it, and the light you saw. I mean to paint the picture, and hang it in the new room as another surprise to Jerrie.'
'Oh, don't!' Harold said, with a shudder. 'Jerrie would not like it. It almost killed her when she first knew of the cry which Mr. Arthur heard, and the light I saw that night. She insisted upon knowing everything there was to know; and when I told her all the color left her face, and for a moment she sat rigid as a stone, with a look I shall never forget, and then she cried as I never saw anybody cry before. This was three years ago, and she has never spoken to me of it since.'
Harold's voice trembled as he talked, while Maude cried outright. The idea of the picture was given up, and she went back to the subject of the new room in which she seemed quite as much interested as Harold himself. When the roof was raised, and the floor laid, and the frame-work of the bay-window up, she went nearly every day to the cottage to watch the progress of the work, and to keep Harold's one hired man up to the mark, if he showed the least sign of lagging.
'She is wus than a slave-driver,' the man said to Harold one day. 'Why, if ever I stop to take a chair, or rest my bones a bit, she's after me in a jiffy, and asks if I don't think I can get so much done in an hour if I work as tight as I can clip it. I was never so druv in my life.'
And yet both the man and Harold liked to see the little lady there, walking through the shavings, and holding high her dainty skirts as she clambered over piles of boards and shingles, or perching herself on the work bench, superintended them both, and twice by her intervention saved a door from swinging the wrong way, and from being a little askew.
Mrs. Tracy was greatly opposed to Maude's going so often to the cottage, wondering what pleasure she could find in seeing an old house repaired, and predicting that she would make herself sick. But Maude was headstrong and would have her way, especially as her father did not object, but himself took her frequently to the cottage. Frank was almost as much interested in the work as she was, and once offered his services, as did Dick St. Claire and Billy Peterkin.
'That's splendid. We'll have a bee, and get a lot done,' Maude said; and she pressed into the _bee_ her father and Dick, and Billy, and Fred Raymond, and Tom, the latter of whom did nothing but find fault, saying that the ceiling ought to have been of different woods, the floor inlaid, and the tops of the windows cathedral glass.
'And I suppose you will find the money for all that elegance,' Maude said, as she held one end of a board for Harold to nail. 'We are cutting our garment according to the cloth, and if you don't like it you'd better go away. We do not want any drones in the hive, do we, Hally?'
'She had taken to address him thus familiarly since they had commenced their carpenter work together, and Harold smiled brightly upon her as upon a child, as she stood on tip-toe at his side.
Tom went away, but he soon came back again; for there was for him a peculiar fascination about this room for Jerrie, and sitting down upon a saw-horse, he looked on, and whittled, and smoked, while Dick blistered his hands, and Fred raised a blood-blister by striking his finger with the hammer, and Billy ran a huge splinter under his thumb nail.
Then they all went away, and Harold was left alone, for his man had been obliged to leave, and thus the finishing up devolved upon him. But he was equal to it. The worst was over, and all that was now required was hard and constant work if he would accomplish it in time to see Jerrie graduated, as he greatly wished to do, provided he should have money enough left for the trip when everything was paid for.
But whoever has repaired an old house needs not to be told that the cost is always greater than was anticipated, and that there are a thousand difficulties which beset the unwary workman and hinder his progress. And Harold found it so. Still he worked bravely on, early and late, taking no rest except for an hour or so in the afternoon, when he found it a very pleasant change to walk through the leafy woods, so full of summer life and beauty, to where Maude waited for him, with her sunny face and bright smile, which always grew brighter at his coming. How could he know what was in her mind? --he, who never dreamed it possible that she, of all other girls, could fall in love with him--'that Hastings chap, poor as poverty,' as he knew Tom sometimes called him.
That Maude liked him, he was sure; but he supposed it was mostly for the amusement he afforded her, and for the sake of Jerrie, of whom she was never tired of talking. Maude's friendship was very sweet to the young man, who had so few means of enjoyment, and whose life was one of toil and care. So he went blindly on toward the pitfall in the distance, and began at last to look forward with a great deal of pleasure to the readings or talks with Maude, even though he did not find her very intellectual. She amused and rested him, and that was something to the tired and overworked man.
The room was finished inside at last, and looked exceedingly cool and pleasant in its dress of blue and gray, and its two rows of colored glass in each window; for Harold had carried out Tom's suggestion in that respect, and by going without a new hat and a pair of pants, which he needed, had managed to get the glass, which he set himself; for, as he said to Maude, who assisted him in the matching and arrangement, he was a kind of jack-at-all-trades. Maude had also helped him to putty up the nail-holes, and had tried her hand at the painting until it gave her a sick-headache, and she was obliged to quit.
When Arthur first heard of the raised roof, he went down to see it, and approving of everything which had thus far been done, insisted upon furnishing the room himself. But Harold refused, saying decidedly that it was his own surprise for Jerrie, and no one must help him. So Arthur went away, and told Maude confidentially that the young man Hastings was made of the right kind of stuff, that he liked his independence, and that, although he should allow him to pay his debt, he should deposit the money as fast as received to his credit in the savings bank, so that he would eventually get it all.
'You are the darlingest uncle in the world!' Maude said, rubbing her soft cheek against his, in that purring way many men like, which made Arthur kiss her, and tell her she was a little simpleton, but rather nice on the whole.
'And you'll not tell Jerrie a word about the room!' Maude charged him again and again, while they were in New York selecting the dress.
'Not if I can help it,' was his reply, although, as the reader knows, he came near letting it out twice, but _held on in time_, so that the raised roof was still a secret from Jerrie when she reached the station and was met by Maude and Harold.
The room, was all ready, and a most inviting looking room it was, with its pretty carpet of blue and drab, and a delicate shading of pink in it; its cottage furniture, simple, but suitable; its muslin curtains and chintz covered lounge, and the willow chair and round table, which Maude had insisted upon furnishing. She _would_ have some part in furnishing the room, she said, and Harold allowed her to get the chair, which she put by the window looking toward the Tramp House, and the round table, which stood in the bay-window, with a Japanese bowl upon it filled with the lilies Harold had gathered in the early morning. He had found it impossible to go to Vassar there were so many last things to be done, and so little money left in his purse with which to make the journey, and as Maude had more confidence in her own taste for the arrangement of furniture than in his, she too decided to remain at home and see it through. The carpet was not put down until the morning of the day when the young men started for Vassar, and it was the noise of the tack-hammer which Tom had heard and likened to the shingling of a roof.
'There must be flowers everywhere, Jerrie is so fond of them,' Maude said; and she brought great baskets full from the park gardens, and a costly Dresden vase, which Arthur had left for Jerrie when he went away, together with his card and his photograph, and a note in which he had written as follows: 'MY DEAR CHILD:--Welcome, welcome home again. I wish I could see you when your blue eyes first look upon the room I came so near telling you about. Maude would have killed me if I had. You have no idea how Harold has worked to get it done, and where he got the money is more than I know. Pinched himself, in every way, of course. He is a noble fellow, Jerrie. But you know that. I saw it in your face at Vassar, and saw something else, too, which you may think is a secret. Will talk with you about it when I come home. I am off to-morrow for California. Would like to take you with me. Maybe I shall meet with robbers in the Yosemite. I'd rather like to. God bless you!
'ARTHUR TRACY.'
'Uncle Arthur was very queer the day he went away,' Maude said to Harold, as she put the note, and the photograph, and the card upon the dressing-bureau. 'I heard him talking to Gretchen, and saying, "Gretchen, Gretchen, Jerrie will be here by-and-by, to keep you company while I am gone--little Jerrie, when I first knew her, but a great tall Jerrie now, with the air of a duchess. Yes, Jerrie is coming, Gretchen." How he loves her--Jerrie, I mean; and I do not wonder, do you?'
Harold's mouth was full of tacks and he did not reply, but went steadily on with his work until everything was done.
'Isn't it lovely, and won't she be pleased!' Maude kept saying, as she gave the room a last look and then started for home, charging Harold to be on time at the train, and to try and not look so tired.
Harold _was_ very tired, for the constant strain of the last few weeks had told upon him, and he felt that he could not have gone on much longer, and that only for Maude's constant enthusiasm and sympathy he should have broken down before the task was done. It was not easy work, shingling roofs and nailing down floors, and painting ceilings, and every bone in his body ached, and his hands were calloused like a piece of leather, and his face looked tired and pale when he at last sat down to rest awhile before changing his working suit for one scarcely better, although clean and fresher, with no daubs of paint or patches upon it.
'They don't look first-rate, that's a fact,' he said to himself as he surveyed his pants, and boots, and hat, and thought what a contrast he should present to the elegant Tom and his other friends at the station. 'But Jerrie won't care a bit; she understands, or will, when she sees her new room. How pretty it is!' he added, as he stopped to look in and admire it.
A blind had swung open, letting in a flood of hot sunshine and as it was desirable to keep the room as cool as possible, Harold went in to close the shutter. But something was the matter with both fastening and hinge, and he was fixing it when Maude drove up, telling him the train was late.
'That's lucky,' he said, 'for this blind is all out of gear;' and it took so much time to fix and rehang it that the whistle was heard among the hills a mile away, just as he entered the victoria with Maude and started for the station upon a run.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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30
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THE WALK HOME.
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All the way from the station to the gate Harold was trying to think of something to say besides the merest commonplaces, and wondering at Jerrie's silence. She had seemed glad to see him, he had seen that in her eyes, and seen there something else which puzzled and troubled him, and he was about to ask her what it was when she stopped so abruptly, and said: 'Why didn't you come to Vassar? Tom Tracy said you were shingling a roof, and Billy Peterkin said Maude was helping you.'
'Oh, that's it, is it?' Harold said, bursting into a laugh. 'That is why you have been so stiff and distant, ever since we left the depot, that I could not touch you with a ten-foot pole.'
'Well, I don't care,' Jerry replied, with a sob in her voice. 'I was so disappointed, for I wanted you so badly. Everybody had some friend there, but myself. You don't know how lonely I felt when I went on the stage and knew there was no home face looking at me in all that crowd. I think you might have come any way.'
'But, Jerrie,' Harold said, laying his hand upon her shoulder, as they slowly walked on, 'wait a little before you condemn me utterly. I wanted to come quite as much as you wanted to have me. I remembered what a help it was to me when I was graduated to see your face in the crowd, and know by its expression that you were satisfied.'
'I did not suppose you saw me,' Jerry exclaimed, her voice very different in its tone from what it had been at first.
'Saw you!' and Harold's hand tightened its grasp on her shoulder. 'Saw you! I scarcely saw any one else except you, and Maude, who sat beside you. I knew you would be there, and I looked the room over, missing you at first, and feeling as if something were wanting to fire me up; then, when I found you, the inspiration came, and if I began to flag ever so little, I had only to look at your blue eyes and my blood was up again.'
This was a great deal for Harold to say and he felt half frightened when he had said it; but Jerrie's answer was reassuring.
'Oh, I didn't know that. I am so glad you told me.'
They were close to the Tramp House now. The walk from the station had been hot and dusty, and Jerry was tired, so she said to Harold: 'Let's go in a moment; it looks so cool in there.'
So they went in, and Jerry sat down upon a bench, while Harold took a seat upon the table where Jerrie once had slept, with the shadow of death around her, and the carpet-bag for her covering.
'I suppose you had peals of applause and flowers by the bushel,' Harold said.
'Yes,' Jerry replied, 'applause enough, and flowers enough--twenty bouquets and baskets in all, including yours. It was kind in you to send it.'
She did not tell him of the wilted condition of his flowers, or that one of the faded roses was pressed between the lids of her Latin grammar.
'Billy sent up a heart of blue forget-me-nots,' she continued, 'and Tom a bunch of daisies on a standard of violets. What a prig Tom is, and what a dandy Billy has grown to be, and he stammers worse than ever.'
'But he is one of the best-hearted fellows in the world;' Harold said, 'he has been very kind to me.'
'Yes, I know;' Jerry rejoined, quickly, 'he makes his father pay you big wages in the office and gives you a great many holidays; that is kind. But, oh, Harold, how I hate it all--your being obliged to work for such a man as Peterkin. I wish I were rich! Maybe I shall be some day. Who knows?'
The great tears were shining in her eyes as she talked, and brushing them away she suddenly changed the conversation, and said: 'I never come in here that a thousand strange fancies do not begin to flit through my brain, and my memory seems stretched to the utmost tension, and I remember things away back in the past before you found me in the carpet-bag.'
She was gazing up toward the rafters with a rapt look on her face, as if she were seeing the things of which she was talking; and Harold, who had never seen her in this way, said to her very softly: 'What do you remember, Jerrie? What do you see?'
She did not move her head or eyes, but answered him.
'I see always a sweet pale face, to which I can almost give a name--a face which smiles upon me; and a thin, white hand which is laid upon my hair--a hand not like those you have told me about, and which must have touched me so tenderly that awful night. Did you ever try to recall a name, or a dream, which seems sometimes just within your grasp, and then baffles all your efforts to retain it?'
'Yes, often,' Harold said.
'Just so it is with me,' she continued, 'I try to keep the fancies which come and go so fast, and which always have reference to the past and some far off country--Germany, I think. Harold, I must have been older when you found me than you supposed I was.'
'Possibly,' Harold replied. 'You were so small that we thought you almost a baby, although you had an old head on your shoulders from the first, and could you have spoken our language I believe you might have told us where you were and where you came from.'
'Perhaps,' Jerry said. 'I don't know; only this, as I grow older, the things way back come to me, and the others fade away. The dark woman; my mother,'--she spoke the name very low--'is not half as real to me as the pale, sick face, on which the firelight shines. It is a small house, and a low room, a poor room, I think, with a big, white stove in the corner, and somebody is putting wood in it; a dark woman; she stoops; and from the open door the firelight falls upon the face in the chair--the woman who is always writing when she is not in bed; and I am there, a little child; and when the pale face cries, I cry, too; and when she dies--oh, Harold! but you saw me play it once, and wondered where I got the idea. I saw it. I know I did; I was there, a part of the play. I was the little child. Then, there is a blur, a darkness, with many people and a crying--two voices--the dark woman's and mine; then, a river, or the sea, or both, and noisy streets, and a storm, and cold; and _you_ taking me into the sunshine.'
As she talked she had unconsciously laid her hand on Harold's knee, and he had taken it in his, and was holding it fast, when she startled him with the question: 'Do you--did you--ever think--did anybody ever think it possible, that the woman found dead in here, was not my mother?'
'Not your mother!' Harold exclaimed, dropping her hand in his surprise. 'Not your mother! What do you mean?'
'No disrespect to her,' Jerrie replied--'the good, brave woman, who gave her life for me, and whose dear hands caressed and shielded me from the cold as long as there was power in them to do it. I love and reverence her memory as if she had been my mother; but Harold, do I look at all as she did? You saw her--here, and at the park house. Think--am I like her--in any thing?'
'No,' Harold answered. 'You are like her in nothing; but you may resemble your father.'
'Ye-es,' Jerrie said, slowly, 'I may. Oh, Harold, the spell is on me now so strong that I can almost remember. Tell me again about that night, and the morning; what they did at the park house--Mr. Arthur, I mean. He was expecting somebody; Nina told me a little once, but not much. Do you know? Was it _Gretchen_ he expected?'
She had grasped his hand again, and was looking into his face as if his answer would be life or death to her. And Harold who had no idea what was in her mind, and who had never thought that the dark woman was not her mother, looked at her wonderingly, as he replied: 'Yes, I remember that he had a fancy in his mind that Gretchen was coming; but he has had that fancy so often. He said she was in the ship with him and on the train, but she wasn't. I think Gretchen is dead.'
'Yes, she is dead,' Jerry said, decidedly; 'but tell me all you know of the time I came.'
So Harold told her again what he knew personally of the tragedy, and all he remembered to have heard. There was little which Jerrie did not already know, for as Harold had been a boy when it happened, he had not heard all that was said, and since that time other matters had crowded the incidents of the death and burial out of his mind. The thing most real to him was Jerrie herself, the beautiful girl sitting by his side, astonishing him so with her mood and her questions. He had seen her often in her spells, as he called them; when she acted her pantomimes, and talked to people whom she said she saw; but he had only thought of them as the vagaries of a peculiar mind--a German mind his grandmother said, and he accepted her theory as the correct one.
He had never seen Jerrie as she was now, with that rapt look in her face and in her eyes, which shone with a strange light as she went on to speak of the things which sometimes came and went so fast, and which she tried in vain to retain. It had never occurred to him that the woman he had found dead was not her mother, and he thought her crazy when she put the question to him. But he was a man, solid and steady, with no vagaries of the brain, and not a tithe of the impetuosity and immigration of the girl, who went on to ask him if he had ever seen any one whom she resembled.
He was wondering, in a vague kind of way, how long she meant to stay there, and if the tea-cakes his grandmother was going to make for supper would be spoiled, when she asked the question, to which he replied.
'No, I don't think I ever did, unless it is Gretchen. You are some like her, but I suppose many German girls have her complexion and hair.'
The answer was not very reassuring, and Jerrie showed it in her fact, which was still upturned to Harold, who, looking down upon it and the earnest, wistful expression which had settled there, started suddenly as if an arrow had struck him, for he saw the likeness Jerry had seen in the glass, and taking the upturned face between both his hands, he studied it intently, while, like lightening, the possibility of the thing flashed through his brain, making him colder and fainter than Jerrie herself when she looked into the mirror.
'What if it were so?' he said to himself, while everything seemed slipping away from him, but mostly Jerrie, who, if it were so, would be separated from him by a gulf he could not pass; for what could the daughter of Arthur Tracy care for him, the poor boy, whose life had been one fight with poverty, and whose worn, shabby clothes, on which the full western sunlight was falling, told plainer than words of the poverty which still held him in thrall.
'Jerrie!' he cried, rising to his feet, and letting the hands which had clasped her face drop down to her shoulders, which they pressed tightly, as if he thus would keep her with him--'Oh, Jerrie, you are like Arthur Tracy, or you were when you looked at me so earnestly; but it is gone now. Do you--have you thought that Gretchen was your mother?'
He was pale as a corpse, and Jerrie was the calmer of the two, as she told him frankly all she had thought and felt since Arthur's visit to her.
'I meant to tell you,' she said, 'though not quite so soon; but when I came in here I could not help it, things crowd upon me so. It may be, and probably is, all a fancy, but there is something in my babyhood different from the woman who died, and when I am able to do it I am going to Wiesbaden, for that is where Gretchen lived, and where I believe I came from, and if there is anything I shall find it. Oh, Harold!' and she grasped his hand in hers, 'I may not be Gretchen's daughter, but if I am more than a peasant girl--if anything good comes of my search, my greatest joy will be that I can share with you who have been so kind to me. I will gladly give you and grandma every dollar I may ever have, and then I should not pay you.'
'There is nothing owing me,' Harold said, the pain in his heart and his fear of losing her growing lean as she talked. 'You have brought me nearly all the happiness I have ever known; for when I was a boy and every bone ached with the hard work I had to do--the thought that Jerry was waiting for me at home, that her face would greet me at the window, or in the door, made the labor light; and now that I am a man--' He paused a moment, and Jerrie's head dropped a little, for his voice was very low and soft, and she waited with a beating heart for him to go on. 'Now that I am a man, life would be nothing to me without you.'
Was this a declaration of love? It almost seemed so, and but for a thought of Maude, Jerry might have believed it was such, and lead him on to something more definite. As it was, her heart gave a great bound of joy, which showed itself on her face as she replied: 'If I make your life happier, _I_ am glad; for never had a poor, unknown girl so good and true a brother as I. But come, I have kept you here too long, and grandma must be wondering where we are.'
'Yes, and supper will be spoiled,' Harold said, as he followed her to the door. 'We are to have it in the back porch, where it is so cool, and to have tea-cakes, with strawberries from our own vines, and cream from our own cow, or rather your cow. Did I write you that she had a splendid calf, which we call Clover-top.
They had come back to commonplaces now, Jerrie's clairvoyant spell had passed and she was herself again, simple Jerrie Crawford, walking along the familiar path, and talking of the cow which Frank Tracy had given her when it was a little sickly calf, whose mother had died. She had taken it home and nursed it so carefully that it was now a healthy little Jersey, whom she called Nannie.
'A funny name for a cow,' Harold had said, and she had replied: 'Yes, but it keeps repeating itself in my brain. I have known a Nannie sometime, sure, and may as well perpetuate the name in my bossy as anywhere.'
Nannie was in a little enclosure by the side of the lane, and at Harold's call she came at once to the fence, over which she put her face for the caress she was sure to get, while Clover-top kicked up her heels and acted as if she, too, understood and were glad Jerrie had come.
'Oh, it is so pleasant everywhere, and I am so glad to be home again,' Jerrie said, as her eyes went rapidly from one thing to another, until at last they fell upon the raised roof shining to new and yellow in the sunlight.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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31
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AT HOME.
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Oh, Harold, what is that? What have you been doing?' Jerrie cried, stopping short, while a suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon her.
'That is the roof Tom told you I was shingling,' Harold replied; and taking her by the arm, he hurried her into the cottage where Mrs. Crawford stood at the door, in her broad white apron and the neat muslin cap which Maude has fashioned for her.
With a cry of joy, Jerrie took the old lady in her arms, and kissed and cried over her.
'It is so nice to be home, and everything is so pleasant!' she said, as her eyes swept the sitting-room and kitchen, and back porch where the tea-table was laid, with its luscious berries and pitchers of cream. 'Go right up stairs with Harold. I have just come down, and cannot go up again,' Mrs. Crawford said, excitedly; and, with a bound, Jerry was up the stairs and into the lovely room.
When she saw them coming in the lane, Mrs. Crawford had gone up and opened the shutters, letting in a flood of light, so that nothing should escape Jerrie's notice. And she saw it all at a glance--the high walls, the carpet, the furniture, the curtains, and the flowers--and knew why Harold did not come to Vassar.
He was standing in the bay-window, watching her, and the light fell full upon his shabby clothes, which Jerrie noticed for the first time, knowing exactly why he must wear them, and understanding perfectly all the self-denials and sacrifices he had made for her, who had been angry because he did not come to see her graduated. Had she been three years younger, she would have thrown herself into his arms and died there. Harold half thought and hoped she was going to do so now, for she made a rush toward him, then stopped suddenly, and sinking into the willow chair--Maude's gift--began to sob aloud, while Harold stood looking at her, wishing she had not cried, and wondering what he ought to do.
'Don't you like it, Jerrie?' he said at last.
'Like it?' and in the blue eyes so full of tears which she flashed upon him, he read her answer. 'Like it! Oh, Harold, it is perfect! I never saw a room I liked better. But why did you do it? Was it because of that foolish speech of mine about knocking my brains out, the ceiling was so low?'
'Not at all,' Harold replied. 'I had the idea in my head long before you wrote that to me, but could not quite see my way clear until last spring. I have seen Nina's room and Maude's, and have heard that Ann Eliza Peterkin's was finer than the Queen's at Windsor, and I did not like to think of you in the cooped up place this was, with the slanting roof and low windows. I am glad you like it.'
And then, knowing that she would never let him rest until he had done so, he told her all the ways and means by which he had been able to accomplish it, except indeed, his own self-denials and sacrifices of pride, and even comfort. But this she understood, and noticed again more carefully the shabby coat, and pants, and shoes, and the calloused hands, which lay upon his knees as he talked, and which she wished so much to take in hers and kiss and pity, for the hard work they had done for her. But this would have been 'throwing herself at his head.'
She was constantly thinking of Arthur's words, and so she only cried the more, as she told Harold how much she thanked him, and never could repay him for what he had done for her.
'But it was a pleasure, Jerrie,' he said.' I never enjoyed anything in my life as I have working in this room, with Maude to help me. She was here nearly every day, and by her courage and enthusiasm kept me up to fever heat. She puttied up the nail-holes and painted your dressing-room, and would have helped shingle the roof if I had permitted it. She gave the chair you sit in, and the table in the window. She would do that and I let her; but when Mr. Arthur offered his assistance, and the other Mr. Tracy, I refused, for I wanted it all my own, for you.'
He was speaking rapidly and excitedly, and had Jerrie looked she would have seen in his face all she was to him; but she did not look up, and at mention of Maude a cloud fell suddenly upon her. But she would not let it remain; she would be happy and make Harold so, too. So she told him again of her delight, and what a joyous coming home it was.
She had not yet seen Arthur's card, and photograph, and note; but Harold called her attention to them; and taking up the latter, she opened it, while her heart gave a great throb of something between joy and pain as she saw the words, 'My dear child,' and then went on to read the note so characteristic of him.
'What a strange fancy of his to go off so suddenly to California. I wonder Mr. Frank allowed it,' she said, as she put the note in her pocket, and then, at a call from Mrs. Crawford, went down to where the supper was waiting for her.
The tea cakes were a little cold, but everything else was delicious, from the fragrant tea to the ripe berries and thick, sweet cream, and Jerrie enjoyed it all with the keen relish of youth and perfect health.
After supper was over Jerrie made her grandmother sit still while she washed up and put away the dishes, singing as she worked, and whistling, too--loud, dear, ringing strains, which made a robin in the grass fly up to the perch, where, with his head turned on one side he listened, as if in wonder, to this new songster, whose notes were strange to him.
And Jerrie did seem like some joyous bird just let loose from prison, as she flitted from one thing to another, now setting her grandmother's cap a little more squarely on her head, and bending to kiss the silvery hair as she said to her, 'Your working days are over now, for I have come home to care for you, and in the future you have nothing to do but to sit still, with your dear old lame feet on a cushion;' now helping Harold water the flowers in the borders, and pinning a June pink in his buttonhole, while he longed to take her in his arms and kiss her as in the days when they were children together; now, going with him to milk Nannie, who, either remembering Jerrie, or recognizing a friend in her, allowed her gentle face to be petted and her horn to be decorated with a knot of blue ribbon, which Jerrie took from her throat, and which Harold afterward took from Nannie's horn and hid away with the withered lillies Jerrie had thrown him that day at Harvard when her face and her eyes had been his inspiration.
They kept early hours at the cottage, and the people at the Park House were little more than through the grand dinner they were giving, when Jerrie said good-night to her grandmother and Harold, and went up to her new room under the raised roof. It was a lovely summer night, and the moonlight fell softly upon the grass and shrubs outside, and shone far down the long lane where the Tramp House stood, with its thick covering of woodbine.
Leaning from the window Jerrie looked out upon the night, while a thousand thoughts and fancies came crowding into her brain, all born of that likeness seen by her in the mirror when Arthur was with her at Vassar, and which Harold, too, had recognized that afternoon when she sat with him in the Tramp House. After Arthur had left her in May, she had been too busy to indulge often in idle dreams, but they had come back to her again with an overwhelming force, which seemed for a few moments to lift the veil of mystery and show her the past, for which she was so eagerly longing. The pale lace was clearer, more distinct in her mind, as was the room with the tall white stove and the high-backed settee beside it, and on the settee a little girl--herself, she believed--and she could hear a voice from the cushioned chair where the pale face was resting speaking to her and calling her by the name Arthur had given her in his note.
'My child,' he had written; but he had only put it as a term of endearment; he had no suspicion of the truth if it were truth; and yet why should he not know? Could anything obliterate the memory of a child, if there had been one, Jerrie asked herself, as her eyes wandered in that direction of the park, which had once seemed to her like Paradise.
'I _will_ know some time. _I_ will find it out myself,' she said, as she withdrew from the window and commenced her preparations for bed.
As she stepped into her dressing room, her eye fell upon the foreign trunk, which had come with her, and with the contents of which she was familiar. They had been kept intact by Mrs. Crawford, who hoped that by them Jerrie might some day be identified. The girl went now to the old trunk, and, lifting the heavy lid, took out the articles one by one with a very different feeling from what she had ever experienced before when handling them. The alpaca dress came first, and she examined it carefully. It was coarse, and plain, and old-fashioned, and she felt intuitively that a servant had worn it and not she whose pale, refined face seemed almost to touch hers as she knelt beside the box. The cloak and shawl, in which she had been wrapped, were inspected next, and on these Jerrie's tears fell like rain, while there was in her heart an indefinable feeling of pity for the woman who had resolutely put away the covering from herself to save a life which was no part of her own.
'Oh, Mah-nee,' she sobbed, laying her face upon the rough, coarse garments, 'I am not disloyal to you in trying to believe that you were not my mother, and could you come back to me, Mah-nee, whoever you are, I'd be to you so loving and true. Tell me, Mah-nee, who I am; give me some sign that what comes to me so often of that far-off land is true. There _was_ another face than yours, which kissed me fondly, and other hands, dead now, as are the dear old hands which shielded me from the cold that awful night, have caressed me lovingly.'
But to this appeal there came no response, and Jerrie would have been frightened if there had. The shawl, the cloak, the dress were as silent and motionless as she to whom they had belonged; and Jerrie folded them reverently, kissing each one as she did so; then she took out the carpet-bag, which had once held her tiny body. She always laughed when she looked at this and tried to imagine herself in it, and she did so now as she held it up and said: 'I could not much more than get my two feet in you now, old bag; but you did me good service once, and I respect you, although I have outgrown you.'
Her own clothes came next--the little dresses, which showed a mother's love and care; the handkerchief, marked 'J;' the aprons, and the picture book with which she had played, and from which it seemed to her she had learned the alphabet, standing by that cushioned chair before the tall white stove. There was only the fine towel left of the clothing, and Jerrie gazed along and thoughtfully at the letter 'M,' embroidered with flowers in the corners.
'Marguerite begins with M,' she said, 'and Gretchen's name was Marguerite. Oh, if it were Gretchen who worked this letter, then I can touch what her hands have touched--the little dimpled hands in the picture,' and she kissed the 'M' as fervently as if it had been Gretchen's lips and Gretchen were her mother.
On the old brass ring the key to the trunk and carpet-bag were still fastened, together with the small straight key, for which no use had ever been found. Jerrie had never thought much about this key before, but now she held it in her hand a long, long time, while the conviction grew that this was the key to the mystery; that could she find the article which this unlocked, she would know what she so longed to know--something definite with regard to herself. But where to look she could not guess; and with her brain in a whirl which threatened a violent headache, she closed the chest at last, and crept wearily to bed just as the clock, which Peterkin had set up in one of his towers, struck for half-past ten, and Grace Atherton's carriage was rolling down the avenue from the big dinner at the Park House.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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32
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THE NEXT DAY.
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Jerrie was astir the next morning almost as soon as the first robin begin to sing under her window. She had left a blind open, and the red beams of the rising sun fell upon her face and roused her from a dream of Germany and what she meant to do there. Once fairly awake, Germany seemed far away, as did the fancies of the previous night. The spell, mesmeric, or clairvoyant, or whatever one chooses to call it, was broken, and she was only Jerrie Crawford again, dressing herself rapidly and noiselessly so as not to awaken her grandmother, who slept in the room beneath hers.
'I shall get the start of her,' she said, as she donned a simple working dress which had done her service during the summer vacations for three successive years. 'I heard her telling Harold last night to have the tubs and water ready early, for she had put off the Monday's washing until I came home, as I was sure to bring a pile of soiled clothes. And I have; but, my dear grandmother, your poor old twisted hands will not touch them. What is a great strapping girl like me for, I'd like to know, if it is not to wash her own clothes, and yours, too?' and Jerrie nodded resolutely at the fresh young face in the mirror, which nodded back with a smile of approbation of the _tout ensemble_ of the figure reflected in the glass.
And truly it was a very pretty and piquant picture which she, made in her neat calico dress, which, as it was three years old at least, was a little too short for her, and showed plainly her red stockings and high-heeled slippers, with the strap around her instep. Her sleeves were short, for she had cut them off and arranged them in a puff above her elbows to save rolling them up, and her white bib-apron was fastened on each shoulder with a knot of blue ribbon, Harold's favorite color. She had thoroughly brushed her beautiful wavy hair, and then twisting it into a mass of curls had tucked it under a coquettish muslin cap, whose narrow frill just shaded her lovely face. 'You look like a peasant girl, and I believe you are a peasant girl, and ought to be working in the fields of Germany this minute,' she said to herself with a mocking courtesy, as she left the mirror and descended to the kitchen, where, early as it was, she found Harold warming some coffee over a fire of chips, and cutting a slice of dry bread.
'What in the world!' she exclaimed, stopping short on the threshold. 'I mean to be the first on the scene, and lo! here you are before me. What are you doing?'
'Getting my breakfast,' Harold replied, turning toward her with a slight shade of annoyance on his face. 'You see, I have a job. I did not tell you last night that a Mr. Allen, who lives across the river, four miles away, looked in one day when I was painting your ceiling, and liked it so much that he has engaged me to paint one for him. I told him I was only an amateur, but he said he'd rather have me than all the boss painters in Shannondale. He offered me three dollars a day and board, which means dinner and supper, or fifteen for the job; and I took the last offer, as I can make the most at it by beginning early and working late, and we need--' Here he stopped short, for how could he tell Jerrie that the raised roof had taken all his means, and that he even owed the grocer for the sugar she had eaten upon her berries, and the butcher for the bit of steak bought the previous night for her breakfast and his grandmother's. But Jerrie guessed it without his telling, but with her quick instinct and delicate perception knew that no genuine man like Harold cares to have even his best friend know of his poverty if he can help it. Forcing back the tears which sprang to her eyes, she cried, cheerily: 'Yes, I know; you are a kind of second Michael Angelo, though I doubt if that old gentleman, at your age, could have done my room better than you did. I don't wonder Mr. Allen wanted you. But you are not going to tramp four miles on a hot morning, on nothing but bread and coffee, and such coffee--muddier than the Missouri River! You shall have a decent breakfast, if I can get it for you. Just sit down and rest, and see what a Vassar with a diploma can do.'
As she talked she was replenishing the fire with hard-wood, putting on the kettle, pouring out the coffee dregs saved from yesterday's breakfast, and hunting for an egg with which to settle the fresh cup she intended to make.
'No, no, Jerrie. No, you must not take that; it is all we have in the house, and grandma must have a fresh one every day at eleven o'clock, the doctor says--it strengthens her,' Harold said, rising quickly, while Jerrie put the one egg back in the box and asked what Mrs. Crawford did settle coffee with.
'I am sure I don't know; cold water, I guess,' Harold said, resuming his seat, while Jerrie tripped here and there, laying the cloth, bringing his cup and saucer and plate, and at last pouncing upon the bit of steak in the refrigerator.
But here Harold again interfered.
'Jerrie--Jerrie, that is for your breakfast and grandma's. You must not take that.'
'But I shall take half of it. I would rather have a glass of Nannie's milk any time than meat, and you are going to have my share; so, Mr. Hastings, just mind your business and let the cook alone, or she'll be givin' ye warnin',' Jerrie answered laughingly, as she divided the steak, which she proceeded at once to broil.
So Harold let her have her way, and felt an increase of self-respect, and that he was something more than a common day laborer, as he ate his steak and buttered toast, and drank the coffee, which seemed to him the best he had ever tasted. Jerrie picked him a few strawberries, and laid beside his plate a beautiful half-opened rose, with the dew still upon it. It was a delicate attention, and Harold felt it more than all she had done for him.
'Thank you, Jerrie,' he said, picking up the rose as he finished his breakfast. 'It was so nice in you to think of it, just as if I were a king instead of a jack-at-all-trades, but I hardly think it suits my blue checked shirt and painty pants. Keep it yourself, Jerrie,' and he held it up against her white bib apron. 'It is just like the pink on your cheeks. Wear it for me,' and taking a pin from his collar, he fastened it rather awkwardly to the bib, while his face came in so close proximity to Jerrie's that he felt her breath stir his hair, and felt, too, a strong temptation to kiss the glowing cheek so near his own. 'There, that completes your costume,' he said, holding her off a little to look at her. 'By the way, haven't you got yourself up uncommonly well this morning? I never saw you as pretty as you are in this rig. If it would not be very improper, I'd like to kiss you.'
He was astonished at his own boldness, and not at all surprised at Jerrie's reply, as she stepped back from him.
'No, thank you, it would be highly improper for a man of twenty-six, who stands six feet in his boots, to kiss a girl of nineteen, who stands five feet six in her slippers.'
There was a flush on her cheeks and a strange look in her eyes, for she was thinking of Harvard, where he had put her from him, ashamed that strangers should see her kiss him. Harold had forgotten that incident, which at the time had made no impression upon him, and was now thinking only of the beautiful girl whose presence seemed to brighten and ennoble everything with which she came in contact, and to whom he at last said good-bye, just as Peterkin's tower clock struck for half-past five.'
'I _must_ go now,' he said, taking up his basket of brushes. 'I have lost a full half-hour with you, and your steaks, and your coddling me generally. I ought to have been there by this time. Good-bye,' and offering her his hand, he started down the lane at a rapid pace, thinking the morning the loveliest he had ever known, and wondering why everything seemed so fresh, and bright, and sweet.
If he could have sung, he would have done so, but he could not, and so he talked to himself, and to the birds, and rabbits, and squirrels, which sprang up before him as he struck into the woods as the shortest route to Mr. Allen's farm house--talked to them and to himself of Jerrie, and how delightful it was to have her home again, unspoiled by flattery, sweet and gracious as ever, and how he longed to tell her of his love, but dared not yet until he was surer of her and of what she felt for him. He had no faith now in her fancies with regard to herself. Of the likeness to Arthur, which he thought he saw the previous there had been no trace on the face which had almost touched his that morning when he pinned the rose upon her bib. She was not--could not be Gretchen's daughter, and was undoubtedly the child of the woman found in the Tramp House--his Jerry, whom he had found, and claimed as his own, and whom he meant to win some day, when he had his profession, and was established in business. 'But that will be a long, long time, and some one else may steal her from me,' he said to himself, sadly, as he thought of the years which must elapse before he could venture to take a wife. 'Oh, if I were sure she cared for me a little, as I do for her, I would ask her now and have it settled; for Jerrie is not a girl to go back on her promise, and the years would seem so short, and the work so easy, with Jerrie at the end of it all,' he continued, and then he wondered how he could find out the nature of Jerrie's feeling for him without asking her directly, and so spoiling everything if he should happen to be premature.
Would his grandmother know? Not at all likely. She was too old to know much of love, or its symptoms in a girl. Would Nina St. Claire know? Possibly, for she and Jerrie were great friends, and girls always told each other their secrets, so Maude said, and Maude was just then his oracle. He had seen so much of her the last few months that he felt as if he knew her even better than he did Jerrie, and he was certainly more at his ease in her presence. Then why not talk with Maude and enlist her as a partisan. He might certainly venture to make her his confidente, she had been so very communicative and familiar with him, telling him things which he had wondered at, with regard to her father, and mother, and Tom, and the family generally. Yes, he would sound Maude, very cautiously at first, and get her opinion, and then he should know better what to do. Maude would espouse his cause, he was sure, for she liked him and worshipped Jerrie. He could trust her, and he would.
He had reached the Allen farm-house by this time, and though he was perspiring at every pore, for the morning was very hot, he scarcely felt the heat or the fatigue of his rapid four-mile walk, as he mixed his paints and prepared for his work, for there was constantly in his heart a thought of Jerrie, as she had looked in that bewitching dress, and of the bright, smile she had flashed upon him when she said good-bye.
Meanwhile Jerrie had watched him out of sight, whistling merrily: 'Gin a body meet a body, Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?'
whistling it so loud and clear that Nannie came to the fence and put her head over it with a faint low of approval, while Clover-top thrust his white nose through the bars, and looked at her inquiringly, as Jerrie pulled up handfuls of fresh grass and fed them from her hands, noticing that Nannie had lost her knot of ribbon, and wondering where it was. Then she returned to the house, and was busying herself with preparations for her grandmother's breakfast and her own, when the latter appeared in the kitchen, surprised to find her there, and saying: 'Why, Jerrie, what made you get up till I called you? Why didn't you lie and rest?'
'Lie and rest,' Jerrie answered laughingly. 'It is you who are to lie and rest, and not a great overgrown girl like me. I have given Harold his breakfast and seen him off. I cooked him half the steak,' she added as she took out the remaining half and put it on the gridiron. 'I don't care for steak,' she continued, as she saw Mrs. Crawford about to protest. 'I would rather any time have bread and milk and strawberries. I shall never tire of them;' and the big bowl full which she ate with a keen relish, proved that she spoke the truth.
'Now, grandma,' she said, when breakfast was over. 'I am going to do the work, washing and all. I must do something to work off my superfluous health, and strength, and muscle. Look at that arm, will you?' and she threw out her bare arm, which for whiteness and roundness and symmetry of proportion, might have been coveted by the most fashionable lady in the land. 'Go back to your rocking-chair and rest your dear, old lame foot on your softest cushion, and see how soon I will have everything done. It is just seven now, and by ten we shall be all slicked up, as Ann Eliza Peterkin says.'
It was of no use to try to resist Jerrie. She would have her own way; and so Mrs. Crawford, after skimming her milk and attending to the cream, went to her rocking-chair and her cushion, and sat there quietly, while Jerrie in the woodshed pounded and rubbed, and boiled and rinsed, and wrung and starched and blued, and hung upon the line article after article, until there remained only a few towels and aprons and stockings and socks, and a pair of colored overalls which Harold had worn at his work. As these last were rather soiled and had no them patches of paint, Jerrie was attacking them with a will, when her grandmother called out in great trepidation: 'Jerrie, Jerrie, do wipe your hands and come quick! Here's Tom Tracy hitching his horse at the gate.'
Jerrie's first impulse was to do as her grandmother bade her, and her second to stay where she was.
'If Tom chooses to call so early he must take me as he finds me,' she thought, while to her grandmother she said: 'Nonsense! Who cares for Tom Tracy? If he asks for me send him to the woodshed. I can't stop my work.'
In a moment the elegant Tom, fresh from his perfumed bath, the odor of which still lingered about him, and faultlessly attired in a cool summer suit, was bending his tall figure in the door-way of the woodshed where Jerrie, who was rubbing away on Harold's overalls, received him with a nod and a smile, as she said: 'Good-morning, Tom. You are up early, and so was I. Business before pleasure, you know; so I hope you will excuse me if I keep right on. I have stinted myself to get through, mopping and all, by ten, and it is now nine by Peterkin's bell. Pray be seated. How is Maude?'
She pointed to a wooden chair near the door, where Tom sat down, wholly nonplussed, and not knowing at all what to say first.
Never before had he been received in this fashion, and it struck him that there was something incongruous between himself, in his dainty attire, with a cluster of beautiful roses in his hand, and that chair, minus a back, in the woodshed, where the smell of the soapsuds would have made him faint and sick if he had not been so near to the open door.
Tom had not slept well the previous night. He had joined the fine dinner-party his mother had given to the Hart's, and St. Claire's and Atherton's, and had sat next to Fred Raymond's sister Marian, a very pretty young girl with a good deal that was foreign in her style and in her accent, for she had been in Europe nine years, and had only just come home. Everything in her manner was perfect, from her low, well-modulated voice, to her sweet, musical laugh, and Tom acknowledged to himself that she was the most highly polished and cultivated girl he had ever met; and still she tired him, and he was constantly contrasting her with Jerrie, and thinking how much better he should enjoy himself if she were there beside him, with her ready wit and teasing remarks, which frequently amounted almost to ridicule. Jerrie had been very gracious to him on the train, and had laughed and joked with him quite as much as she had with Dick St. Clare.
'Perhaps she likes me better than I have supposed she did,' he thought. 'Anyway, I'd better be on hand, now she is at home and can see Harold every day. He don't care a copper for Maude, or wouldn't if she didn't run after him so much, and that will sicken him pretty soon, now that he has Jerrie. By George, I believe I'd be as poor as he is, and paint for a living, if I couldn't have Jerrie without it. But I think I can; anyway, I am going to try. She cannot be insensible to the advantage it would be to her to be my wife, and eventually the mistress of Tracy Park. There is not a girl in the world who would not consider twice before she threw such a chance away.'
Such was the nature of Tom's reflections all through the dinner, and to him the tiresome talk which followed it and the short summer night during which he was planning his mode of attack.
'I'll call in the morning and take her some roses; she likes flowers,' he thought. 'I wonder what she did with those I gave her at Vassar? They were not with her on the car, unless she hid them in the paper box she carried so carefully. Yes, I guess they were there, and I shall see them standing around some where.'
And this was the secret of Tom's early call. He had thought at first to walk, but had changed his mind, and driven down to the cottage in his light buggy, with the intention of asking Jerrie to drive with him along the river road. But she did not look much like driving as she stood there by the wash-tub in that working-dress, which he thought the most charming of anything he had ever seen, notwithstanding his chagrin that the future Mrs. Tom Tracy should ever come in contact with anything as vulgar as soapsuds and pounding barrels. How beautiful she was in that short dress, with her bare arms, the whitest he had ever seen, and how pretty her feet looked in the red stockings and slippers, which he would have sworn were threes instead of fours and a half.
'I was coming this way,' he said at last, 'and thought I'd stop and see how you stood the journey, and I've brought you some roses.'
He held them toward her, and with a bright smile she came forward to receive them.
'Oh, thank you, Tom,' she said, 'it was so kind in you. Roses are my favorites after the white pond lilies, and these are very sweet.'
She buried her face in them two or three times, and then, putting them in some water, resumed her position by the wash-tub.
'I'd like you to drive with me,' Tom said, 'but I see you are too busy. Must you do that work, Jerrie? Can't somebody--can't your grandmother do it for you?'
'Grandmother! That old lady do my washing! No, indeed!' Jerrie answered, scornfully, as she made a dive into the boiler with the clothes-stick and brought out a pair of Mrs. Crawford's long knit stockings, and dropped them into the rinsing water with a splash.
'Grandma has worked enough,' she continued, as she plunged both her arms into the water. 'Harold and I shall take care of her now. He was up this morning at four o'clock, and has gone to Mr. Allen's, four miles away, to paint a room for him like mine.'
She said this a little defiantly, for she felt hot and resentful that Tom Tracy should be sitting there at his ease, while Harold was literally working for his daily bread, and also took a kind of bitter pride in letting Tom know that she was not ashamed of Harold's work.
'Yes,' Tom drawled, 'that new room must have cost Hal his bottom dollar. We all wondered how he could afford it. I hope you like it.'
She was too angry to tell him whether she liked it or not, for she knew the speech was a mean one and prompted by a mean spirit, and she kept on rubbing a towel until there was danger of its being rubbed into shreds. Then suddenly remembering that Tom had not told her of Maude, she repeated her question. 'How is Maude? She was coming to see me this morning I hope I shall be done before she gets here.'
'Don't hurry yourself for Maude,' Tom replied. 'She will not be here to-day. I had nearly forgotten that she sent her love and wants you to come there. She is sick in bed, or was when I left. She had a slight hemorrhage last night. I think it was from her stomach, though, and so does mother, but father is scared to death, as he always is if Maude has a pain in her little finger.'
'Oh, Tom,' Jerrie said, recalling with a pang the thin face, the blue-veined hands, the tired look of the young girl at the station. 'Oh, Tom, why didn't you tell me before, so I could hurry and go to her;' and leaning over her tub Jerrie began to cry, while Tom looked curiously at her, wondering if she really cared so much for his sister.
'Don't cry, Jerrie,' he said, at last, very tenderly for him. 'Maude is not so bad; the doctor has no fear. She is only tired with all she has done lately. You know, perhaps, that she was here constantly with Harold, and I believe she actually painted for him some, and for aught I know helped shingle the roof, as Billy said.'
'Yes, I know; I understand,' Jerrie replied, 'I saw it in her face yesterday. She has tired herself out for me, and if she dies I shall hate the room forever.'
'But she will not die; that is nonsense,' Tom began when he was interrupted by Mrs. Crawford, who called out: 'Oh, Jerry, here is Billy Peterkin, with his hands full. What shall I do with him?'
Dashing away her tears, Jerry replied: 'Send him in here, of course.'
In a few moments the dapper little man was in the woodshed, with a large bouquet of hot-house flowers in one hand and a basket of delicious black-caps in the other. For a moment he stood staring first at Tom on the wooden chair glaring savagely at him, and at Jerrie by the washtub with the traces of tears on her face--then, with a wind of forced laugh, he said: 'Be-beg pardon, if I in-tr-trude. Looks dusedly like l-love in a t-t-tub.'
'And if it is, you have knocked the bottom out,' Tom said, with a sneer. Both jokes were atrocious, but they made Jerrie laugh, which was something. She was glad on the whole that Billy had come, and when he offered her the berries and the flowers, she accepted them graciously, and bade him sit down, if he could find a seat.
'Here is one on the wash bench,' she said, 'or, will be when I have emptied the tub;' and she was about to take up the latter, when Billy sprang to her assistance and emptied it himself, while Tom sat looking on, chaffing with anger and disgust.
After a moment Billy stuttered out: 'Ann Eliza sent me here, and wants you to c-c-come and see her rooms. G-g-got a suite, you know; and, by Jove, they are like a b-b-bazaar, they are so f-full of things, and fl-flowers; half Vassar is there. Got your basket of d-daisies, Tom, and when I asked her where she g-g-got 'em, she said it was n-n-none of my business. D-did she steal 'em?' and he turned to Jerrie, whose face was scarlet, as she replied: 'No, I gave them to her, with a lot of others; I could not bring them all and it was better to dispose of home flowers, as I can get them any time.'
Tom could have beaten the air, he was so angry. He had been vain enough to hope that his gift was carefully put away in some box or parcel; and lo! it was in the possession of that red-haired Peterkin girl, whose _penchant_ for himself he suspected, and whom he despised accordingly.
'Much obliged to you for giving away my flowers,' he was going to say, when Mrs. Crawford called again, and this time in real distress.
'Jerrie, Jerrie! you _must_ come now, for here is Dick St. Claire.'
For an instant Jerrie hesitated, and then ashamed of the feeling which had at first prompted her not to let Dick into the wood-shed, she replied: 'If Tom and Billy can he admitted to my boudoir, Dick can. Send him in.'
'By George, this is jolly!' Dick said, as he bent his tall figure under the low door-way, and seated himself upon the inverted washtub which Billy had emptied. 'Have you all been washing?' 'No,' Jerrie answered, proudly. 'I am the washerwoman, and all those clothes you saw on the line are my handiwork.'
'By George!' Dick said again. 'You are a trump, Jerrie! Why didn't you wear that dress when you were graduated? It's the prettiest costume I ever saw.'
'Th-that's what I think, only I d-didn't d-dare t-tell her so!' Billy cried, springing to his feet and hopping about like a little robin.
'How is Nina?' Jerrie asked, ignoring the compliment.
'Brisk as a bee,' Dick replied, 'and sends an invitation for you to come over to a garden-tea to-night to meet Marian Raymond, Fred's sister. Awful pretty girl, with an accent like a foreigner; was over there several years, you know. I was going to the Park House to invite you and Maude,' he continued, turning to Tom, 'but as you are here, it will save me the walk. Half-past five sharp.'
Then as his eye fell upon Billy, in whose face there was a look of expectancy, his countenance fell, for Nina had given him no instructions to invite the Peterkins, and he felt intuitively that there was nothing in common between Ann Eliza Peterkin and the refined and aristocratic Marian Raymond, who had seen the best society in Europe, and in whose veins some of Kentucky's bluest blood was flowing. But Dick was very kind-hearted, and never knowingly wounded the feelings of any one if he could help it; and, after an awkward moment, during which he was wondering what Nina would do to him if he did it, he turned to Billy and said, as naturally as if it were what he had been expressly bidden to say: 'Why, I shan't have to walk over to Le Bateau either. I'm in luck this hot morning, if you will take the invitation to your sister--for half-past five.'
'Th-thanks,' Billy began; 'b-but am I left out?'
'Of course not. I'm an awful blunderer,' Dick said, adding, mentally, 'and liar, too, though I didn't say anybody would be happy to see them. Poor Billy, he is well enough, and so is Ann Eliza, if she wouldn't pile that red hair so high on the top of her head and wear so much jewelry. Well, I am in for it, and Nina can't any more than kill me.'
By this time Jerrie was bustling about, putting away the washing paraphernalia and sweeping the wood-shed, thus indicating that she had no more time to lose with her three callers, two of whom Dick and Billy, took the hint and left, but not until she had explained to the former that it would be impossible for Harold to be present at the garden-party, as she knew he would not be home until late, and would then be quite too tired for company.
'I am sorry that he cannot join us. I counted upon him,' Dick said. 'But you will come, of course, and I offer my services on the spot to see you home. Do you accept them?'
Jerrie seemed to see, without looking, the disappointment in Billy's face, and the wrath in Tom's; but as she greatly preferred Dick's society to theirs in a walk from Grassy Spring to the cottage, she accepted his offer, and then said, laughingly: 'Now, good-morning to you, and good riddance, too, for I am in an awful hurry, I am going over to see Maude as soon as I can get myself ready.'
She had not thought that Tom would wait for her, and would greatly have preferred to walk; but Tom was persistent, and moving his chair from the wood-shed outside into the shade where it was cooler, he sat fanning himself with his hat, and watching the long line of clothes, which Jerrie had washed, flopping in the wind, with a feeling of mortified pride, as if his own wife had washed them. He knew that his mother had once been familiar with tubs, and wash-boards, and soap-suds, but that was before his day. Twenty-seven years had washed all that out, and he really felt that to be a Tracy and live at Tracy Park was an honor scarcely less than to be President of the United States, and Jerrie, he was sure, would see it as such when once the chance was offered her. She could not be so blind to her own interest as to refuse him, Tom Tracy, who was so much sought after by the belles of Saratoga and Newport, where he had spent a part of two or three seasons. He had been best man at the great ---- wedding in Springfield, and groomsman at another big affair in Boston, and had scores of invitations everywhere. Taken altogether, he was a most desirable _parti_, and he was rather surprised himself at his infatuation for the girl whom he had found in the suds, and who was not ashamed that he had thus seen her. This was while he was watching the clothes on the line, scowling at three pairs of coarse, vulgar stockings which he knew belonged to Mrs. Crawford, and the pair of blue overalls which were Harold's.
'Yes, I do wonder at my interest in that nameless girl, whose mother was a common peasant woman,' he thought; but when the nameless girl appeared, fresh, and bright, and dainty, as if she had never seen a wash-tub, with her hat on her arm, and two of his roses pinned on the bosom of her blue muslin dress, he forgot the peasant woman, and the lack of a name, and thought only of the lovely girl who signified that she was ready.
It was very cool in the pine woods, where the heat of the summer morning had not yet penetrated, and Tom, who was enjoying himself immensely, suggested that they leave the park and take a short drive on the river road. But Jerrie, who was not enjoying herself, said 'No!' very decidedly. It would be hot there, and she was anxious to be with Maude as soon as possible. So they drove on until they reached the grounds which surrounded the house, and which Jerrie thought more beautiful than she had ever seen them. The grass was like velvet, with masses of flowers and shrubs, and urns, and bits of statuary here and there, while over a little brook where Jerrie and Maude had often waded, and where poor Jack had had a little water-wheel, a rustic bridge had been built, with a pretty summer-house just beyond. Frank Tracy was a natural gardener, and had lavished piles of money upon the grounds, in which he often worked himself, and where he was busy now with a clump of roses when Tom drove up with Jerrie.
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{
"id": "15321"
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33
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AT THE PARK HOUSE.
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It was six months since Jerrie had seen Frank Tracy, and even in that time he had changed so much that she noticed it at once, and looked at him wonderingly as he came quickly toward her with a smile on his haggard face, and an eager welcome in his voice, as he gave her both his hands, and told her how glad he was to see her.
His hair was very white, and she noticed how he stooped as he walked with her to the house and told her how anxiously Maude was waiting for her.
'But she cannot talk just yet,' he said. 'You must do all that. The doctor tells us there is no danger, if she is kept quiet for a few days. Oh, Jerrie, what if I should lose Maude after all.'
They were ascending the staircase now, and Frank was holding Jerrie's hand while she tried to comfort and reassure him, and then thanked him for the fruit and the flowers he had sent to the cottage for her the day before.
'You are so good to me,' she said, 'you and Mr. Arthur. How lonely the house seems without him.'
'Yes,' Frank replied, though in his heart he felt his brother's absence as a relief, for his presence was a constant reproach to him, and helped to keep alive the remorse which was always tormenting him.
The sight of Jerrie, too, was a pain, but she held a nameless fascination for him, and he was constantly wondering what she would say and do when she knew, as he was morally sure she would sometime know what he had done. He was thinking of this now, and saying to himself, 'She will not be as hard upon me as Arthur,' as he led her up the stairs and stopped at the door of Arthur's rooms.
'Would you like to go in?' he asked. 'I have the keys,' and he proceeded to unlock the door.
But Jerrie held back.
'No,' she said, as she glanced in at the silent, deserted rooms. 'It is like a grave. The ruling spirit is gone.'
'But you forget Gretchen. She is here, and one of Arthur's last injunctions was that I should visit her every day, and tell her he was coming back. I have not seen her this morning. Come.'
He was leading her now by the waist through the front parlor, where the furniture in its white shrouds looked like ghosts, and the pictures were covered with tarletan. It was dark, too, in the Gretchen room, as they called it now, but Frank threw open the blinds and let in a flood of light upon the picture, before which Jerrie stood reverently, and with feelings such as she had never experienced before, as she looked upon that lovely, girlish face.
A new idea had taken possession of Jerrie since she had last seen that picture, and while, unsuspected by her, Frank was studying first her features and then those of Gretchen, she was struggling frantically with the past, which seemed clearer than before. Again she saw the low room far away--the tall stove in the corner, the dark woman opening the door, the firelight on the white face in the chair; and this time memory added another item to the picture, and she of the white face and wavy golden hair seemed to hold a writing-desk on her lap and a piece of paper on which the pale hands were tracing words slowly and feebly, as if the effort were a pain.
'Oh, I can almost remember,' she whispered, just as Frank's voice broke the spell by saying: 'Good-morning, Gretchen. Arthur is in California, but he is surely coming back; he bade me tell you so.'
'Is he crazy as well as Mr. Arthur? Are we all crazy together?' Jerrie asked herself, as she watched him closing the blinds and shutting out the sunlight from the room, so that the picture was in shadow now and seemed nothing but bits of colored glass.
'I have kept my promise to Arthur; and now for Maude,' Frank said, and Jerry was conscious of a new and strange sensation--a feeling of ownership and possession, as she went through the broad hall, glancing in at one handsome room after another, until she reached Maude's door.
On the threshold she met Mrs. Frank, just coming out, and elegantly attired in a tasteful muslin wrapper, with more lace and embroidery upon it than Jerrie had ever worn in her life; her hair was carefully dressed with a cap which looked like a pen-wiper or doll's bonnet, it was so small, perched on the top of it; her face was powdered, and her manner was one of languor and fine-ladyism, which she had cultivated so assiduously and achieved so successfully. Not a muscle of her face changed when she saw Jerrie, but she closed Maude's door quickly, and stepping into the hall, offered the tips of her fingers, as she said, in a fretful, rather than a welcoming tone: 'Good-morning. You are very late. Maude expected you two hours ago, almost immediately after Tom went out. She has worked herself into a great state of feverish nervousness.'
'I am so sorry,' Jerry replied. 'But I could not come sooner. I had a large washing to do, and that takes time, you know.'
Jerry meant no reflection upon the days when Dolly had done her own washing, and knew that it took time, but the thought she did, and a frown settled upon her face as she replied: 'Surely your grandmother might have helped you, or Harold; and Maude is so impatient and weak this morning. The doctor says there is no danger if she is kept quiet. She is only tired out with that room of yours. Why, I am told she has actually puttied up nail-holes, and painted walls, and sawed boards! I hope you like it. You ought to, for a part of Maude's life and strength is in it.'
'Oh, Mrs. Tracy,' Jerry cried, with tears in her eyes, 'I am so sorry. Of course I like the room, or did; but if it has injured Maude, I shall hate it.'
Dolly had given her a little stab and was satisfied, so she said in a softer tone: 'Maude may recover--I think she will; but everything must be done to please her, and she cannot talk to you this morning--remember that. You must do the talking, but must not stay too long.'
'Mamma--mamma, let Jerrie in,' came faintly from the closed room; and then Mrs. Tracy stood aside and let Jerrie pass into the luxurious apartment, where Maude lay upon a silken couch, with a soft, rose-colored shawl thrown over her shoulders, her eyes large and hollow, and her face as white almost as a corpse.
One looking at her needed not to be told of her danger, or of the peril there was in exciting her; and Jerrie felt a cold thrill creep over her as she went to the couch, and kneeling beside it, kissed the pale, quivering lips and smoothed the dark hair, while she tried to speak naturally and cheerfully, as if in her mind there was no thought of danger to the beautiful girl, who smiled so lovingly upon her and kept caressing her hands and her face, as if she would thus express her gladness to see her.
'I know all about it, Maude,' Jerrie said. 'Tom told me, and your mother. You tired yourself out for me. Hush! Don't speak, or I shall go away,' she continued, as she saw Maude's lips move. 'You are not to talk. You are to listen, just for a day or two, and then you will he better, and come to the cottage and see my lovely room. It is so pretty, and I like it so much, and thank you and Harold so much. He has gone to the Allen farm to-day to paint,' she said, in answer to an eager questioning look in Maude's eyes. 'He does not know you are sick. He will come when he can see you--to-morrow, maybe. Would you like to have him?'
A warm pressure of the hand was Maude's reply, as the moisture gathered upon her heavy eyelashes. But Jerrie kissed it away, though her own hot tears fell upon Maude's hair, which, however, was so thick that she did not feel them; nor did she dream what it cost Jerrie to sit there and tell her everything of Harold which she could think of, because she knew that would please the sick girl better. Once she made Maude laugh, as she took off little Billy, imitating his voice so perfectly that a person outside would have said he was in the room. Jerrie's talent for imitation and ventriloquism had not deserted her, although as she grew older, she did not so often practice it as when a child; but she brought it into full play now to amuse Maude, and imitated every individual of whom she spoke, except Arthur. He was the one person whose peculiarities she could not take off.
'I have been to Mr. Arthur's room,' she said, 'but it seems so desolate without him. Do you hear from him often?'
'I have only had one letter, and then he was in Salt Lake City, at the Continental, in a room which he said was big enough for three rooms, and had not a single bad smell in it, except the curtains, which were new, and in which he did detect a little odor.'
Here Maude laughed again, while there came into her face a faint color and a look which made Jerrie's breath come quickly as, for the first time, the thought flashed across her mind that if what she had been foolish enough to dream of were true Maude was her cousin--her own flesh and blood.
'Maude,' she said suddenly, with a strong desire to fold the frail little body in her arms and tell her what she had thought.
But when Maude looked up inquiringly at her she only put her head down upon the rose-colored shawl and began to cry. Then, regardless of consequences, Maude raised herself upon her elbow, and laying her face on Jerrie's head began herself to cry piteously.
'Jerrie, Jerrie,' she sobbed, 'you think I am going to die, I know you do, and so does everybody, but I am not; I cannot die when there is so much to live for, and my home is so beautiful, and I love everybody so much, and--' Terrified beyond measure, Jerrie put her hand over Maude's mouth and said, almost sharply: 'If you want to live you must not talk. Be careful and you will get well; the doctor says so.'
But Jerrie's tears belied her words when she saw the palor in Maude's face as she sank back upon her pillow exhausted, while, with her handkerchief she wiped a faint coloring of blood from her lips.
'I have stayed too long,' Jerrie said, as she arose from her low seat by the couch. Then Maude spoke again in a whisper and said: 'Send Harold soon.'
'I will,' Jerrie replied, and kissing the death-like face again she went softly from the room, thinking to herself, as she descended the stairs, 'I believe I could give Harold to her now.'
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{
"id": "15321"
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34
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UNDER THE PINES WITH TOM.
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Jerrie found Tom just where she had left him, on the piazza outside, waiting for her, it would seem, for the moment she appeared he arose, and going with her down the steps walked by her side along the avenue toward the point where she would turn aside into the road which led to the cottage.
'How did you find Maude!' he asked.
'Weaker than I supposed,' Jerrie replied, 'and so tired. Oh, Tom, I know she hurt herself worrying about my room as she did, and if she dies I shall never like it again.'
'Nonsense,' Tom answered, carelessly. 'Maude won't die. She's got the Tracy constitution, which nothing can kill. Don't fret about your room. Maude liked being there. Nothing could keep her away. And don't flatter yourself that it was all love for you which took her there so much, for it wasn't. She is just mashed with Harold, while he--well, what can a young man do when a pretty girl--and Mamie is pretty--when she gushes at him all the time? It is a regular flirtation, and everybody knows about it except mother and the Gov.' 'Who is the Gov.?' Jerry asked, sharply.
'Why, you Vassars must be very innocent,' Tom replied, with a laugh, 'not to know that Gov. is one's respected sire: the old man, some call him, but I am more respectful. My gracious, though! isn't it sweltering? I'm nearly baked, you make me walk so fast!' and he wiped the great drops of swat from his forehead.
'Why don't you go back then? Why are you walking here in the hot sun?' Jerrie asked.
'I am going home with you,' he replied. 'Do you think I'd let you go alone?'
'Go alone?' Jerrie repeated, stopping short and fixing her blue eyes upon him. 'You have let me go alone a hundred times, and after dark, too, when I was much smaller than I am now, and less able to defend myself, supposing there was anything to fear, which there is not. Pray go back, and not trouble yourself for me.'
'I shall not go back,' Tom said. 'I waited on purpose to come with you. There is something I must say to you, and I may as well say it now as any other time.'
Jerrie was tall, but Tom was six inches taller, and he was looking down straight into her eyes with an expression in his before which hers fell, for she guessed what it was he wished to say to her, and her heart beat painfully as, without another word, she walked rapidly on until they were in the woods near a place where four tall pines formed a kind of oblong square. Here an iron seat had been placed years before, when the Tracy children were young, and held what they called their picnics there under the thick boughs of the pines which shaded them from both heat and cold. Laying his hand on Jerrie's shoulder, Tom said to her: 'Sit here with me under the pines while I tell you what for a long time I have wanted to tell you, and which may as well be told at once.'
Still Jerrie did not speak, but she sat down upon the seat, and, taking off her hat, began to fan herself with it, while with the end of her parasol she tried to trace letters in the thick carpet of dead pine needles at her feet.
Her attitude was not encouraging, and a less conceited man than Tom would have felt disheartened, but he was not. No girl would be insane enough to refuse Tom Tracy, of Tracy Park; and at last he made the plunge, and told her of his love for her and his desire to make her his wife.
'I know I was a mean little scamp when I was a boy,' he said, 'and did a lot of things for which I am ashamed; but I believe that I always loved you, Jerrie, even when I was teasing you the worst. I know I used to think you the prettiest little girl I ever saw, and now I think you the prettiest big one, and I have had splendid opportunities for seeing girls. You know I have travelled a great deal, and been in the very best society; and, if I may say it, I think I can marry almost any one whom I choose. I used to fear lest you and Hal would hit it off together, or, rather, that he would try to get you, but, since he and Maude are so thick, my fears in that quarter have vanished, and I am constantly building castles as to what we will do. I did not mean to ask you quite so soon, but the sight of you this morning washing your clothes, with all that soapy steam in your face, decided me not to put it off. A Tracy has no business in a washtub.'
'Did no Tracy ever wash her own clothes?' Jerrie asked, with an upward and sidewise turn of her head, habitual with her when startled or stirred.
There was a ring in her voice which Tom did not quite like, but he answered, promptly: 'Oh, of course, years ago; but times change, and you certainly ought not to be familiar with such vulgar things, and at Tracy Park you will be surrounded with every possible luxury, Father, and Maude, and Uncle Arthur will be overjoyed to have you there; and if, on my part, love and money can make you happy, you certainly will be so.'
'You have plenty of money of your own?' Jerrie said, with another upward toss of her golden head.
The question was full of sarcasm, but Tom did not see it, and answered at once: 'Why, yes, or I shall have in time. Uncle Arthur, you know, is in no condition to make a will now. It would not stand a minute. All the lawyers say that.'
'You have taken counsel, then?'
The parasol dug a great hole in the soft pines and was in danger of being broken, as Tom replied: 'Oh, yes; we are sure of that. Whatever Uncle Arthur has, and it is more than a million, will go to father, and, after him, to Maude and me; so you are sure to be rich and to be the mistress of Tracy Park, which will naturally come to me. Think, Jerrie, what a different life you will lead at the Park House from what you do now, washing old Mrs. Crawford's stockings and Harold's overalls.'
'Yes, I am thinking,' Jerrie answered, very low; and if Tom had followed the end of her parasol, he would have seen that it was forming the word Gretchen in front of him.
'Suppose Mr. Arthur has a wife somewhere?' Jerrie asked.
'A wife!' Tom exclaimed. 'That is impossible. We should have heard of that.'
'Who was Gretchen?' was the next query.
'Oh, some sweetheart, I suppose--some little German girl with whom he amused himself a while and then cast off, as men usually do such incumbrances.'
Tom did not quite know himself what he was saying, or what it implied, and he was not at all prepared to see the parasol stuck straight into the ground, while Jerrie sprang to her feet and confronted him fiercely.
'Tom Tracy! If you mean to insinuate a thing which is not good and pure against Gretchen, I'll never speak to you as long as I live! Take back what you said about Mr. Arthur's casting her off! She was his wife, and you know it? Dead, perhaps--I think she is; but she was his wife--his true and lawful wife; and--I--sometimes--' She could not add 'think she was my mother,' for the words stuck in her throat, where her heart seemed to be beating wildly and choking her utterance.
'Why, Jerrie,' Tom said, startled at her excited appearance, and anxious to appease her, 'what can ail you? I hardly know what I said, and if I have offended you, I am sorry, I know nothing of Gretchen; her face is a good one and a pretty one, and Maude says you look like her; though I don't see it, for I think you far prettier than she. Perhaps she was my uncle's wife--I guess she was: but that does not injure my prospects, for of course she is dead, or she would have turned up before this time. We have nothing to fear from her.'
'She may have left a child. What then?' Jerrie asked, with as steady a voice as she could command.
'Pshaw! humbug!' Tom replied, with a laugh. 'That is impossible. A child would have been heard from before this time. There is no child; I'm sure I hope not, as that would seriously interfere with our prospects. Think of some one--say a young lady--walking in upon us some day and claiming to be Arthur Tracy's daughter!'
'What would you do?' Jerrie asked, in a tone of smothered excitement.
'I believe I'd kill her,' Tom said, laughingly, 'or marry her, if I had not already seen you. But don't worry about that. There is no child; there is nothing between us and a million, and you have only to appoint the day which will make me the happiest of men, and free you from a drudgery, which just to think of sets my teeth on edge. Will you name the day, Jerrie?'
If it had been possible for a look to have annihilated Tom, the scorn which blazed in Jerrie's eyes would have done so. To hear him talk as if the matter were settled and the money he was to inherit from his uncle could buy her made her blood boil, and seizing her poor parasol, still standing up so straight in the piny sand, she stepped backward from him and said, in a mocking voice: 'Thank you, Tom, for the honor you would confer upon me, and which I must decline, for I would rather wash grandma's stockings all my life, and Harold's overalls, too, than marry a man for money.'
'Jerrie, oh, Jerrie, you don't mean it! You do not refuse me!' Tom cried, in alarm, stretching out his arm to reach her but touching only the parasol, to which he clung desperately as a drowning man to a straw.
'I do mean it, Tom,' she said, softened a little by the pain she saw in his face. 'I can never be your wife.'
'But why not!' Tom demanded. 'Many a girl who stands higher socially in the world than you would gladly bear my name. I might have married Governor Storey's daughter, at Saratoga, last summer. She threw herself at my head, but one thought of you was enough to keep me from her. You cannot be in earnest.'
'But I am. I care nothing for your money, which may or may not be yours. I do not love you, Tom; and without love I would not marry a prince.'
It was very hard for Tom to believe that Jerrie really meant to refuse him, Tom Tracy, who with all his love for her--and he did love her as well as he was capable of loving any one--still felt that he was stooping a little, or at least was honoring her greatly when he asked her to be his wife. And she had refused him, and kept on refusing him in spite of all he could say; and worse than all, made him feel at last that she did not consider it an honor to be Mrs. Tom Tracy, of Tracy Park, and did not care either for him or his prospective fortune. She called it that finally, then Tom grew angry and taunted her with fostering a hope that Arthur might make her his heir, or at least leave her some portion of his money.
'But I tell you he can't do it. A crazy man's will would never stand, and he is crazy and you know it. You will never touch a dollar of Uncle Arthur's money, if you live to be a hundred, unless it comes to you from me. Don't flatter yourself that you will, and don't flatter yourself either that you will ever catch Hal Hastings, who is the real obstacle in my way. I know that very well, and so do you; but let me tell you that what heart he has is given to Maude, who is silly enough to encourage him; though I doubt if she would ever marry him when it comes to that. She will look higher than a painter, a carpenter, a--' 'Tom Tracy!' and Jerrie's parasol was raised so defiantly and her eyes flashed so indignantly that Tom did not finish what he was going to say, but cowered a little before the angry girl, who stood so tall before him and hurled her words at him with such scathing vehemence. 'Tom Tracy! Stop! You have said enough. When you made me believe that you really did care for me; and I suppose you must, or you would not have thrown over a governor's daughter for me, or left so many lovelorn, high-born maidens out in the cold, I was sorry for you, for I hate to give any one pain, and I would rather have you my friend than my enemy; but when you taunt me with expectations from your uncle--.'
Here Jerrie paused, for the lump in her throat would not suffer the words to come, and there arose before her as if painted upon canvas the low room, the white stove, the firelight on the whiter face, the writing on the lap, and the little child in the far-off German city. But she would have died sooner than have told Tom of this, or that the conviction was strong upon her that she should one day stand there under the pines, herself the heiress of Tracy Park, Gretchen's memory honored, and Gretchen's wrongs wiped out.
After a moment she went on: 'I care nothing for your money, and less for you, who show the meanness there is in your nature when you speak of Harold Hastings as you have done. Supposing he is poor--suppose he is a painter and a carpenter, and has been what you started to call him--is he less a man for that? A thousand times no, and there is more of true manhood and nobility in his little finger than in your whole body; and if Maude has won his love, she should be prouder of it than of a duchess' coronet. I do not wish to wound you, but when you talk of Harold, you make me so mad. Good-morning; it is time for me to be at my drudgery, as you call it.'
She walked rapidly away, leaving her parasol, which she had again thrust into the ground, flopping in the breeze which had just sprung up, and each flop seemed to mock the discomfited Tom, who, greatly astonished but not at all out of conceit with himself, sat staring blankly after her, and with her head and shoulders more erect than usual, if possible, she went on almost upon a run until a turn in the road hid her from view. Then he arose and shook himself together, and picking up the soiled parasol, folded it carefully and put it upon the seat, saying as he did so: 'By George! did that girl know what she was about when she refused to marry me?'
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{
"id": "15321"
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35
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THE GARDEN PARTY.
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Jerrie went on very rapidly toward home, almost running at times, and not at all conscious of the absence of her parasol, or that the noonday sun was beating hot upon her head, conscious only of a bitter feeling of pain and vexation, the latter that she had allowed herself to speak so angrily to Tom, and of pain because of what he had said to her of Maude and Harold. Do what she might, she could not forget the tone of Harold's voice, or the look in his eyes when he bade her good-bye that morning, or that his whole manner since her return had been more like that of a lover than of a brother. And still there was that little throb of jealousy tugging at her heart-strings, notwithstanding that he had said to herself in substance not more than an hour before that she believed she could give Harold to Maude, whose love for him she could not doubt.
'And I'll do it now,' she said, at last, to herself. 'I'll fight it down, this something which makes me hate myself. If Harold loves Maude he shall never know from me of that horrible pain which cuts me like a knife and makes me forget to be indignant at Tom for talking so much of his money and his position, as if they could buy me! Poor Tom! I said some sharp things to him, but he deserved them, the prig! Let him marry that governor's daughter if he can. I am sure I wish him success.'
She had reached home by this time, and found their simple dinner waiting for her. 'Oh, grandma, why did you do it? Why didn't you wait for me?' she said, as she took her seat at the table where the dishes were all so plain, and the cloth, though white and clean, so coarse and cheap.
Jerrie was as fond of luxury and elegance as any one, and Tracy Park, with its appurtenances, would have suited her taste better than the cottage.
'But not with Tom, not with Tom,' she kept on repeating to herself, as she cleared the table and washed the dishes, and then brought in and folded the clothes for the morrow's ironing.
By this time she was very tired, and going to her cool, pretty room, she threw herself upon the lounge and slept soundly for three hours or more. Sleep is a wonderful tonic, and Jerrie rose refreshed and quite herself again. Not even a thought of Maude and Harold disturbed her as she went whistling and singing around her room, hanging up her dresses one by one, and wondering which she should wear at the garden party. Deciding at last upon a simple white muslin, which, although two years old, was still in fashion, and very becoming, she arranged her wavy hair in a fluffy mass at the back of her head, brushed her bangs into short, soft curls upon her forehead, pinned a cluster of roses on the bosom of her dress, and was ready for the party.
'Tell Harold, if he is not too tired, I want him very much to come for me,' she said, to Mrs. Crawford, and then about five o'clock started for Grassy Spring, where she found the guests all assembled in the pleasant, shady grounds, which surrounded the house.
Tom was there in his character of a fine city dandy, and the moment he saw Jerry, he hastened to meet her, greeting her with perfect self-possession, as if nothing had happened.
'You are late,' he said, going up to her. 'We are waiting for you to complete our eight hand croquet, and I claim you as my partner.'
'I c-c call that mean, T-t-tom. I was g-g-going to ask J-jerrie to pl-play with m-me,' little Billy said, hopping around them, while Dick's face showed that he, too, would like the pleasure of playing with Jerrie, who was known to be an expert and seldom missed a ball.
Naturally, however, Marian Raymond, as a stranger, would fall to him, and they were soon paired off, Dick and Marian, Tom and Jerrie, Nina and Billy, Fred Raymond and Ann Eliza, who wore diamonds enough for a full dress party, and whose red hair was piled on the top of her head so loosely that the ends of it stuck out here and there like the streamers on a boat on gala days. This careless style of dressing her hair, Ann Eliza affected, thinking it gave individuality to her appearance; and it certainly did attract general observation, her hair was so red and bushy. Dick had stumbled and stammered dreadfully when confessing to his sister that he had invited the Peterkins, while Nina had drawn a long breath of dismay as she thought of presenting Ann Eliza and Billy to Marian Raymond, with her culture and aristocratic ideas. Then she burst into a laugh and said, with her usual sweetness: 'Never mind, Dickie. You could not do otherwise. I'll prepare Marian, and the Peterkins will really enjoy it.'
So Marian, who, with all her accomplishments and foreign air, was a kind-hearted, sensible girl, was prepared, and received the Peterkins very graciously, and seemed really pleased with Billy, whose big, kind heart shone through his diminutive body and always won him friends. He was very happy to be there, because he liked society, and because he knew Jerrie was coming; and Ann Eliza was very glad because she felt it an honor to be at Grassy Spring, and because she knew Tom was coming, and when he came she fastened upon him with a tenacity which he could not well shake off; and when croquet was proposed she was the first to respond.
'Oh, yes, that will be nice, and I know our side will beat,' and she looked at Tom as it were a settled thing that she should play with him.
But Tom was not in a mood to be gracious. He had come to the entertainment, which he mentally called a bore, partly because he would not let Jerrie think he was taking her refusal to heart, and partly because he must see her again, even if she never could be his wife. All the better nature of Tom was concentrated in his love for Jerrie, and had she married him he would probably have made her as happy as a wholly selfish man can make happy the woman he loves. But she had declined his offer, and wounded him deeper than she supposed.
A hundred times he had said to himself that afternoon, as he sat alone in the lovely park--of which he had once said to Harold, he was to be the _hare_, and of whose possession in the future he had boasted to Jerrie--that he did not care a _sou_, that he was glad she had refused him, for after all it was only an infatuation on his part; that the girl of the carpet-bag was not the wife for a Tracy; but the twinge of pain in his heart belied his words, and he knew he did love Jerrie Crawford better than he should ever again love any girl, whether the daughter of a governor or of the president.
'And I go to the party, too, just to show her that I don't care, and for the sake of looking at her,' he said. 'She can't help that, and it is a pleasure to look at a woman so grandly developed and perfectly formed as she is. By Jove! Hal Hastings is a lucky dog; but I shall hate him forever.'
So Tom pulled himself together, and went to Grassy Spring in a frame of mind not the most amiable; and when croquet was proposed, he sneered at it as something quite too _passé_, citing lawn tennis as the only decent outdoor amusement.
'Why, then, don't you set it up on your grounds, where you have plenty of room, and ask us all over there?' Dick asked, good-humoredly, as he began to get out the mallets and balls.
To this Tom did not reply, but said, instead: 'Count me out. I don't like the game, and there are enough without me.'
Just then Jerry appeared at the gate, and he added quickly: 'Still, I don't wish to be ungracious; and now Jerrie has come, we can have an eight hand.'
Hastening toward her, he met her as we have recorded, and claimed her for his partner.
'Thank you, Tom,' Jerrie said, with a bright smile on her face, which made the young man's heart beat fast with both pleasure and pain, as he gave her the mallet and told her she was to play first.
Tom was making himself master of ceremonies, and Dick kept quiet and let him, and watched Jerrie admiringly as she made the two arches, and the third, and fourth, and then sent her ball out of harm's way. It was a long and closely contested game, for all were skilful players, except poor Ann Eliza, who was always behind and required a great deal of attention from her partner especially when it came to croqueting a ball. She did not know exactly what to do, and kept her foot so long upon the ball that less amiable girls than Nina and Jerrie would have said she did it on purpose, to show how small and pretty it looked in her closely fitting French boot. But Jerrie's side beat, as it usually did. She had become a 'rover' the second round, had rescued Tom from many a difficulty, and taken Ann Eliza through four or five wickets, besides doing good service to her other friends.
'I p-p-propose three ch-cheers for Jerrie,' Billy said, standing on his tiptoes and nearly splitting his throat with his own hurrah.
After the game was over they repaired to the piazza, where the little tables were laid for tea, and where Jerrie found herself _vis-à-vis_ with Marian Raymond, of whom she had thought she might stand a little in awe, she had heard so much of her. But the mesmeric power which Jerrie possessed drew the Kentucky girl to her at once, and they were soon in a most animated conversation.
'You do not seem like a stranger to me,' Marian said, 'and I should almost say I had seen you before, you are so like a picture in Germany.'
'Yes,' Jerrie answered, with a gasp, and a feeling such as she always experienced when the spell was upon her and she saw things as in a dream.
'Was it in a gallery?'
'Oh, no; it was in a house we rented in Wiesbaden. You know, perhaps, that I was there at school for a long time. Then, when mamma came out, and I was through school, we stayed there for months, it was so lovely, and we rented a house which an Englishman had bought and made over. Such a pretty house it was, too, with so many flowers and vines around it.'
'And the picture--did it belong to the Englishman?' Jerrie asked.
'Oh, no,' Marian replied: 'it did not seem to belong to anybody. Mr. Carter--that was the name of our landlord--said it was there in the wall when he took the house, which was then very small and low, with only two or three rooms. He bought it because of the situation, which, though very quiet and pleasant, was so near the Kursaal that we could always hear the music without going to the garden.
'Yes,' Jerrie said again, with her head on one side, and her ear turned up, as if she were listening to some far-off, forgotten strains. 'Yes; and the picture was like me, you say--how like me?'
'Every way like you,' Marian replied; 'except that the original must have been younger when it was taken--sixteen, perhaps--and she was smaller than you, and wore a peasant's dress, and was knitting on a bench under a tree, with the sunshine falling around her, and at a little distance a gentleman stood watching her. But what is the matter, Miss Crawford? Are you sick?' Marian asked, suddenly, as she saw the bright color fade for an instant from Jerrie's face, leaving it deathly white, while Tom and Dick knocked their heads together in their efforts to get her a glass of water, which they succeeded in spilling into her lap.
'It is nothing,' Jerrie said, recovering herself quickly. 'I have been in the hot sun a good deal to-day, and perhaps that affected me and made me a little faint. 'It has passed now;' and she looked up as brightly as ever.
'It's that confounded washing!' Tom thought; but Jerrie could have told him differently.
As Marian had talked to her of the house in Wiesbaden and the picture on the wall--of the peasant girl knitting in the sunshine--she had seen, as by revelation, through a rift in the clouds which separated her from the past--the picture on the wall, in its pretty Florentine frame, and knew that it resembled the pale, sweet face which came to her so often and was so real to her. Was it her old home Marian was describing? Had she lived there once, when the house consisted of only two or three rooms? and was that a picture of her mother, left there she knew not how or why? These were the thoughts crowding each other so fast in her brain when the faintness and pallor crept over her and the objects about her began to seem unreal. But the cold water revived her, and she was soon herself again, listening while Marian talked of heat and sun-strokes, with an evident forgetfulness of the peasant girl knitting in the sunshine; but Jerrie soon recurred to the subject and asked, rather abruptly: 'Was there a stove in that house--a tall, white stove, in a corner of one of the old rooms--say the kitchen--and a high-backed settee?'
Marian stared at her a moment in surprise, and then replied: 'Oh, I know what you mean--those unwieldy things in which they sometimes put the wood from the hall. No; there was nothing of that kind, though there was an old settee by the kitchen fire-place, but not a tall stove. Mr. Carter had modernized the house, and set up a real Yankee stove--Stewart's, I think they called it.'
'Was the picture in the kitchen?' Jerrie asked next.
'No,' Marian replied, 'it was in a little, low apartment which must once have been the best room.'
'And was there no theory with regard to it! It seems strange that any one should leave it there if he cared for it,' Jerrie said.
'Yes, it does,' Marian replied; 'but all Mr. Carter knew was that the people of whom he bought the house said the portrait was there when they took possession, and that it had been left to apply on the back rent; also that the original was dead. He (Mr. Carter) had bought the picture with the house, and offered to take it down, but I would not let him. It was such a sweet, sunny, happy face that it did me good to look at it, and wonder who the young girl was, and if her life were ever linked with that of the stranger watching her.'
Again the faintness came upon Jerrie, for she could see so plainly on the sombre wall the picture of the sweet-faced girl, with the long stocking in her lap--a very long stocking she felt sure it was, but dared not ask, lest they should think her question a strange one. Of the stranger in the back yard watching the young girl she had no recollection, but her heart beat wildly as she thought: 'Was that Mr. Arthur, and was the young girl Gretchen?'
How fast the lines touching her past had widened about her since she first saw the likeness in the mirror, and her confused memories of the past began to take shape and assume a tangible form.
'I will find that house, and that picture, and that Mr. Carter, and the people who lived there before him,' she said to herself; and then again, addressing Marian, she asked: 'What was the street, and the number of that house?'
Marian told her the street, but could not remember the number, while Tom said, laughingly: 'Why, Jerrie, what makes you so much interested in an old German house? Do you expect to go there and live in it?'
'Yes,' Jerrie replied, in the same light tone. 'I am going to Germany sometime--going to Wiesbaden, and I mean to find that house and the picture which Miss Raymond says I am so much like; then I shall know how I look to others. You remember the couplet: '"Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us, To see ourselfs as others see us!"
'Look in the glass there, the best one you can find, and you'll see yourself as others see you,' Dick said, gallantly.
Before Jerrie could reply, a servant appeared on the piazza, saying there was some one at the telephone asking for Mr. Peterkin.
It proved to be Billy's father, who was in the village, and had received a telegram from Springfield concerning a lawsuit which was pending between himself and a rival firm, which claimed that he had infringed upon their patents. Before replying to the telegram he wished to confer with his son, who was to come at once to the hotel, and, if necessary, go to Springfield that night.
'B-by Jove,' Billy said, as he returned to the piazza and explained the matter, 'it's t-t-too bad that I must g-go, when I'm enjoying m-myself t-t-tip-top. I wish that lawsuit was in Gu-Guinea.'
Then turning to Ann Eliza he asked how she would get home if he did nut return.
'Oh, don't trouble about me. I can take care of myself,' Ann Eliza said, with a bounce up in her chair, which set every loose hair of her frowzy head to flying.
'M-m-maybe they'll send the ca-carriage,' Billy went on, 'and if they do-don't, m-may be you can g-go with T-Tom as far as his house, and then you wo-wont be afraid.'
Tom could have killed the little man for having thus made it impossible for him not to see his sister safely home. He had fully intended to forestall Dick, and go with Jerrie if Harold did not come, for though she had refused him, he wished to keep her as a friend, hoping that in time she might be led to reconsider. He liked to hear her voice--to look into her face--to be near her, and the walk in the moonlight, with her upon his arm, had been something very pleasant to contemplate, and now it was snatched from him by Billy's ill-advised speech, and old Peterkin's red-haired daughter thrust upon him. It was rather hard, and Tom's face was very gloomy and dark for the remainder of the evening, while they sat upon the piazza and laughed, and talked, and said the little nothings so pleasant to the young and so meaningless to the old who have forgotten their youth.
Jerrie was the first to speak of going. She had hoped that Harold might possibly come for her, but as the time passed on, and he did not appear, she knew he was not coming, and at last arose to say good-night to Nina, while Dick hastened forward and announced his intention to accompany her.
'No, Dick, no; please don't,' she said. 'I am not a bit afraid, and I would rather you did not go.'
But Dick was persistent.
'You know you accepted my services this morning,' he said, and his face, as he went down the steps with Jerrie on his arm, wore a very different expression from that of poor Tom, who, with Ann Eliza coming about to his elbow, stalked moodily along the road, scarcely hearing and not always replying to the commonplace remarks of his companion, who had never been so happy in her life, because never before had she been out alone in the evening with Tom Tracy as her escort.
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{
"id": "15321"
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36
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OUT IN THE STORM.
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For half an hour or more before the young people left the house a dark mass of clouds had been rolling up from the west, and by the time that they were out of the grounds and on the highway, the moonlight was wholly obscured and the sky was overcast as with a pall, while frequent groans of thunder and flashes of lightning in the distance told of the fast coming storm.
'Oh, I am so afraid of thunder! Aren't you?' Ann Eliza cried, in terror, as she clung closer to Tom, who, beside her, seemed a very giant, and who did not reply until there came a gleam of lightning which showed him the white face and the loose hair blowing out from under his companion's hat.
There was a little shriek of fear and a smothered cry. 'Oh, Tom, aren't you a bit afraid?'
And then the giant answered the trembling little girl whom he would like to have shaken off, she clung so closely to him 'Thunder and lightning, no!' I'm not afraid of anything except getting wet; and if you are, you'd better run before the whole thing is upon us; the sky is blacker than midnight now. I never saw a storm come on so fast. Can you run?'
'Yes--some,' Ann Eliza gasped out; 'only my boots are so tight and new, and the heels are so high. Do you think we shall be struck?'
This as a peal of thunder louder than any which had preceded it rolled over their heads, making Ann Eliza clutch Tom's arm in nervous terror which was not feigned.
'Struck? No. But don't screech and hang on to me so. We can never get along if you do,' Tom growled; and, taking her by the wrist, he dragged rather than led her through the woods where the great rain-drops were beginning to fall so fast as the two showers--one from the west and one from the south--approached each other, until at last they met overhead, and then commenced a wild and fierce battle of the elements, the southern storm and the western storm each seemingly trying to outdo the other and come off conqueror.
As the thunder and lightning and rain increased, Tom went on faster and faster, forgetting that the slip of a girl, who scarcely came to his shoulders, could not take so long strides as a great, hulking fellow like himself.
'Oh, Tom, Tom--please not so fast. I can't keep up, my heart beats so fast and my boots hurt me so,' came in a faint, sobbing protest more than once from the panting girl at his side; but he only answered: 'You _must_ keep up, or we shall be soaked through and through. I never knew it rain so fast. Take off your boots, if they hurt you. You've no business to wear such small ones.'
He had heard from Maude that Ann Eliza was very proud of her feet, and always wore boots too small for them, and he experienced a savage satisfaction in knowing that she was paying for her foolishness. This was not very kind in Tom, but he was not a kind-hearted man, and he held the whole Peterkin tribe, as he called them, in such contempt that he would scarcely have cared if the tired little feet, boots and all, had dropped off, provided it did not add to his discomfort. They were out of the woods and park by this time, and had struck into a field as a shorter route to Le Bateau. But the way was rough and stony, and Tom had stumbled himself two or three times and almost fallen, when a sharp, loud cry from Ann Eliza smote his ear, and he felt that she was sinking to the ground.
His first impulse was to drag her on, but that would have been too brutal, and stopping short he asked what was the matter.
'Oh, I don't know. I guess I've sprained my ankle. It turned right over on a big stone, you went so fast, and hurts me awfully. I can't walk another step. Oh, what shall we do, and am I going to die?'
'Die? No!' Tom answered, gloomily. 'But we are in an awful muss, and I don't know what to do. Here it is raining great guns, and I am wet to my skin, and you can't walk, you say. What in thunder shall we do?'
Ann Eliza was sobbing piteously, and when a glare of lightning lighted up the whole heavens, Tom caught a glimpse of her face which was white as marble, and distorted with pain, and this decided him. He had thought to leave her in the darkness and rain, while he went for assistance either to the Park House or Le Bateau; but the sight of her utter helplessness awoke in him a spark of pity, and bending over her he said, very gently for him: 'Annie,'--this was the name by which he used to call her when they were children together, and he thought Ann Eliza too long--'Annie, I shall have to carry you in my arms; there is no other way. It is not very far to your home. Come!' and stooping low over the prostrate form he lifted her very carefully and holding her in a position the least painful for her, began again to battle with the storm, walking more carefully now and groping his way through the stony field lest he should stumble and fall and sprain him own ankle, perhaps.
'This is a jolly go,' he said to himself, as he went on; and then he thought of Dick and Jerrie, and wondered how they were getting through the storm, and if she had sprained her ankle and Dick was carrying her in his arms.
'He will sweat some, if he is, for Jerrie is twice as heavy as Peterkin's daughter;' and at the very idea Tom laughed out loud, thinking that he should greatly prefer to have Jerrie's strength and weight in his arms to his light, slim, little girl, who neither spoke nor moved until he laughed, and then there came in smothered tones from the region of his vest: 'Oh, Tom, how can you laugh? Do you think it such fun?'
'Fun! Thunder! Anything but fun!' was his gruff reply, as he went on more rapidly now, for they were in the grounds of Le Bateau, and the lights from the house were distinctly visible at no great distance away. 'We are here at last. Thank the Lord.' he said, as he went up the steps and pulled sharply at the bell.
'Let me down. I can stand on one foot,' Ann Eliza said; and nothing loth Tom put her down, a most forlorn and dilapidated piece of humanity as she stood leaning against him with the light of the piazza lamp falling full upon her.
Her little French boots, which had partly done the mischief, were spoiled, and the heel of one of them had been nearly wrenched off when she stumbled over the stone. Her India muslin, with its sash, and ribbons, and streamers, was torn in places and bedraggled with mud. She had lost her hat in the woods, and the wind and the rain had held high carnival in her loosely-arranged hair, whose color Tom so detested, and which streamed down her back in many little wet tags, giving her the look of a drowned rat after it has been tortured in a trap.
Old Peterkin was reading his evening paper when Tom's sharp summons sounded through the house, making him jump from the chair, as he exclaimed: 'Jiminy hoe-cakes! Who can that be in this storm?'
He had seen Billy off in the train, and had returned home just as the rain began to fall. Naturally both he and his wife had felt some anxiety on Ann Eliza's account, but had concluded that if the storm continued she would remain at Grassy Spring, and if it cleared in time they would send the carriage for her. So neither thought of her when the loud ring came, startling them both so much. It was Peterkin himself who went to the door, gorgeous in a crimson satin dressing gown which came to his feet, but which no amount of pulling would make meet together over his ponderous stomach. An oriental smoking cap was on his head, the big tassel hanging almost in his eyes, and a half-burned cigar between his fingers.
'Good George of Uxbridge!' he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon Tom, from whose soaked hat the water was dripping, and upon Ann Eliza leaning against him, her pale face quivering with pain, and her eyes full of tears. 'George of Uxbridge! What's up? What ails the girl!'
At sight of her father Ann Eliza began to cry, while Tom said: 'She has sprained her ankle and I had to bring her home. She cannot step.'
'Jerusalem hoe-cakes! Spraint her ankle! Can't step! You bring her home! Heavens and earth! Here, May Jane, come lively! Here's a nice how-dy-do! Ann Liza's broke her laig, and Tom Tracy's brung her home!'
As Peterkin talked, he was taking his daughter in his arms and bringing her into the hall, hitting her lame foot against the door, and eliciting from her a cry of pain.
'Oh, father; Oh-h! --it does hurt so. Put me somewhere quick, and take off my boot. I believe I am going to die!'
She was dripping wet, and little puddles of water trailed along the carpet as Peterkin carried her into the sitting room, where he was about to lay her down upon the delicate satin couch, when his wife's housewifely instincts were roused, and she exclaimed: 'No, father. No, not there, when she's so wet, and water spots that satin so dreadfully.'
'What in thunder shall I do with her? Hold her all night?' Peterkin demanded, while Tom deliberately picked up the costly Turkey hearth rug, and throwing it across the couch, said: 'Put her on that.' So Peterkin deposited her upon the rug, hitting her foot again, and sending her off in a dead faint.
'Oh, she's dead! she's dead! What shall we do?' Mrs. Peterkin cried, wringing her hands, and walking about excitedly.
'Do?' Peterkin yelled. 'Hold your yawp, and stop floppin' round like a hen with her head cut off! She ain't dead. She's fainted. Bring some camfire, or alcohol, or hartshorn, or Pond's Extract, or something for her to smell.'
'Yes, yes; but where are they?' Mrs. Peterkin moaned, still flopping around, as her husband had expressed it, while Tom rang the bell and summoned the maid, to whom he gave directions.
'Bring some camphor or hartshorn,' he said. 'Miss Peterkin has fainted, and get off the boot as soon as possible. Don't you see how her foot is swelling?'
This to Peterkin, who made a dive at the boot, which resisted all his efforts, even after it was unbuttoned. The leather, which was soaked through, had shrunk so that it was impossible to remove the boot without cutting it away, and this they commenced to do.
Ann Eliza had recovered her consciousness by this time, and although the pain was terrible she bore it heroically, as piece after piece of the boot was removed, together with the silk stocking which left her poor little swollen foot exposed and bare.
'By Jove, she's plucky!' Tom thought, as he watched the operation and saw the great drops of sweat on Ann Eliza's forehead and her efforts to quiet her mother, pretending that it did not hurt so very much. 'Yes, she's plucky,' and for the first time in his life Tom was conscious of a feeling of something like respect for Peterkin's red-haired daughter. 'She _has_ a small foot, too; the smallest I ever saw on a woman. I do believe she wears twos,' he thought, while something about the little white foot made him think of poor Jack's dead feet, laid under the grass years ago.
In this softened frame of mind he at last said good-night, although pressed by Peterkin to stay and dry himself, or at least take a drink as a preventive against cold, but Tom declined both, saying a hot bath would set him all right. 'Good-bye, Annie. I'm awful sorry for the sprain,' he said, offering her his hand; and as she took it in hers, noticing about the wrist prints of his fingers which had grasped it so tightly and held it so firmly as he dragged her along over stumps, and bogs, and stones, until she sank at his feet, 'I guess I was a brute to race her like that,' he said to himself, as he went out into the darkness and started for home. 'But I didn't want to go with her. I wanted to be with Jerrie, who, I have no doubt, went straight along, without ever thinking of spraining her ankle, as Ann Eliza did. Poor little foot! How swollen, though, it was when they got that boot off; but she bore it like a major! Pity she has such all-fired red hair, and piles it up like a haystack on the top of her head, with every hair looking six ways for Sunday.'
At this point in his soliloquy Tom reached home, and was soon luxuriating in a hot bath, which removed all traces of the soaking he had received. That night he dreamed of Ann Eliza, and how light she was in his arms, and how patient through it all, and that the magnificent rooms at Le Bateau were all frescoed with diamonds and the floors inlaid with gold. Then the nature of his dream changed, and it was Jerry he was carrying in his arms, bending under her weight until his back was nearly broken. But he did not heed it in the least, and when he bent to kiss the face lying upon his bosom, where Ann Eliza had lain, he awoke suddenly to find that it was morning and that the sun was shining brightly into his room.
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{
"id": "15321"
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37
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UNDER THE PINES WITH DICK.
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Jerrie was soaked through, but she did not sprain her ankle as Ann Eliza had done. And yet, had she been given her choice, rather than inflict the pain she did inflict upon poor Dick, she would have chosen the former unhesitatingly, and felt herself happy in doing it. Like Tom and Ann Eliza, she and Dick had run when they saw how fast the storm was coming, but it was of no use, for by the time they entered the park, the shortest route to the cottage, the rain came down in torrents, and drenched them to the skin in a few moments. Jerrie's hat was wrenched off, as Ann Eliza's had been by the wind, which tossed her long golden hair in a most fantastic fashion. But Dick put his hat upon her head, and would have given her his coat had she allowed it.
'No, Dick,' she said, laughingly, as she saw him about to divest himself of it. 'Keep your coat. I am wet enough without that. But what an awful storm, and how dark it grows. We shall break our necks stumbling along at this rate.'
Just then a broad glare of lightning illuminated the darkness, and showed Dick the four pines close at hand. He knew the place well, for, with the Tracy children, he had often played there when a boy, and knew that the thick bushes would afford them some protection from the storm.
'By Jove, we are in luck!' he said. 'Here's the pine room, as we used to call it when you played you were Marie Antoinette, and had your head cut off. I can remember just how I felt when your white sun-bonnet, with Mrs. Crawford's false hair pinned it in, dropped into the basket, and how awful it seemed when you played dead so long that we almost thought you were; and when you came to light, the way you imitated the cries of a French mob, I would have sworn there were a hundred voices instead of one yelling: "Down with the nobility!" You were a wonderful actress, Jerrie; and it is a marvel you have not gone upon the stage.'
While he talked he was groping for the bench under the pines, where they sat down, Dick seating himself upon the parasol, which Jerrie had left there that morning after her interview with Tom.
'Hallo! what's this?' he said, drawing the parasol from under him. 'An umbrella, as I live! We are in luck. What good fairy do you suppose left it here for us?'
Jerrie could not tell him that she had left it there, and she said nothing; while he opened and held it so that every drop of rain which slipped from it fell upon her neck and trickled down her back. 'Great Cæsar! that was a roarer!' Dick said, as the peal of thunder which had so frightened Ann Eliza burst over their heads, and, echoing through the woods, went bellowing off in the direction of the river, 'That's a stunner! but I rather like it, and like being here, too, with you, if you don't mind it. I've wanted a chance to speak to you alone, ever since--well, ever since this morning, when I saw you in that bewildering costume that showed your feet and your arms so--you know, with that thing like a napkin pinned up in front, and that jimcrack on your head, and the red stockings--and--and--' Dick was getting bewildered and did not quite know what he was saying, so he stopped and waited for Jerrie to reply. But Jerrie did not speak, because of the sudden alarm which possessed her. She could not see Dick's face, but in his voice she had recognized a tone heard in Tom's that morning when she sat with him under pines as she was sitting now with Dick and he had asked her to be his wife. Something told her that Dick was feeling for her hands, which she resolutely put behind her out of his way, and as he could not find them, he wound his arm around her and held her fast, while he told her how much he loved her and wanted her for his wife.
'I believe I have loved you,' he said, 'ever since the day I first saw you at the inquest, and you flew so like a little cat at Peterkin when he attacked Harold. I used to be awfully jealous of Hal, for fear he would find in you more than a sister, but that was before he and Maude got so thick together. I guess that's a sure thing, and it makes me bold to tell you what I have. Why are you so silent Jerrie? Don't you love me a little? That is all I ask at first, for I know I can make you love me a great deal in time. I will be so kind and true to you. Jerrie, and father, and mother, and Nina will be so glad. Speak to me, Jerrie, and say you will try to love me, if you do not now.'
As he talked he had drawn the girl closer to him, where she sat rigid as a stone, wholly unmindful of the little puddles of water--and they were puddles now--running down her back, for Dick had tilted the parasol in such a manner that one of the points rested upon the nape of her neck. But she did not know it, or think of any thing except the pain she must inflict upon the young man wooing her so differently from what Tom Tracy had done. No hint had Dick given of the honor he was conferring upon her, or of his own and his family's superiority to her family and herself. All the honor and favor to be conferred were on her side; all the love and humility on his, and for one brief moment the wild wish flashed upon her: 'Oh, if I could love him as a wife ought, I might he so happy, for he is all that is noble and good and true.'
But this was while she was smarting under the few words he had said of Harold and Maude. He, too, believed it a settled thing between the two--everybody believed it--and why should she waste her love upon one who did not care for her as she did for him? Why not encourage a love for Dick, who stood next in her heart to Harold? Questioning herself thus until there flushed upon her the recollection of Harold's voice as it had spoken to her that morning, and the look in his eyes when they rested upon her, as he said good-bye, lingering a moment as if loth to leave her, and then Dick's chance, if he had ever had any, was gone!
'I do not believe it,' she said to herself, and then, turning her face to Dick she cried: 'Oh, Dick, I am so sorry you have said this to me; sorry that you love me--in this way--for I can't--I can't--. I do love you as a friend, a brother, next to Harold, but I cannot be your wife. I cannot.'
For a moment there was perfect silence in the darkness, and then a lurid flame of lightning showed the two faces--that of the man pale as ashes, with a look of bitter pain upon it, and that of the woman, whiter than the man's and bathed in upon which fell almost as fast as the rain drops were falling tears, the pines.
Then Dick spoke, but his voice sounded strange and unnatural and a great ways off: 'If I wait a long, long time--say a year, or two, or three--do you think you could learn to love me just a little? I will not ask for much; only, Jerrie, I do hunger so for you that without you life would seem a blank.'
'No, Dick; not if you waited twenty years. I must still answer no. I cannot love you as your wife should love you, and as some good, sweet girl will one day love you when you have forgotten me.'
This is what Jerrie said to him, with much more, until he knew she was in earnest and felt as if his heart were breaking.
'I shall never forget you, Jerrie,' he said, 'or cease to hope that you will change your mind, unless--' and here he started so suddenly that the wet parasol, down which streams of water were still coursing their way to Jerrie's back, dropped from his hand and rolled off upon the bed of fine needles at his feet, just where it had been in the morning when Tom was there instead of himself--'unless there is some one between us, some other man whom you love. I will not ask you the question, but I believe I could bear it better if I knew it was because your love was already given to another, and not because of anything in me.'
For a moment Jerrie was silent; then suddenly facing Dick, she laid her hand on his and said: 'I can trust you, I am sure of that; there is some one between us--some one whom I love. If I had never seen him, Dick, never known that he lived--and if I had known you just as I do, I might not have answered just as I have. I am very sorry.'
Dick did not ask her who his rival was, nor did Harold come to his mind, so sure was he that an engagement existed between him and Maude. Probably it was some one whom she had met while away at school; and if so, Nina would know, and he would sound her cautiously, but never let her know, if he could help it, the heart-wound he had received.
Poor Dick! every nerve was quivering with pain and disappointment when at last, as the rain began to cease, he rose at Jerrie's suggestion, and offering her his arm, walked silently and sadly with her to the door of the cottage. Here for a moment they stood side by side and hand in hand, until Jerrie said: 'Dick, your friendship has been very dear to me. I do not want to lose it.'
'Nor shall you,' he answered; and winding his arms around her, he kissed her lips, saying as he did so: 'That is the seal of our eternal friendship. The man you love would not grudge me that one kiss, but perhaps you'd better tell him. Good-bye, and God bless you. When I see you again I shall try to be the same Dick you have always known.'
For a few moments Jerrie stood listening to the sound of his footsteps as he went splashing through the wet grass and puddles of water; then, kissing her hands to him, she whispered: 'Poor Dick! it would not be difficult to love you if I had never known Harold.'
Opening the door softly, she found, as she had expected, that both her grandmother and Harold had retired; and taking the lamp from the table where it had been left for her, she stole quietly up to her room and crept shivering into bed, more wretched than she had ever been before in her life.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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38
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AT LE BATEAU.
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Harold got his own breakfast the next morning, and was off for his work just as the sun looked into the windows of the room where Jerrie lay in a deep slumber. She had been awake a long time the previous night, thinking over the incidents of a day which had been the most eventful one of her life, but had fallen asleep at last, and dreamed that she had found the low room far away in Wiesbaden, with the wall adorned with the picture of a young girl knitting in the sunshine, and the stranger watching her from a distance.
It was late when she awoke, and Peterkin's clock was striking eight when she went down to the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Crawford sewing, and a most dainty breakfast waiting for her on a little round table near an open window shaded with the hop-vines. There was a fresh egg for her, with English buns, and strawberries and cream, and chocolate served in a pretty cup which she had never seen before, while near her plate was lying a bunch of roses, and on them a strip of paper, on which Harold had written: "The top of the mornin' to ye, Jerrie. I'd like to stay and see you, but if I work very hard to-day, I hope to finish the job on Monday and get my fifteen dollars. That's a pile of money to earn in three days, isn't it? I hope you enjoyed the garden-party. If I had not been so awfully tired I should have gone for you. Grandma will tell you that I went to bed and to sleep before that shower came up, so I knew nothing of it. I wonder you got home; but of course Dick came with you, or Billy, or possibly Tom. I hear you entertained all three of them at the washtub! Pretty good for the first day home! Good-bye till to-night. I only live till then, as they say in novels.
"HAROLD."
This note, every line of which was full of affection and thoughtfulness for her, was worth more to Jerrie than the chocolate, or the bun, or the pretty cup and saucer which Harold had bought for her the night before, going to the village, a mile out of his way, on purpose to get them and surprise her. This, Mrs. Crawford told her, as she eat eating her breakfast, which she had to force down because of the lump in her throat and the tears which came so fast as she listened.
'You see,' Mrs. Crawford began, 'Mr. Allen paid Harold two or three dollars, and so he came home through the village, and bought the eggs, and the buns, and the chocolate, which he knew you liked, and the cup and saucer at Grady's. He has had it on his mind a long time to get it for you, but there were so many other things to pay for. Don't you think it is pretty?'
'Yes, lovely!' Jerrie replied, taking up the delicate bit of china, through which the light shone so clearly. 'It is very pretty; but I wish he had not bought it for me,' and Jerrie wiped the hot tears from both her eyes, as Mrs. Crawford continued: 'Oh, he wanted to. He is never happier than when doing something which he thinks pleases you or me. Harold is the most unselfish boy I ever knew; and I never saw him give way, or heard him complain that his lot was hard but once, and that was this summer, when he was building the room, and had to dismiss the man because he had no money to pay him. That left it all for him to do, and he was already so tired and overworked; and then Tom Tracy was always making fun of the addition, and saying it made the cottage look like a pig-sty with a steeple to it, and that you would think so too; and if it were his he'd tear the old hut down and start anew. Peterkin, too, made remarks about its being out of proportion to the rest of the house, and wondered where Harold got the money, and why he didn't do this and that, but supposed he couldn't afford it, adding that "beggars couldn't be choosers." When Harold heard all that, he was tired, and nervous, and sick, and discouraged, and his hands were blistered and bruised with hard work. His head was aching, and he just put it on that table, where you are sitting, and cried like a baby. When I tried to comfort him, he said, "It isn't the hard work, grandmother; I don't mind that in the least; neither do I care for what they say, or should not, if there was not some truth in it; things are out of proportion, and the new room makes the rest of the cottage look lower than ever, and I'd like so much to have everything right for Jerrie, who would not shame the Queen's palace. I wish, for her sake, that I had money, and could make her home what it ought to be. I do not want her to feel homesick, or long for something better, when she comes back to us."'
Jerrie was crying outright now; but Mrs. Crawford, who was a little deaf and did not hear her, went on: 'If you were a hundred times his sister he could not love you more than he does, or wish to make you happier. He would have gone for you last night, only he was so tired, and I persuaded him to go to bed. I knew somebody would come home with you, Dick, wasn't it? I thought I heard his voice.'
'Yes, it was Dick,' Jerrie answered, very low, returning again to her breakfast, while her grandmother rambled on: 'Harold slept so soundly that he never heard the storm or knew there was one till this morning. Lucky you didn't start home till it was over. You'd have been wet to the skin.'
Jerrie made no answer, for she could not tell of that interview under the pines, or that she had been wet to the skin, and felt chilly even now from the effects of it. It seemed that Mrs. Crawford would never tire talking of Harold, for she continued: 'He was up this morning about daylight, I do believe, and had his own breakfast eaten and that table laid for you when I came down. He wanted to see you before he went, and know if you were pleased; but I told him you were probably asleep, as it was late when you came in, and so he wrote something for you, and went whistling off as merrily as if he had been in his carriage, instead of on foot in his working-dress.'
'And he shall have his carriage, too, some day, and a pair of the finest horses the country affords, and you shall ride beside him, in a satin gown and India shawl. You'll see!' Jerrie said, impetuously, as she arose from the table and began to clear away the dishes.
The spell was upon her strongly now, and as her grandmother talked, the objects around her gradually faded away; the cottage, so out of proportion, and so humble in all its surroundings, was gone, and in its place a house, fair to look upon, fair as Tracy Park and much like it, and Harold was the master, looking a very prince, instead of the tired, shabbily dressed man he was now.
'And I shall be there, too,' Jerrie whispered, or rather nodded to herself. 'I know I shall, and I do not believe one word of the Maude affair, and never will until he tells me himself, or she; and then--well, then, I will be glad for them, until I come to be really glad myself.'
She was moving rapidly around the kitchen, for there was a great deal to be done--the Saturday's work and all the clothes to be ironed, and then she meant to get up some little surprise for Harold, to show him that she appreciated his thoughtfulness for her.
About half-past ten a servant from Le Bateau brought her a note from Ann Eliza, who wrote as follows.
'Dear Jerrie:--Have pity on a poor cripple, and come as soon as you can and see her. I sprained my ankle last night in that awful storm, and Tom had to bring me home in his arms. Think of it, and what my feelings must have been. I am hardly over it yet--the queer feelings I mean--for, of course, my ankle is dreadful, and so swollen, and pains me so that I cannot step, but must stay in my room all day. So come as soon as possible. You have never seen the inside of our house, or my rooms. Come to lunch, please. We will have it up here. Good-bye.
'From your loving friend, 'ANN ELIZA.
'P.S.--I wonder if Tom will inquire for me.'
'Tell her I will be there by lunch time,' Jerrie said to the man, while to her grandmother she continued: 'The baking and cleaning are all done, and I can finish the ironing when I get back; it will be cooler then, and I do want to see the inside of that show-house which Harold says cost a hundred thousand dollars. Pity somebody besides the Peterkins did not live there.'
And so, about twelve o'clock Jerrie walked up to the grand house of gray stone, which, with its turrets, and towers, and immense arch over the carriage drive in front of a side door, looked like some old feudal castle, and flaunted upon its walls the money it had cost. Even the loud bell which echoed through the hall like a town clock told of wealth and show, as did the colored man who answered the summons, and bowing low to Jerrie, held out a silver tray for her card.
'Nonsense, Leo!' Jerrie said, laughingly, for she had known the negro all her life and played with him, too, at times, when they both went to the district school. 'I have no card with me. Miss Ann Eliza has invited me to lunch, and I have come. Tell her I am here.'
With another profound bow, Leo waved Jerrie into the reception-room, and then started to deliver her message.
Seated upon one of the carved chairs, Jerrie looked about her curiously, with a feeling that the half had not been told her, everything was so much more gorgeous and magnificent than she had supposed. But what impressed and at the same time oppressed her most was the height of the walls from the richly inlaid floor to the gayly decorated ceiling overhead. It made her neck ache staring up fourteen feet and a half to the costly center ornament from which the heavy chandelier depended. All the rooms of the old house had been low, and when Peterkin built the new one, he made ample amends.
"I mean to lick the crowd," he said; and a man was sent to Collingwood, and Grassy Spring, and Brier Hill, and lastly to Tracy Park, to take the height of the lower rooms. Those at Tracy Park were found to be the highest, and measured just twelve feet, so Peterkin's orders were to "run 'em up--run 'em up fourteen feet, for I swan I'll get ahead of 'em."
So they were run up fourteen feet, and by some mistake, half a foot higher, looking when finished so cold and cheerless and bare that the ambitious man ransacked New York and Boston and even sent to London for ornaments for his walls. Books were bought by the square yard, pictures by the wholesale, mirrors by the dozen, with bronzes and brackets and sconces and tapestry and banners and screens and clocks and cabinets and statuary, with every kind of furniture imaginable, from the costliest rugs and carpets to the most exquisite inlaid tables to be found in Florence or Venice. For Peterkin sent there for them by a gentleman to whom he said: 'Git the best there is if it costs a fortune. I'm bound to lick the crowd.'
This was his favorite expression; and when his house was done, and he stood, his broad, white shirt-front studded with diamonds and his coat thrown back to show them, surveying his possessions, he felt that he 'had licked the crowd.'
Jerrie felt so, too, as she followed the elegant Leo up the stairs and through the upper hall--handsomer, if possible than the lower one--to the pretty room where Ann Eliza lay, or rather reclined, with her lame foot on a cushion and her well one incased in a white embroidered silk stocking and blue satin slipper. She was dressed in a delicate blue satin wrapper, trimmed with swan's-down, and there were diamonds in her ears and on the little white hands which she stretched toward Jerrie as she came in.
'Oh, Jerrie,' she said, 'I am so glad to see you, for it is awfully lonesome here; and if one can be homesick at home, I am. I miss the girls and the lessons and the rules at Vassar; much as I hated them when I was there; and just before you came in I wanted to cry. I guess my rooms are too big and have too much in them; any way, I have the feeling that I am visiting, and everything is strange and new. I do believe I liked the old room better, with its matting on the floor and the little mirror with the peacock feathers ornamenting the top, and that painted plaster image of Samuel on the mantel. It is very ungrateful in me, I know, when father has done it mostly to please me. Do you believe--he has hunted me up a maid; Doris is her name; and what I am ever to do with her, or she with me, I am sure I don't know. Do you?'
Jerrie did not know either, but suggested that she might read to her while she was confined to her room. 'Yes, she might, perhaps, do that, if she can read,' Ann Eliza said. 'She certainly has pretentions enough about her to have written several treatises on scientific subjects. She was a year with Lady Augusta Hardy, in Ireland. Don't you remember the grand wedding father and mother attended in Allington two or three years ago, when Augusta Browne was married to an Irish lord, who had been bought by her money? --for of course he did not care much for her. Well, Doris went out with her as maid, and acts as if she, too, had married a peer. She came last night, and mamma and I are already as afraid of her as we can be, she is so fine and airy. She insisted upon dressing me this morning, and I felt all the while as if she were thinking how red and ugly my hair is, or counting the freckles on my face, and contrasting me with 'my Lady Augusta,' as she calls her. I wonder if she ever saw my lady's mother, Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, who told me once that I had a very _petty figger_, but she presumed it would _envelope_ as I grew older. But then people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones,' and Ann Eliza colored a little as she made this reference to her own father and mother, whose language was not much more correct than Mrs. Rossiter-Browne's.
For one brought up as she had been, Ann Eliza was a rather sensible girl, and although she attached a great deal of importance to money, she knew it was not everything, and that with her father's millions there was still a wide difference between him and the men to whose society he aspired; and knew, too, that although Jerrie had not a penny in the world, she was greatly her superior, and so considered by the world at large. She was very fond of Jerrie, who had often helped her with her lessons, and stood between her and the ridicule of her companions, and was never happier than when in her society. So now she made her bring an ottoman close beside her, and held her hand while she narrated in detail the events of the previous night, dwelling at length upon the fact that Tom had carried her in his arms, and wondering if he would call to inquire after her. Jerrie thought he would; and, as if in answer to the thought, Doris almost immediately appeared with his card. She _was_ very fine and very smart, and Jerrie herself felt awed by her dignity and manner as she delivered her message. 'The gentleman sends his compliments, and would like to know how you are this morning.'
'Jerrie, it's Tom! he has come!' Ann Eliza said, with joy in her voice. 'Surely I can receive him here, for this is my parlor.'
Jerrie thought she might, but the toss of the fine maid's head showed that she thought differently, as she left the room with her mistress' message.
'Thunderation! I didn't want to see her. It's enough to have to call,' was Tom's mental comment, when Doris told him he was to walk up stairs.
Indeed, he would not have come at all if Maude, to whom he related his adventure, had not insisted that he must.
'You needn't see her, of course; but you must go and inquire how she is. According to your own statement you are to blame for her mishap; you dragged her along too fast.
Tom knew there was some truth in this, and so he went the more willingly; and, sending up his card, stood near the open door, ready to leave the moment Leo came down with the message he had received from Doris.
'I shall be cheek by jowl with these Peterkins, if I don't look out,' he thought, as he ascended the stairs to the hall, where Doris stood waiting to show him her mistress' room.
'What! Jerry! You here?' he exclaimed, his face clearing, and the whole aspect of matters changing at once, as she arose to meet him.
With Jerrie there the place seemed different, and he did not feel as if he were lowering himself, as he sat in the luxuriously furnished room, and joined in the dainty lunch which was brought up and served from Dresden china, and linen and cut glass, and was as delicate and dainty in its way as anything he had ever found at the Brunswick or Delmonico's. Mrs. Peterkin prided herself upon her _cuisine_, which she always superintended, and as Peterkin was something of an epicure and gourmand, the table was always supplied with every possible delicacy.
Tom enjoyed it all, and praised the chocolate, and the broiled chicken, and the jellies, and thought Ann Eliza not so very bad-looking in her blue satin wrapper, with the swan's-down trimmings, and made himself generally agreeable. Maude was better, he said, and could talk a little, and he asked Jerrie to go home with him and see her. But Jerrie declined.
'I have a great deal of work to do yet,' she said, 'I must iron all those clothes you saw upon the line yesterday, and so I must be going.'
Tom frowned at the mention of the clothes which Jerrie had washed; while Ann Eliza insisted that she should stay until the dog-cart, which had been sent to the station for Billy, came back, when Lewis would take her home, as it was too warm to walk. Jerrie did not mind the walk, but she felt morally sure that Tom meant to accompany her, and greatly preferred the dog-cart and Lewis to another _tête-à-tête_ with him, for he did not act at all like a discarded lover, but rather as one who still hoped he had a chance. So she signified her intention to wait for the dog-cart, which soon came, with Billy in it, anxious when he heard of his sister's accident, delighted when he found Jerrie there, and persistent in saying that he and not Lewis would take her home.
'Well, if you will, you will,' she said, laughingly; and bidding Ann Eliza good-bye, and telling Tom to give her love to Maude and say to her that she did not believe she should be at the park that day, she had so much to do, she was soon in the dog-cart with Billy, whose face was radiant as he gathered up the reins and started down the turnpike, driving at what Jerrie thought a very slow pace, as she was anxious to get home.
Something of Billy's thoughts must have communicated itself to Jerrie, for she became nervous and ill at ease and talked rapidly of things in which she had not the slightest interest.
'What of the lawsuit?' she asked. 'Are you likely to settle it?'
'N-no,' Billy answered, hurriedly. 'It will h-have to co-come into co-court in a f-few days, and I am aw-awful sorry. I wa-wanted father to p-pay what they demanded, but he won't. Hal is subpoenaed on the other side, as he was in our office, and is supposed to know something about it; b-but I ho-hope he won't da-damage us m-much, as father would n-never forgive him if he went against us.'
'But he must tell the truth, no matter who is damaged,' Jerrie said. 'Ye-yes' Billy replied, 'of co-course he must, b-but he needn't volunteer information.'
Jerry began to think that Billy had insisted upon coming with her for the sake of persuading her to caution Harold against saying too much when he was called to testify in the great lawsuit between Peterkin & Co., manufacturers in Shannondale, and Wilson & Co., manufacturers in Truesdale, an adjoining town; but she was undeceived when her companion turned suddenly off upon the river road, which would take them at least two miles out of their way.
'Why are you coming here!' Jerrie said, in real distress. 'It is ever so much farther, and I must get home. I have piles of work to do.'
'Co-confound the work,' Billy replied, very energetically for him, and reining his horse up under a wide spreading butternut tree, which grew upon the river bank, he sprang out and pretended to be busy with some part of the harness, while he astonished Jerrie by bursting out, without the least stammer, he was so earnest and so excited: 'I've something to say to you, Jerrie, and I may as well say it now as any time, and know the worst, or the best. I can't bear the suspense any longer, and I got out of the cart so as to stand where I could look you square in the face while I say it.'
And he was looking her square in the face while she grew hot and cold and experienced a sensation quite different from what she had when Tom and Dick made love to her. She had felt no fear of them, but she was afraid of this little man, who stood up so resolutely, with his tongue loosened, and asked her to be his wife, for that was what he did, making his wishes known in a very few words, and then waiting for her answer with his eyes fixed upon her face and a firm, set look about his mouth which puzzled and troubled her and made her uncertain as to how she was to deal with this third aspirant for her hand within twenty-four hours.
Billy had long had it in his mind that Jerry Crawford was the only girl in the world for him, but he might not have spoken quite; so soon had it not been for a conversation held with his father the previous night, when they were alone in a private room at the hotel in Shannondale, waiting for the train which Billy was to take, and which was half an hour late. Peterkin had exhausted himself in oaths and epithets with regard to the lawsuit and those who had brought it against him, and was regaling himself with a cigar and a glass of brandy and water, while Billy sat by the window watching for the train and wishing himself at Grassy Spring with Jerrie. Peterkin seldom drank to excess, but on this occasion he had taken a little too much. When under the influence of stimulants, he was either aggressive and quarrelsome, or jocose and talkative. The latter mood was on him now, and as he drank his brandy and water he held forth upon the subject of matrimony, wondering why his son did not marry, and saying it was quite time he did so and settled down.
'You can have the south wing,' he said, 'and if the rooms ain't up to snuff now, why, I'll make 'em so. The fact is, Bill, I've got money enough--three millions and better; but somehow it doesn't seem to do the thing. It doesn't fetch us to the quality and make us fust-cut. We need better blood than the Peterkins or the Moshers--need boostin', and you must get a wife to boost us. Have you ever thought on't?'
'Billy never had thought of it in that light,' he said, although he had thought of marrying, providing the girl would have him.
'Have you! Thunderation! A girl would be a fool who wouldn't marry three millions, with Lubber-too thrown in! Who is she?' Peterkin asked.
After a little hesitancy Billy replied: 'Jerrie Crawford.'
'Jerrie Crawford! I'll be dammed! Jerrie Crawford!' and Peterkin's big feet came down from the back of the chair on which they were resting, upsetting the chair and his brandy at the same time. 'Jerrie Crawford! I swow! A gal without a cent, or name either, though I used to have a sneakin' notion that I knew who she was, but I guess I didn't. 'Twould have come out afore now. What under heavens put her into your noddle? She can't _boost_! and then she's head and shoulders taller than you be! How you would look trottin' beside her! Jerrie Crawford! Wal, I swan!' and Peterkin laughed until his big stomach shook like a bowl of jelly.
Billy was angry, and replied that he did not know what height had to do with it, or name either; and as for _boosting_, he wouldn't marry a king's daughter, if he did not love her; and for that matter Jerrie could boost, for she stood quite as high in town as any young lady.
Both Nina St. Claire and Maude Tracy worshipped her, while Mrs. Atherton paid her a great deal of attention; and so did the Mungers and Crosbys--enough sight more than they did to Ann Eliza with all her money.
'Mo-money isn't ev-everything.' Billy stammered, 'and Je-Jerrie would make a ve-very different pl-place of Le Bateau.'
'Mebby she would--mebby she would; but I'd never thought of her for you,' Peterkin said. 'I'd picked out some; big bug, who perhaps wouldn't wipe her shoes on you. Jerrie is handsome as blazes and no mistake, with a kinder up and comin' way about her which takes the folks. Yes, it keeps growin' on me, and I presume Arthur Tracy would give her away, which would be a feather in your cap; but lord! you'll have to git a pair of the highest heels you ever seen to come within ten foot on her.'
'She's only two inches t-taller than I am,' Billy said, and his father continued: 'Wall, if your heart's set on her go it, and quick, too, I'm goin' to have a smasher of a party in the fall, and Jerrie'll be just the one to draw, I can see her now, standin' there with the diamonds we'll give her sparklin' on her neck, and she lookin' like a queen, and the _sinecure_ of all eyes. But for thunder's sake don't marry the old woman and all. Leave her to Harold, the sneak! I never did like him, and I'll be mad enough to kill him if he goes agin me in the suit, and I b'lieve he will.'
At this point Peterkin wandered off to the suit entirely and forgot Jerrie, who was to boost the house of Peterkin and make it 'fust-cut.' But not so Billy, and all the way from Shannondale to Springfield he was thinking of Jerrie, and wondering if it were possible that she could ever look upon him with favor. Like Tom and Dick, he could scarcely remember the time when he did not think Jerrie the loveliest girl in the world, and ever since he had grown to manhood he had meditated making her his wife, but had feared what his father might say, as he knew how much importance he attached to money. Now however, his father had signified his assent, and, resolving to lose no time, Billy, on his return next day to Le Bateau, seized the opportunity to take Jerrie home, as the occasion for declaring his love, which he did in a manly, straightforward manner, never hinting at any advantage it would be to her to be the wife of a millionaire, or offering any inducement in any way except to say that he loved her and would devote his life to making her happy. Tom Tracy Jerrie had scorned, Dick St. Claire she had pitied, but this little man she felt like ridiculing.
'Oh, Billy,' she said, laughing merrily. 'You can't be in earnest. Why I'm head and shoulders taller than you are. I do believe I could pick you up and throw you into the river. Only think how we should look together; people would think you my little boy, and that I should not like. So, I can never be your wife.'
Nothing cuts a man like ridicule, and sensitive as he was with regard to his size, Billy felt it to his heart's core; and as he stood nervously playing with the reins and looking at Jerrie sitting there so tall and erect in all the brightness of her wonderful beauty, it flashed upon him how impossible it was for that glorious creature ever to be his wife, and what a fool he had made of himself.
'For-gi-give me, Jerrie,' he said, his chin beginning to quiver, and the great tears rolling down his face, 'I know you ca-can't, and I ou-oughtn't to have ask-asked it, bu-but I d-did love you so much, that I f-forgot how impossible it was f-for one like you to lo-love one li-like me. I am so small and insig-insignificant, and st-stutter so. I wish I was dead,' and laying his head upon the horse's neck, he sobbed aloud.
In an instant Jerrie was out of the dog-cart and at his side, talking to and trying to soothe him as she would a child.
'Oh, Billy, Billy,' she said. 'I am so sorry for you, and sorry I said those cruel words about your size. It was only in fun. Your size has nothing to do with my refusal. I know you have a big, kind heart, and next to Harold and Dick, and Mr. Arthur, I like you better than any man I ever knew; but I cannot be your wife. Don't cry, Billy; it hurts me so to see you and know that I have done it. Please stop, and take me home as quickly as possible.'
With a great gulp, and a long sigh like a grieved child, Billy dried his tears, of which he was much ashamed, and helping Jerrie into the cart drove her rapidly to the door of the cottage.
'I should not like Tom, nor Dick, nor Harold to know this,' he said to her, as he stood a moment with her at the gate.
'Billy!' she exclaimed, 'do you know me so little as to think I would tell them, or anybody? I have more honor than that,' and she gave him her hand, which he held tightly in his while he looked earnestly into the sweet young face which could never be his, every muscle of his own quivering with emotion, and telling of the pain he was enduring.
'Good-bye. I shall be more like a ma-man, and less a ba-baby when I see you again,' and springing into his cart he drove rapidly away.
Jerrie found her grandmother seated at a table and trying to iron.
'Grandma,' she said, 'this is too bad. I did not mean to stay so long. Put down that flat-iron this minute. I am coming there as soon as I lay off my hat.'
Running up the stairs to her room, Jerrie put away her hat, and then, throwing herself upon the bed, cried for a moment as hard as she could cry. The look on Billy's face haunted her, and she pitied him now more than she had pitied Dick St. Claire.
'Dick will get over it, and marry somebody else, but Billy never,' she said.
Then, rising up, she bathed her eyes, and pushing back her tangled hair, stood for a moment before the mirror, contemplating the reflection of herself in it.
'Jerrie Crawford,' she said, 'you must be a mean, heartless, good-for-nothing girl, for it certainly is not your Dutch face, nor yellow hair, nor great staring eyes, which make men think that you will marry them; so it must be your flirting, coquettish manners. I hate a flirt. I hate you, Jerrie Crawford.'
Once when a little girl, Jerrie had said to Harold, 'Why do all the boys want to kiss me so much?' and now she might have asked, 'Why do these same boys wish to marry me?' It was a curious fact that she should have had three offers within twenty-four hours; and she didn't like it, and her face wore a troubled look all that hot afternoon as she stood at the ironing table, perspiring at every pore, and occasionally smiling to herself as she thought, 'Grassy Spring, Le Bateau, Tracy Park, I might take my choice, if I would, but I prefer the cottage,' and then at the thought of Tracy Park her thoughts went off across the sea to Germany, and the low room with the picture upon the wall, and her resolve to find it some day.
'Far in the future it may be, but find it I will, and find, too, who I am,' she said to herself, little dreaming that the finding was close at hand, and that she had that day lighted the train which was so soon to bear her on to the end.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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39
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MAUDE.
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Harold did not finish his work at the Allen farm-house until Tuesday, so it was not until Wednesday afternoon that he started to pay his promised visit to Maude. Jerrie had seen her twice, and reported her as much better, although still very weak.
'She is so anxious to see you. Don't you think you can go this afternoon?' she said to Harold, in the morning, as she helped him weed the garden and pick the few strawberries left upon the vines.
'Ye-es, I guess I can--if you'll go with me,' he said.
He was so loth to be away from Jerrie when it was not absolutely necessary, that even a call upon Maude without her did not seem very tempting. But Jerrie could not go now, for Nina and Marian Raymond came down to the cottage to spend the afternoon, and Harold went alone to the park house, where he found Maude in the room she called her studio trying to finish a little water-color which she had sketched of the cottage as it was before the roof was raised.
'I mean it for Jerrie,' she had said to Harold, who stood by her when she sketched it, 'and I am going to put her under the tree, with her sun bonnet hanging down her back, as she used to wear it when she was a little girl, and you are to be over there by the fence, looking at me coming up the lane.'
It was the best thing Maude had ever done, for the likeness to Jerrie and to herself was perfect, while the cottage, embowered in trees and flowers, made it a most attractive picture. Harold had praised it a great deal, and told her that it would make her famous. But when the carpenter work came in Maude put it aside until now, when she brought it out again, and was just beginning to retouch it in places, as Harold was announced.
She was looking very tired, and it seemed to Harold that she had lost many pounds of flesh since he saw her last. Her face was pale, and pinched, and wan, but it flushed brightly as Harold came in, and she went eagerly forward to meet him.
'Hally, you naughty boy!' she began, as she gave him her little, thin hand. 'Why didn't you come before? You don't know how I have missed you. You must not forget me now that Jerrie is at home.'
She had led him to a seat, and then herself sank into a large cushioned easy chair, against which she leaned her head wearily, while she looked at him with eyes which ought to have told Harold how much he was to her, and so put him on his guard, and saved the misunderstanding which followed.
'No, Maude, I couldn't forget you,' he said; and without really knowing that he was doing it, he put his hand upon the little soft white one lying on the arm of the chair.
Every nerve in Maude's body thrilled to the touch of that hand upon which she involuntarily laid her other one, noticing as she did so the signs of toil upon it, and feeling sorry for him. One would have thought them lovers, sitting there thus together, but nothing could have been farther from Harold's mind. He was thinking only of Jerrie, and his resolve to confide in Maude, and get her opinion with regard to his chance.
'Now is as good a time as any,' he thought, wondering how he should begin, and finding it harder than he had imagined it would he.
At last after a few commonplaces, Maude told him again that he must not neglect her now that Jerrie was at home.
'Neglect you? How can I do that?' he said, 'when I look upon you as one of my best friends, and in proof of it, I am going to tell you something, or, rather, ask you something, and I hope you will answer me truly. Better that I know the worst at first than learn it afterward.'
Maude's face was aflame now with a great and sudden joy, and her soft eyes drooped beneath Harold's as he went on stammeringly, for he began to feel the awkwardness of telling one girl that he loved another, even though that other were her dearest friend.
'I hardly know how to begin,' he said, 'it is such a delicate matter, and perhaps I'd better say nothing at all.'
'Was he going to stop? Had he changed his mind--and would he not after all, say the words she had so longed to hear?' Maude asked herself, as she turned her eyes appealingly to him, while he sat silent and unmoved, his thoughts very, very far from her to whom he was all in all.
Poor Maude! She was weak and sick, and impulsive and mistaken in the nature of Harold's feelings for her; so judge her not too harshly, my prudish reader, if she at last did what Arthur would have called 'throwing herself at his head.'
'I can guess what you mean,' she said, after a long pause, during which he did not speak. 'I have long suspected that you cared for me just as I care for you, and have wondered you did not tell me so, but supposed that you refrained because I was rich and you were poor; but what has that to do with those who love each other? I am glad you have spoken; and you have made me very happy; and even if we can never be more to each other than we are now, because I may die, as I sometimes fear I shall--' 'Oh, Maude, Maude, you are mistaken. I--,' came from Harold like a cry of horror as he wrenched away his hand lying between hers, and to which her slender fingers hung caressingly.
What could she mean? How had she understood him? he asked himself, while great drops of sweat gathered upon his forehead and in the palms of his hands, as like lightning the past came back to him, and he could see as in a printed page that what he had thought mere friendship for himself was a far different and deeper feeling, while he unwittingly had fanned the flame; and was now reaping the result.
'What can I do?' he said aloud, unconsciously, while from the depths of the chair on which Maude was leaning back so wearily came a plaintive voice like that of a child: 'Ring the bell, and give me my handkerchief.'
He was at her side in a moment, bending over her, and looking anxiously into the pallid face from which the bright color had faded, leaving it gray, and pinched, and drawn, it seemed to him. Had he killed her by blurting out so roughly that she was mistaken; and thus filling her with mortification and shame? No, that could not be, for as he brought her handkerchief and bent still closer to her, she whispered to him: 'I am not mistaken, Hally. I am going to die, but you have made the last days of my life very, very happy.'
She thought he was referring to herself and her situation when he told her she was mistaken, and with a smothered groan he was starting for the camphor, as she bade him do, when the door opened, and Mrs. Tracy herself appeared.
'What is it?' she asked, sharply; then, as she saw Maude's face she knew what it was, and going swiftly to her, said to Harold: 'Why did you allow her to talk and get excited? What were you saying to her?'
Instantly Maude's eyes went up to Harold's with an appealing look, as if asking him not to tell her mother then--a precaution which was needless, as he had no intention to tell Mrs. Tracy, or any one, of the terrible blunder he had made; and with a hope that the reality might dawn upon Maude, he answered, truthfully: 'I was talking to her of Jerrie. I am very sorry.'
If Maude heard she did not understand, for drops of pinkish blood were oozing from her lips, and she looked as if she were already dead, as in obedience to Mrs. Tracy's command, Harold took her in his arms and carried her to the couch near the open window, where he laid her down as tenderly as if she were indeed his affianced wife.
'Thanks,' she sighed, softly, and her bright, beautiful eyes looked up at him with an expression which half tempted him to kiss the quivering lips from which he was wiping the stains so carefully, while Mrs. Tracy, at the door, gave some orders to a servant.
'You can go now,' she said, returning to the couch, and dismissing him with her usual hauteur of manner; while Maude put up her hand and whispered: 'Come soon--and Jerrie.'
Had Harold been convicted of theft or murder he could scarcely have felt worse than he did as he walked slowly through the park, reviewing the situation and wondering what he ought to do.
'If it almost killed her when she thought I loved her, it would surely kill her to know that I do not,' he thought. 'I cannot undeceive her now, while she is so weak; but when she is better and able to bear it, I will tell her the truth.'
'And if she dies?' came to him like the stab of a knife, as he remembered how white she looked as he held her in his arms. 'If she does,' he said, 'no one shall ever know of the mistake she made. In this I will be true to Maude, even should the world believe I loved her and had told her so. But, oh, Heaven! spare me that, and spare Maude's life for many years. She is too young, too sweet, too good to die.'
This was Harold's prayer as he rested for a moment in the pine-room, where he had often played with the little girl, and where he could now see her so plainly picking up the cones, or sitting on the soft bed of needles, with the bloom on her cheeks and the brightness in her soft black eyes which had looked so lovingly at him an hour ago. 'Spare Maude; do not let her die!' was his prayer, and that of many others during the week which followed, when Maude's life hung on a thread, and every bell at the park house was muffled, and the servants spoke only in whispers; while Frank Tracy sat day and night in the room where his daughter lay, perfectly quiet, except as she sometimes put up her hand to stroke his white hair or wipe away the tears constantly rolling down his cheeks.
In Frank's heart there was a feeling worse than death itself, for keen remorse and bitter regret were torturing his soul as he sat beside the wreck of all his hopes and felt that he had sinned for naught. He knew Maude would die, and then what mattered it to him if he had all the money of the Rothschilds at his command?
'Oh, Gretchen, you are avenged, and Jerrie, too! Oh, Jerrie!' he said, one day, unconsciously, as he sat by his daughter, who, he thought, was sleeping. But at the mention of Jerrie's name her eyes unclosed and fixed themselves upon her father with a look in which he read an earnest desires for something.
'What is it, pet?' he asked. 'Do you want anything?'
They had made her understand that, she must not speak, for the slightest effort to do so always brought on a fit of coughing which threatened a hemorrhage, of which she could not endure many more. But they had brought her a little slate, on which she sometimes wrote her requests, though that, too, was an effort. Pointing now to the slate, she wrote, while her father held it: 'I want Jerrie.'
'I thought so; and you shall have her for just as long as she will stay,' Frank said; and a servant was dispatched to the cottage with the message that Jerrie must come at once, and come prepared to pass the night, if possible.
It had been very dreary for Maude during the time she had been shut up in her room, to which no one was admitted except her father and mother, the doctor, and the nurse. Many messages of enquiry and sympathy, however, had come to her from the cottage, and Grassy Spring, and Le Bateau, where Ann Eliza was still kept a prisoner with her sprained ankle; and once Jerrie had written to Maude a note full of love and solicitude and a desire to see her. As a postscript she added: 'Harold sends his love, and hopes you will soon be better. You don't know how anxious he is about you. Why, I believe he has lost ten pounds since your attack, for which he seems to blame himself, thinking he excited you too much by talking to you.'
Maude listened to this note, which her father read to her, with a smile on her face and tears on her long eyelashes; but when he came to the postscript she laughed aloud, as a little child laughs at the return of its mother, for whom it has been hungering. This was the first word she had had from him, except that he had called to enquire for her, and she had so longed for something which should assure her that he remembered her even as she did him. She had no distrust of him, and would as soon have doubted that the sun would rise again as to have doubted his sincerity; but she wanted to hear again that he loved her, and now she had heard it, and, folding her hands upon her breast, she fell into the most, refreshing sleep she had had since her illness. Could Maude have talked and seen people, or if she had been less anxious to live, she would probably have told Jerrie and Nina, and possibly Ann Eliza Peterkin, of what had passed between herself and Harold, but she had not seen them; while life, with Harold to love her, looked so bright and sweet, that if by keeping silence she could prolong it, she would do so for months, if necessary. To live for Harold was all she wished or thought about; and often when they hoped she was sleeping, she lay so still, with her eyes closed and her arms folded upon her breast, just as if she were praying in her dreams, her father thought. She _was_ praying for life and length of days, with strength to make Harold as happy as he ought to be, and was thinking of and planning all she meant to do for him when once they were married. First to Europe, where she would be so proud to show him the places she had seen, and where Jerrie would be with them, for in all her plans Jerrie had almost as prominent a place as herself.
'I am nothing without Jerrie,' she thought 'She keeps me up, and Jerrie will live with us, and Mrs. Crawford; that makes four, just enough for a nice game of whist in long winter evenings, when it is so cold outside but warm and bright within--always bright for Harold, whose life has been so full of care and toil. Poor boy! how I pitied his great warm hand when it was holding mine so lovingly, and how I could have kissed every seam and scar upon it. But by and by his hands shall be white like Tom's, though not so soft. I hate a hand which feels like a fluff of cotton. He shall not live here, for Harold could never get along with mother and Tom; but we will build a house together, Hally and I, with Jerrie to help and plan--build one where the cottage stands, or near it, so Jerrie can still see the old Tramp House she is so fond of. Not a house like this, with such big rooms, but a pretty, modern Queen Ann house, with every room a corner room, and a bay-window in it. And Harold will have an office in town, and I shall drive down for him every afternoon and take him home to dinner and to Jerrie.'
Such was the nature of Maude's thoughts, as she lay day after day upon the couch, too weak to do more thin lift her hands or rise her head when the dreadful paroxysms of coughing seized her and racked her fragile frame. Still she was very happy, and the happiness showed itself upon her, where there rested a look of perfect content and peace, which her father and mother had noticed and commented upon, and which Jerrie saw the moment she entered the room and stood by Maude's side.
'Dear Maude,' she said, as she took the hot hands in hers and kissed them tenderly.
Then she sat down beside her, and smoothed her hair, and told her how lovely she looked in her pretty rose-colored wrapper, and how sorry every one was for her, and that both she and Nina would have been there every day, only they knew they could not see her. Then, as the great black eyes fixed themselves steadily upon her, with a look of enquiry in them, she set her teeth hard, and began: 'I don't think anyone has been more sorry than Harold. Why, for the first few days after you were taken so ill he just walked the floor all the time he was in the house, and when grandma asked what ailed him, he said, "I am thinking of Maude, and am afraid my call upon her was the cause of the attack."'
'N--n--,' Maude began, but checked herself in time, and taking up her slate, wrote, 'Tell him it was not his call. I am glad he came.'
'Yes I will,' Jerrie replied, scarcely able to keep back her tears, when she saw how cramped and irregular the handwriting was, so unlike Maude's, and realized more and more how weak and sick was the little girl whose eyes followed her everywhere and always grew brighter and softer when she was talking to her of Harold.
All day and all night Jerrie sat by her, sometimes talking to her and answering the questions she wrote upon the slate, but oftener in perfect silence, when Maude seemed to be asleep. Then Jerrie's tears fell like rain, the face upon the pillow looked so much like death, and she kept repeating to herself the lines: 'We thought her dying when she slept. And sleeping when she died.'
When the warm July morning looked in at the windows of the sick-room, bringing with it the perfume of hundreds of flowers blooming on the lawn, and the scent of the hay cut the previous day, it found Jerrie still watching by Maude, her own face tired and pale, with dark rings about her eyes, which were heavy with tears and wakefulness. She had not slept at all, and her head was beginning to ache frightfully when the nurse came in and relieved her, telling her breakfast was ready. Maude was awake, and wrote eagerly upon the slate: 'You'll come back? You'll stay all day? You do me so much good, and I am a great deal better for your being here.'
Jerrie hesitated a moment; her head was aching so hard that she longed to get away. But selfishness was not one of Jerrie's faults, and putting her own wishes aside, she said: 'Yes, I will stay until afternoon, and then I must go home. I did not tell you that Harold was going away to-night, did I?'
Maude shook her head, and Jerry went on: 'You know, perhaps, that some time ago a Mr. Wilson, of Truesdale, sued Peterkin for some infringement on a patent, or something of that sort.'
Maude nodded, and Jerrie continued: 'The suit comes off to-morrow, and Harold is subpoenaed as a witness, as he was in Peterkin's office a while and knows something about the arrangement between them. I am sorry he has got to swear against Peterkin; it will make him so angry, and he hates Harold now. The suit is to be called in the morning and Judge St. Claire and Harold are going to-night on the five o'clock train; and as he may be gone a day or two I must be home to see to packing his bag. But I will stay with you just as long as I can.'
She said nothing of her head which throbbed in a most peculiar way, making her dizzy and half blind as she went down to breakfast, which she took alone with Mrs. Tracy. Frank had eaten his long before, and was now pacing up and down the long piazza with his head bent forward and his hands locked together behind him.
'I shall never have rest or peace again until it is known. Oh, if it would only come out without my telling,' he said to himself, little dreaming how near it was to coming out and that before that day's sun had set Jerrie would know!
Tom seldom appeared until after ten, and when Jerrie went for a few moments into the grounds, to see if the fresh air would do her good, she found him seated in an arm-chair under a horse chestnut tree, stretching himself and yawning as if he were just out of bed.
'Jerrie, you here? Did you stay all night? If I'd known that, I'd have made an effort to come down to breakfast, though I think getting up in the morning a bore. Why, what's the matter? You look as if you were going to faint. Sit down here,' he continued, as he saw Jerrie reel forward as if she were about to fall.
He put her into the chair and stood over her, fanning her with his hat and wondering what he should do, while for a moment she lost consciousness of the things about her, and her mind went floating off after the picture on the wall in Wiesbaden, which was haunting her that morning.
When she came to herself, Tom and Dick and Billy were all three hovering around, and so close to her that without opening her eyes she could have told exactly where each one was standing, Tom by the smell of tobacco, with which his clothes were saturated, Billy by the powerful scent of white rose with which he always perfumed his handkerchief, and Dick, because, as she had once said to Nina when a child, he was so clean and looked as if he had just been scrubbed. The two young men had come to enquire for Maude, and had found Jerrie half swooning under the tree, with Tom fanning her frantically and acting like a wild man.
Jerrie had seen Dick twice since her refusal of him, and both times her manner, exactly like what it had always been to him, had put him at his ease, so that a looker-on would never have dreamed of that episode under the pines when she nearly broke his heart. Billy, however, was more conscious. He had not seen Jerrie since he took her home in his dog-cart, and his face was scarlet and his manner nervous and constrained as he stood before her, longing and yet not daring to fan her with his hat just as Tom was doing.
Of the three young men who had sought her hand, Billy's wound was the deepest, and Billy would remember it the longest; for, mingled with his defeat, was a sense of mortification and hatred of his own personal appearance, which he could not help thinking had influenced Jerrie's decision. 'And I don't blame her, by Jove!' he said to himself a hundred times. 'She could not marry a pigmy, and I was a fool to hope it; but I shall love her just the same as long as I live, and if I can ever help her I will.'
And when at last Jerrie was better, and assured him so with her own sweet graciousness of manner, and put her hand upon his shoulder to steady herself as she stood up, he felt that paradise was opening to him again, and that although he had lost Jerrie as a wife, he still had her as a friend, which was more than he had dared expect.
'Are you better now? Can you walk to the house?' Tom asked.
'Oh, yes; I can walk. The giddiness is gone,' Jerrie replied. 'I don't quite know what ails me this morning.'
Never before could she remember having felt as she did now, with that sharp pain in her head, that buzzing in her ears, and more than all, that peculiar state of mind which she called "spells," and which seemed to hold her now, body and soul. Even when she returned to Maude's room, and sat down beside her couch, her thoughts were far away, and everything which had ever come to her concerning her babyhood came to her now, crowding upon her so fast that once it seemed to her that the top of her head was lifting, and she put up her hand to hold it in its place. And still she staid on with Maude, although two or three times she arose to go, but something kept her there--chance, if one chooses to call by that name the something which at times moulds us to its will and influences our whole lives. Something kept her there until the morning was merged into noon and the noon into the middle of the afternoon, and then she could stay no longer. The hour had come when she must go, for the other force which was to be the instrument in changing all her future was astir, and she must go to keep her unconscious appointment with it.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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40
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'DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?'
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Judging from the result, this question might far better have been put to rather than by Peterkin, as he stood puffing, and hot, and indignant in the Tramp House, looking down upon Jerrie, who was sitting upon the wooden bench, with her aching head resting upon a corner of the old table standing against the wall just where it stood that stormy night fifteen years ago, when death claimed the woman beside her, but left her unharmed.
After saying good-bye to Maude, Jerrie had walked very slowly through the park, stopping more than once to rest upon the seats scattered here and there, and wondering more and more at the feeling which oppressed her and the terrible pain in her head, which grew constantly worse as she went on.
'I'm afraid I'm going to be sick,' she said to herself. 'I never felt this way before; and no wonder, with all I have gone through the last few weeks. The getting ready for the commencement, the coming home, and all the excitement which followed, with three men, one after another, offering themselves to me, and the drenching that night in the rain, and then watching by Maude without a wink of sleep, it is enough to make a behemoth sick, and I am so dizzy and hot--' She had reached the Tramp House by this time, and, feeling that she could go no farther without resting herself, she went in, and seating herself upon the bench, laid her tired, aching head upon the table, and felt again for a few moments that strange sensation as if the top of her head were rising up and up until she could not reach it with her hand, for she tried, and thought of Ann Eliza, with her hair piled so high on her head.
'The loss of an inch or two might improve me,' she said, though I'd rather keep my scalp.'
Then she seemed to be drifting away into the realms of sleep, and all around her were confusion and bewilderment. The window, across which the woodbine was growing, changed places with the door; the floor rose up and bowed to her, while the room was full of faces, beckoning to and smiling upon her. Faces like the one she knew so well, the pale face in the chair; faces like her own, as she remembered it when a child; faces like the dark woman dead so long ago and buried in the Tracy lot, and faces like Arthur's as she had seen him oftenest, when he spoke so lovingly, and called her little Cherry. Then the scene changed, and the old Tramp House was full of wondrous music, which came floating in at every crevice and through the open door and windows, while she listened intently in her dreams as the grand chorus went on. It as was if Arthur, from the top of the highest peak beyond the Rocky Mountains, and Gretchen, from her lonely grave in far-off Germany, were calling to each other across two continents, their voices meeting and mingling together in the Tramp House in a jubilistic strain, now wild and weird like the cry of the dying woman looking out into the stormy night, now soft and low as the lullaby a fond mother sings to her sleeping child, and now swelling louder and louder, and higher and higher, until the rafters rang with the joyous music, and the whole world outside was filled with the song of gladness.
Wake up, Jerrie! Wake from the dream of rapture to a reality far more rapturous, for the time is at hand, the hour has come, heralded by the shadow which falls over the floor as Peterkin's burly figure crosses the threshold and enters the silent room.
After Peterkin's conversation with his son concerning his future wife, Jerrie had grown rapidly in the old man's favor. It is true she had neither name nor money, the latter of which was scarcely necessary in this case, but he was not insensible to the fact that she possessed other qualities and advantages which would be a help to the house of Peterkin in its efforts to rise. No girl in the neighborhood was more popular or more sought after than Jerrie, or more intimate with the big-bugs, as he styled the St. Claires, and Athertons, and Tracys. Jerrie would _draw_; Jerry would _boost_; and he found himself forming many plans for the young couple, who were to occupy the south wing; and in fancy he saw Arthur at Le Bateau half the time at least, while the rest of the time the carriages from Grassy Spring, and Brier Hill, and Tracy Park, were standing under the stone arch in front of the door. How, then, was he disappointed, and enraged, too, when told by his son that Jerrie had refused him?
Peterkin had been in Springfield nearly a week, and after his return home had waited a little before broaching the subject to his son; so that it was not until the morning before the day of the lawsuit that he learned the truth by closely questioning Billy, who shielded and defended Jerrie as far as possible.
'Not have you! Refused you! Don't love you! Don't care for money! Thunderation! What does the girl mean? Is she crazy? Is she a fool? Is she in love with some other idiot?'
'I th-think so, yes; th-though it did not occur to me then,' Billy answered, very meekly; 'and if so she ca-can't care for me any mo-more that I ca-can care for any other girl.'
'And you are a fool, too,' was the affectionate rejoinder. 'I'll be dummed if you ain't a pair! Who is the lucky man? Not that dog Harold, who is goin' to swear agin' us to-morrow? If it is, I b'lieve I'll shoot him.'
'Father,' Billy cried in alarm, 'be quiet; if I can st-stand it, you can.'
But Peterkin swore he wouldn't stand it. He'd do something, he didn't know what; and all the morning he went about the house like a madman, swearing at his wife, because she wasn't _up to snuff_, and couldn't hoe her own with the 'ristocrats; swearing at Billy because he was a fool, and so small that 'twas no wonder a bean-pole like Jerrie wouldn't look at him, and swearing at Ann Eliza because her hair was so red, and because she had sprained her ankle for the sake of having Tom Tracy bring her home, hoping he would keep calling to see her, and thus give her a chance to rope him in, which she never could as long as the world stood.
'Neither you nor Bill will ever marry, with all your money, unless you take up with a cobbler, and he with a washwoman,' was his farewell remark, as he finally left the house about three o'clock and started for the village, where he had some of his own witnesses to see before taking the train for Springfield at five.
His wife had ventured to suggest that he go in a carriage, as it was so warm, but he had answered, savagely: 'Go to thunder with your carriage and coat-of-arms! What good have they ever done us only to make folks laugh at us for a pack of fools? Nothing under heaven gives us a h'ist, and I'm just goin' to quit the folderol and pad it on foot, as I used to when I was cap'n of the 'Liza Ann--durn it!'
And so, with his bag in his hand, he started rapidly down the road in the direction of Shannondale. But the sun was hot, and he was hot, and his bag was heavy, and, cursing himself for a fool that he had not taken the carriage, he finally struck into the park as a cooler, if a longer, route to the station.
As he came near the Tramp House, which gave no sign of its sleeping occupant, something impelled him to look in at the door. And this he did with a thought of Jerrie in his heart, though with no suspicion that she was there; and when he saw her he started suddenly, and uttered an exclamation of surprise, which roused her from her heavy slumber.
'Oh!' she exclaimed, shedding back her golden hair from her flushed face and lifting her eyes to him; but whatever else she might have said was prevented by his outburst of passion, which began with the question: 'Do you know what you have done?'
Jerrie looked at him wonderingly, but made no reply, and he went on: 'Yes, do you know what you have done? --you, a poor, unknown girl, who, but for the Tracys, would have gone to the poor-house sure as guns, where you orter have gone! Yes, you orter. You refuse my Bill! you, who hain't a cent to your name; and all for that sneak of a Harold, who will swear agin me to-morrer. I know he's at the root on't, though Bill didn't say so, and I hate him wuss than pizen; he, who has been at the wheel in my shop and begged swill for a livin'! he to be settin' up for a gentleman and a cuttin' out my Bill, who will be wuth more'n a million,--yes, two millions, probably, and you have refused him! Do you hear me, gal?'
He yelled this last, for something in Jerry's attitude made him think Jerrie was not giving him her undivided attention, for she was still listening to the music, which seemed to swell higher and higher, louder and clearer, until it almost drowned the voice of the man demanding a second time so fiercely: 'Do you hear me, gal?'
'Yes, I hear you,' she said. 'You are talking of Harold, and saying things you shall not repeat in my presence.'
'Hoity-toity, miss! What's to hinder me repeatin' in your presence that Harold Hastings is a sneak and a snob, a hewer of wood, a drawer of water, and a--' Jerrie had risen to her feet, and stood up so tall and straight that, it seemed to Peterkin as if she towered even above himself, while something in the flash of her blue eyes made him think of Arthur when he turned him from the house for accusing Harold of theft, and also of the little child who had attacked him so fiercely on that wintry morning when the dead woman lay stretched upon the table at the Park House, with her dark face upturned to the ceiling above.
'I shall hinder you,' she said, her voice ringing clear and distinct; 'and if you breathe another word against Harold, I'll turn you from this room. The Tramp House is mine; Mr. Arthur gave it to me, and you cannot stay in it with me.'
"Heavens and earth! hear the girl! One would s'pose she was the Queen of Sheby to hear her go on, instead of a beggar, whose father was the Lord only knows who, and whose mother was found in rags on this 'ere table. Drat the dum thing!" Peterkin roared, bringing his fist down with such force upon the poor old rickety table that it fell to pieces under the blow and went crashing to the floor.
Jerrie's face was a face to fear then, and Peterkin was afraid, and backed himself out of the room, with Jerrie close to him, never speaking a word, but motioning him to the door, through which he passed swiftly, and picking up his bag, walked rapidly away, growling to himself: 'There's the very Old Harry in that gal's eye. Bill did well to get shet of her; and yit, if she'd married him, how she would have rid over all their heads! Well, to be sure, what a dum fool she is!'
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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41
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WHAT JERRIE FOUND UNDER THE FLOOR.
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Meantime Jerrie had gone back to the wreck of the table, which she tried to straighten up, handling it as carefully and as reverently as if it had been her mother's coffin she was touching. One of the legs had been broken off before, and she and Harold has fastened it on and turned it to the side of the house where it would be more out of the way of harm, and it was this leg which had succumbed first to the force of Peterkin's fist, and as the entire pressure of the table was brought to bear upon it in falling, it had been precipitated through a hole in the base board, which had been there as long as she could remember the place, not so large at first, but growing larger each year, as the decaying boards crumbled or were eaten away by rats.
Jerrie called it a rat-hole, and had several times put a trap there to catch the marauders, who sometimes scampered across her very feet, so accustomed were they to her presence. But the rats would not go into the trap, and then she pasted a newspaper over the hole, but this had been torn, and hung in shreds, while the hole grew gradually larger.
Taking up the top of the table, Jerrie dragged it to the centre of the room, and, putting three of the legs upon it, went to search for the fourth, one end of which was just visible at the aperture in the wall. As she stooped to take it out, a bit of the floor under her feet gave way, making the opening so large that the table leg disappeared from view entirely. Then Jerrie went down upon her knees, and, thrusting her hand under the floor, felt for the missing leg, striking against stones, and brushes, and bits of mortar, and finally touching something from which she recoiled for an instant, it was so cold and slimy.
But she struck it again in her search, this time more squarely, and, grasping it hard in her hand, brought it out to the light, while an undefinable thrill, half of terror, half of joy, ran through her frame, as she held it up and examined it carefully.
It was a small hand-bag of Russian leather, covered with mold and stained with the damp of its long hiding-place, while a corner of it showed that the rats had tested its properties, but, disliking either the taste or the smell had left it in quiet. And there under the floor, not two feet from where Jerrie had often played, it had lain ever since the wintry night years before when on the table a strange woman had struggled with death, and in her struggle the bag, which held so much that was important to the child beside her, had probably fallen from her rude bed into the hole just behind it, and which was then large enough to receive it. Then the rats, attracted by this novel appearance in their midst, had investigated and dragged it so far from the opening that it could not been seen unless one went down upon the floor to look for it.
This was the conviction that flashed upon Jerrie as she stood, with widely dilated eyes and quivering nostrils, staring at the bag, without the power at first to speak or move.
The music was gone now--Gretchen's voice and Arthur's--and there was only in her ears a roaring sound like the rushing of distant waters falling heavily, while the objects in the room swam around her, and she experienced again that ringing sensation as if the top of her head were leaving her. She was so sure that here at last was a message from the dead--that she had the mystery of her babyhood in her grasp--and yet, for full two minutes she hesitated and held back, until at last the sweet, pale face which had haunted her so often seemed about to touch her own with a caress which brought the hot tears to her eyes, and the spell which had bound her hands and feet was broken.
The bag was clasped, but not locked, although there was a lock, and Jerrie thought involuntarily of the little key lying with the other articles on the dead woman's person. To unclasp the bag required a little strength, for the steel was covered with rust; but it yielded at last to Jerrie's strong fingers; and the bag came open, disclosing first some square object carefully wrapped in a silk handkerchief which had been white in its day, but which now was yellow and soiled by time. At this, however, Jerrie scarcely looked, for her eye had fallen upon a package of papers lying beneath it--papers folded with care, and securely tied with a bit of faded blue ribbon.
Seating herself upon the bench where she had been sleeping when Peterkin's voice aroused her, Jerrie untied the package, and then began to read, first slowly, as if weighing every word and sentence, then faster and faster, until at last it seemed that her burning eyes, from which the hot tears were streaming like rain, fairly leaped from page to page, taking in the contents at a glance, and comprehending everything.
When she had finished, she sat for a moment rigid as a corpse, and then, with a loud, glad cry, which made the very rafters ring, and went floating out upon the summer air, "Thank Heaven, I have found my mother!" she fell upon her face, insensible to everything.
How long she lay thus she did not know, but when she came back to consciousness the sunlight had changed its position in the room, and she felt it was growing late.
Starting suddenly up, and wiping from her face a drop of blood which has oozed from a cut in her forehead caused by her striking it against some hard substance when she fell, she looked about her for a moment in a bewildered kind of way, not realizing at first what had happened; and even when she remembered, she was too much stunned and astonished to take it all in as she would afterward when she was calmer and could think more clearer.
Taking up the papers one by one, in the order in which she had found them, she tied them again with the blue ribbon, and put them into the bag.
'There was something more,' she whispered, trying to think what it was.
Then, as her eye fell upon the first package she had taken out, and which was wrapped in a silk handkerchief, she took it up, and removing the covering, started as suddenly as if a blow had been dealt her, for there was the tortoise-shell box, with its blue satin lining, and its diamonds, which seemed to her like so many sparks of fire flashing in her eyes and dazzling her with their brilliancy.
Just such a box as this, and just such diamonds as these, Mrs. Frank Tracy had lost years ago, and as Jerrie held them in her hand and turned them to the light, till they showed all the hues of the rainbow, she experienced a feeling of terror as if she were a thief and had been convicted of the theft. Then, as she remembered what she had read, she burst into a hysterical fit of laughing and crying together, and whispered to herself: 'I believe I am going mad like him.'
After a time she arose, and with the bag on her arm and the diamonds in her hand, she started for home, with only one thought in her mind: 'I must tell Harold, and ask him what to do.'
She had forgotten that he was to leave that afternoon on the train--forgotten everything, except the one subject which affected her so strongly, so that in one sense she might be said to be thinking of nothing, when, as she was walking with her head bent down, she came suddenly face to face with Harold, who, with his satchel in his hand, was starting for the train due now in a few minutes.
'Jerrie,' he exclaimed, 'how late you are! I waited until the last minute to say good-bye. Why, what ails you, and where have you been?' he continued, as she raised her head and he saw the bruise on her forehead and the strange pallor of her face.
'In the Tramp House,' the answered, in a voice which was not hers at all, and made Harold look more curiously at her.
As he did so he saw peeping from a fold of the silk handkerchief the corner of the tortoise-shell box which he remembered so well, and the sight of which brought back all the shame and humiliation and pain of that memorable morning when he had been suspected of taking it.
'What is it? What have you in your hand?' he asked.
Then Jerrie's face, so pale before, flushed scarlet, and her eyes had in them a wild look which Harold construed into fear, as, without a word, she laid the box in his hand, and then stood watching him is he opened it.
Harold's face was whiter than Jerrie's had been, and his voice trembled as he said, in a whisper: 'Mrs. Tracy's diamonds!'
'Yes, Mrs. Tracy's diamonds,' Jerrie replied, with a marked emphasis on the _Mrs. Tracy_.
'How came you by them, and where did you find them,' Harold asked next, shrinking a little from the glittering stones which seemed like fiery eyes confronting him.
'I can't tell you now. Put them up quick. Don't let any one see them. Somebody is coming,' Jerrie said, hurriedly, as her ear caught a sound and her eye an object which Harold neither saw nor heard as he mechanically thrust the box into his side pocket and then turned just as Tom Tracy came up on horseback.
'Hallo, Jerrie! hallo, Hal!' he cried, dismounting quickly and throwing the bridle-rein over his arm. 'And so you are off to that suit?' he continued, addressing himself to Harold. 'By George, I wish I were a witness. I'd swear the old man's head off; for, upon my soul, I believe he is an old liar?' Then turning to Jerrie, he continued: 'Are you better than you were this morning? Upon my word, you look worse. It's that infernal watching last night that ails you. I told mother you ought not to do it.'
Just then a whistle was heard in the distance; the train was at Truesdale, four miles away.
'You will never catch it,' Tom said, as Harold snatched up his bag and started to run, 'Here, jump on to Beaver, and leave him at the station. I can go there for him.'
Harold knew it was impossible for him to make time against the train, and, accepting Tom's offer, he vaulted into the saddle and galloped rapidly away, reaching the station just in time to give his horse to the care of a boy and to leap upon the train as it was moving away.
Meanwhile Tom walked on with Jerrie to the cottage, where he would have stopped if she had not said to him: 'I would ask you to come in, but my head is aching so badly that I must go straight to bed. Good-bye, Tom,' and she offered him her hand, a most unusual thing for her to do on an ordinary occasion like this.
What ailed her, Tom wondered, that she spoke so kindly to him and looked at him so curiously? Was she sorry for her decision, and did she wish to revoke it?
'Then, by Jove, I'll give her a chance, for every time I see her I find myself more and more in love,' Tom thought, as he left her and started for the station after Beaver, whom he found hitched to a post and pawing the ground impatiently.
Mrs. Crawford was in the garden when Jerrie entered the house, and thus there was no one to see her as she hurried up stairs and hid the leather bag away upon a shelf in her dressing-room. First, however, she took out two of the papers and read them again, as if to make assurance doubly sure; then she tried the little key to the lock, which it fitted perfectly.
'There is no mistake,' she whispered; 'but I can't think about it now, for this terrible pain in my head. I must wait till Harold comes home; he will tell me what to do, and be so glad for me. Dear Harold; his days of labor are over, and grandmother's, too. Those diamonds are a fortune in themselves, and they are _mine_! my own! she said so! Oh, mother, I have found you at last, but I can't make it real; my head is so strange. What if I should be crazy?' and she started suddenly. 'What if that dreadful taint should be in my blood, or what if I should die just as I have found my mother! Oh, Heaven, don't let me die; don't let me lose my reason, and I will try to do right; only show me what right is.'
She was praying now upon her knees with her throbbing head upon the side of the bed, into which she finally crept with her clothes on, even to her boots, for Jerrie was herself no longer. The fever with which for days she had been threatened, and which had been induced by over-study at Vassar, and the excitement which had followed her return home, could be kept at bay no longer, and when Mrs. Crawford, who had seen her enter the house, went up after a while to see why she did not come down to tea, she found her sleeping heavily, with spots of crimson upon her cheeks, while her hands, which moved incessantly, were burning with fever. Occasionally she moaned and talked in her sleep of the Tramp House, and rats, and Peterkin, who had struck the blow and knocked something or somebody down, Mrs. Crawford could not tell what, unless it were Jerrie herself, on whose forehead there was a bunch the size now of a walnut.
'Jerrie, Jerrie,' Mrs. Crawford cried in alarm, as she tried to remove the girl's clothes. 'What is it, Jerrie? What has happened? Who hurt you? Who struck the blow?'
'Peterkin,' was the faint response, as for an instant Jerrie opened her eyelids only to close them again and sink away into a heavier sleep or stupefaction. It seemed the latter, and as Mrs. Crawford could not herself go for a physician, and as no one came down the lane that evening, she sat all night, by Jerrie's bed, bathing the feverish hands and trying to lessen the lump on the forehead, which, in spite of all her efforts, continued to swell until it seemed to her it was as large as a hen's egg.
'Did Peterkin strike you, and what for?' she kept asking; but Jerrie only moaned and muttered something she could not understand, except once when she said, distinctly: 'Yes, Peterkin. Such a blow; it was like a blacksmith's hammer, and knocked the table to pieces. I am glad he did it.'
What did she mean? Mrs. Crawford asked herself in vain, and when at last the early summer morning broke, she was almost as crazy as Jerrie, who was steadily growing worse, and who was saying the strangest things about arrests and blows, and Peterkin, and Harold, and Mr. Arthur, whose name she always mentioned with a sob and stretching out of her hands, as to some invisible presence. Help must be had from some quarter; and for two hours, which seemed to her years, Mrs. Crawford watched for the coming of someone, until at last she saw Tom Tracy galloping up on Beaver.
'Tom, Tom,' she screamed from the window, as she saw him dismounting at the gate, 'don't get off, but ride for your life and fetch the doctor, quick. Jerrie is very sick; has been crazy all night, and has a bunch on her head as big as a bowl, where she says Peterkin struck her.
'Peterkin struck Jerrie! I'll kill him!' Tom said as he tore down the lane and out upon the highway in quest of the physician, who was soon found and at Jerrie's side, where Tom stood with him, gazing awe struck upon the fever stricken girl, who was tossing and talking all the time, and whose bright eyes unclosed once and fixed themselves on him, as he spoke her name and laid his hand on one of hers.
'Oh, Tom, Tom,' she said, 'you told me you'd kill her. Will you kill her? Will you kill her?' And a wild, hysterical laugh echoed through the room, as she kept repeating the words, 'Will you kill her? Will you kill her?' which conveyed no meaning to Tom, who had forgotten what he had said he would do if a claimant to Tracy Park should appear in the shape of a young lady.
Whatever Jerrie took up she repeated rapidly until something else came into her mind, and when Mrs. Crawford, referring to the bunch on her head, said to the physician, 'Peterkin struck the blow, she says,' she began at once like a parrot. 'Peterkin struck the blow! Peterkin struck the blow!' until another idea suggested itself, and she began to ring changes on the sentence. 'In the rat-hole; in the Tramp House; in the Tramp House; in the rat-hole,' talking so fast that sometimes it was impossible to follow her.
The blow on her head alone could not have produced this state of things; it was rather over-excitement, added to some great mental shock, the nature of which he could not divine, the doctor said to Tom, who in his wrath at Peterkin was ready to flay him alive, or at least to ride him on a rail the instant he entered town.
It was a puzzling case, though not a dangerous one as yet, the physician said. Jerrie's strong constitution could stand an attack much more severe than this one; and prescribing perfect quiet, with strict orders that she should see no more people than was necessary, he left, promising to return in the afternoon, when he hoped to find her better. Tom lingered a while after the doctor had left, and showed himself so thoughtful and kind that Mrs. Crawford forgave him much which she had harbored against him for his treatment of Harold.
All night Tom's dreams had been haunted with Jerrie's voice and Jerrie's look as she gave him her hand and said, 'Good-bye, Tom,' and he had ridden over early to see if the look and tone were still there, and if they were, and he had a chance, he meant to renew his offer. But words of love would have been sadly out of place to this restless, feverish girl, whose incoherent babblings puzzled and bewildered him.
One fact, however, was distinct in his mind--Peterkin had struck her a terrible blow in the Tramp House. Of that he was sure, though why he should have done so he could not guess; and vowing vengeance upon the man, he left the cottage at last and rode down to the Tramp House, where he found the table in a state of ruin upon the door, three of the legs upon it and the other one nowhere to be seen.
'He struck her with it and then threw it away, I'll bet,' he said to himself, as he hunted for the missing leg; 'and it was some quarrel he picked with her about Hal, who is going to swear against him. Jerrie would never hear Hal abused, and I've no doubt she aggravated the wretch until he forgot himself and dealt her that blow. I'll have him arrested for assault and battery, as sure as I am born.'
Hurrying home, he told the story to his mother, who smiled incredulously and said she did not believe it, bidding him say nothing of it to Maude, who was not as well as usual that day. Then he told his father, who started at once for the cottage, where Mrs. Crawford refused to let him see Jerrie, saying that the doctor's orders were that she should be kept perfectly quiet. But as they stood talking together near the open door, Jerrie's voice was heard calling: 'Let Mr. Frank come up.'
So Frank went up, and, notwithstanding all he had heard from Tom, he was surprised at Jerrie's flushed face and the unnatural expression of her eyes, which turned so eagerly toward him as he came in.
'Oh, Mr. Tracy,' she said, as he sat down beside her and took one of her burning hands in his, 'you have always been kind to me, haven't you?'
'Yes,' he replied, with a keen pang of remorse, and wondering if she would call it kindness if she knew all that he did.
'And I think you like me some,' she continued: 'don't you?'
'Like you!' he repeated; 'yes, more than you can ever know. Why, sometimes I think I like you almost as much as I do Maude.'
As if the mention of Maude had sent her thoughts backward in a very different channel, she said abruptly, while she held his gaze steadily with her bright eyes: 'You posted that letter?'
Frank knew perfectly well that she meant the letter which, together with the photograph, and the Bible, and the lock of the baby's golden hair, had lain for years in his private drawer--the letter whose superscription he had studied so many times, and which had seldom been absent from his thoughts an hour since that night when, from her perch on the gate-post, Jerrie had startled him with the question she was asking him now. But be affected ignorance and said, as indifferently as he could, with those blue eyes upon him seeming to read his inmost thoughts: 'What letter do you mean?'
'Why, the one Mr. Arthur wrote to Gretchen, or her friends, in Wiesbaden, and gave me to post. You took it for me to the office, and I sat on the gate so long in the darkness waiting for you to come and tell me you had posted it sure.'
'Oh, yes, I remember it perfectly, and how you frightened me sitting up there so high like a goblin,' Frank answered, falteringly, his face as crimson now as Jerrie's, and his eyes dropping beneath her gaze.
'Gretchen's friends never got that letter,' Jerrie continued.
'No, they never got it,' Frank answered, mechanically.
'If they had,' Jerrie went on, 'they would have answered it, for she had friends there.'
Frank looked up quickly and curiously at the girl talking so strangely to him. What had she heard? What did she know? or was this only an outburst of insanity? She certainly looked crazy as she lay there talking to him. He was sure of it a moment after when, as if the nature of her thoughts had changed suddenly, she said to him: 'Yes, you have been very kind to me, you and Maude--you and Maude--and I shan't forget it. Tell her I shan't forget it. --I shan't forget it.'
She repeated this rapidly, and was growing so wild and excited that Frank thought it advisable to leave her. As he arose to go she looked up pleadingly at him, and said: 'Kiss me, Mr. Tracy, please.'
Had he been struck by lightning, Frank could hardly have been more astonished than he was at this singular request, and for a moment he stared blankly at the girl who had made it, not because he was at all averse to granting it, but because he doubted the propriety of the act, even if she were crazy. But something in Jerrie's face, like Arthur's, mastered him, and, stooping down, he kissed the parched lips through which the breath came so hotly, wondering as he did so what Dolly would say if she could see him, a white-haired man of forty-five, kissing a young girl of nineteen, and that girl Jerrie Crawford.
'Thanks,' Jerrie said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. 'I think you have been chewing tobacco, haven't you? But I sha'nt forget it; I sha'nt forget it. I shall do right. I shall do right. Tell Maude so; tell Maude so.'
She was certainly growing worse, Frank thought, as he went down to confer with Mrs. Crawford as to what ought to be done, and to offer his services. He would remain there that afternoon, he said, and send a servant over to be in the house during the night.
'She is very sick,' he said; 'but it does not seem as if her sickness could be caused wholly by that bruise on her head. Do you think Peterkin struck her?'
'She says so,' was Mrs. Crawford's reply, 'though why he should do it, I cannot guess.'
Then she added that a servant would not be necessary, as Harold would be home by seven.
'But he may not,' Frank replied. 'Squire Harrington came at two, and reported that the suit was not called until so late that they would not probably get through with the witnesses to-day, so Hal may not be here, and I will send Rob anyway.'
On his way home Frank, too, looked in at the Tramp House, and saw the broken-down table, and hunted for the missing leg, and with Tom concluded that something unusual had taken place there, though he could not guess what.
That evening, as Jerrie grew more and more restless and talkative, Mrs. Crawford listened anxiously for the train, and when it came, waited and watched for Harold, but watched in vain, for Harold did not come. Several of her neighbors, however, did come; those who had gone to the city out of curiosity to attend the lawsuit, and 'see old Peterkin squirm and hear him swear;' and could she have looked into the houses in the village that night, she would have heard some startling news, for almost before the train rolled away from the platform, everybody at or near the station had been told that Mrs. Tracy's diamonds, lost nine or ten years ago, had been found in Harold Hastings' pocket, and that he was under arrest.
Such news travels fast, and it reached the Park House just as the family were finishing their late dinner.
'I told you so! I always thought he was guilty, or knew something about them,' Mrs. Frank exclaimed, with a look of exultation on her face as she turned to her husband. 'What do you think now of your fine young man, who has been hanging around here after your daughter until she is half-betwaddled after him?'
Frank's face was very grave as he answered, decidedly: 'I do not believe it. Harold Hastings never took your diamonds.'
'How came he by them, then?' she asked, in a loud, angry voice.
'I don't know,' her husband replied; 'there is some mistake; it will be cleared in time. But keep it from Maude; I think the news would kill her.'
Meantime Tom had sat with his brows knit together, as if intently thinking; and when at last he spoke he said to his father: 'I shall go to Springfield on the ten o'clock train, and you'd better go with me.'
To this Frank made no objections. If his wife's diamonds were really found, he ought to be there to receive them; and, besides, he might say a word in Harold's defence, if necessary. So ten o'clock found him and Tom at the station, where also was Dick St. Claire, with several other young men, pacing up and down the platform and excitedly discussing the news, of which they did not believe a word.
'I almost feel as if they were hurting me when they touch Hal, he's such a noble fellow,' Dick said to Mr. Tracy and Tom. 'We are all as mad as can be, and so a lot of us fellows, who have always known him, are going over to speak a good word for him, and go his bail if necessary. I don't believe, though, they can do anything after all these years; but father will know. He is there with him.'
And so the night train to Springfield carried fourteen men from Shannondale, thirteen of whom were going to stand by Harold, while the fourteenth hardly knew why he was going or what he believed. Arrived in the city, their first inquiry was for Harold, who, instead of being in the charge of an officer as they had feared, was quietly sleeping in his room at the hotel, while Judge St. Claire had the diamonds in his possession.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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42
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HAROLD AND THE DIAMONDS.
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When Harold sprang upon the train as it was moving from the station and entered the rear car, he found old Peterkin near the door, button-holing Judge St. Claire, to whom he was talking loudly and angrily of that infernal cheat, Wilson, who had brought the suit against him.
'Yes, yes, I see; I know; but all that will come out on the trial,' the judge said, trying to silence him.
But Peterkin held on, until his eye caught Harold, when he let the judge go, and seating himself beside the young man began in a soft, coaxing tone for him: 'I don't see why in thunder you are goin' agin me, who have allus been your friend, and gin you work when you couldn't git it any where else; and I can't imagine what you're goin' to say, or what you know.'
Harold's face was very red, but his manner was respectful as he replied: 'You cannot be more sorry than I am that I am subpoenaed as a witness against you. I did not seek it. I could not help it: but, being a witness, I must answer the questions truthfully.'
'Thunder and lightning, man! Of course you must! Don't I know that?' the irascible Peterkin growled, getting angry at once. 'Of course you must answer questions, but you needn't blab out stuff they don't ask you, so as to lead 'em on. I know 'em, the blood-hounds; they'll squeeze you dry, once let 'em git an inklin' you know sunthin' more. Now, if this goes agin me, I'm out at least thirty thousand dollars; and between you and I, I don't mind givin' a cool two thousand, or three, or mebby five, right out of pocket, cash down, to anybody whose testimony, without bein' a lie--I don't want nobody to swear false, remember--but, heaven and earth, can't a body furgit a little, and keep back a lot if they want to?' 'What are you trying to say to me?' Harold asked, his face pale with resentment, as he suspected the man's motive.
'Say to you? Nothin', only that I'll give five thousand dollars down to the chap whose testimony gits me off and flings old Wilson.'
'Mr. Peterkin,' Harold said, looking the old wretch full in the face, 'if you are trying to bribe me, let me tell you at once that I am not to be bought. I shall not volunteer information, but shall answer truthfully whatever is asked me.'
'Go to thunder, then! I always knew you were a bad aig,' Peterkin roared; and as there was nothing to be made from Harold, he changed his seat to try his tactics elsewhere.
Left to himself, Harold had time to think of the diamonds, which, indeed, had not been absent from his thoughts a moment, since Jerrie gave them to him. They were closely buttoned in his coat pocket, where they burned like fire, as he wondered where and how Jerrie had found them.
'In the Tramp House it must have been,' he said to himself; 'but who put them there, and how did she chance to find them, and why did she look so wild and excited, so like a crazy person, when she gave them to me, bidding me let no one see them?'
These questions he could not answer, and his brain was all in a whirl when the train reached Springfield, and, with the others, he registered himself at the hotel. Suddenly, like a gleam of lightning seen through a rift of clouds, there came back to him, with a horrible distinctness, the words the child Jerry had spoken to him that day years ago, when he had walked homeward with her through the leafy woods from the Park House, where he had been questioned so closely by Mrs. Tracy with regard to her diamonds and what he had been doing in the house on the morning of their disappearance.
'I know where those diamonds are, but I shan't tell while there is such a fuss,' she had said, and in his abstraction he had scarcely noticed it then, but it came back to him now with fearful significance, making him sick, and faint, and cold, although the great drops of sweat stood thickly upon his lips and under his hair, as, after the gas was lighted, he sat alone in a little reception-room opening from one of the parlors. Did Jerrie know where they were, and had she known all the time and not spoken? And, if so, was she not guilty as an accessory, at least in trying to shield another? For that she took them herself he never for a moment dreamed. It was some one else, and she knew and did not tell. He was certain of it now, as every incident connected with her strange sickness came back to him, when she seemed to be doing penance for another's fault. She had called herself an accessory, and that was what she was, or rather what the world would call her, if it knew. To him she was Jerrie, the girl he loved, and he would defend her to the bitter end, no matter how culpable she had been in keeping silence so long.
But who took them! That was the question puzzling him so much as he sat thinking with his head bent down, and so absorbed that he did not hear a step in the adjoining room, or know that Peterkin had seated himself just where a large mirror showed him distinctly the young man in the next room, whom he recognized at once, though Harold never moved for a few moments or lifted his head.
At last, however, he unbuttoned his coat and after glancing cautiously around to make sure no one was near, he took the box from his pocket, and holding the stones to the light examined them carefully, taking in his hand first the ear-rings and then the pin, and holding them in such a way that two or three times they flashed directly in the eyes of the cruel man watching him.
'Yes, they are Mrs. Tracy's diamonds; there can be no mistake,' he whispered, just as he became conscious that there was some one in the door looking at him.
Quick as thought he put the box out of sight just as Peterkin's voice, exultant and hateful, cried out: 'Hallo, Mr. Prayer-book! your piety won't let you keep back a darned thing you know agin me, but it lets you have in your possession diamonds which I'd eenamost sware was them stones Miss Tracy lost years ago and suspected you of takin. I know the box anyway, I heard it described so often, and I b'lieve I know them diamonds. I seen 'em in the lookin'-glass, settin' in t'other room, and seen you look all round like a thief afore you opened 'em. So, fork over, and mebby you can give me back May Jane's pin you stole at the party the night Mr. Arthur came home. Fork over, I say!'
Too much astonished at first to speak, Harold stood staring at the man who had attacked him so brutally, while his hand closed tightly over the diamonds in his pocket, as if fearing they might be wrenched from him by force.
'Will you fork over, or shall I call the perlice?' Peterkin asked.
'Call the police as soon as you like,' Harold replied, 'but I shall not give you the diamonds.'
'Then you own that you've got 'em! That's half the battle!' Peterkin said, coming up close to him, and looking at him with a meaning smile more detestable than any menace could have been. 'I know you've got 'em, and I can run you if I try, and then what will your doxie think of you! Will she refuse my Bill for a thief, and treat me as if I was dirt?'
'What do you mean, sir?' Harold demanded, feeling intuitively that by his _doxie_ Jerrie was meant, and feeling a great horror, too, lest by some means Jerrie's name should be mixed up with the affair before she had a chance to explain.
The reference to Billy was a puzzle, but Peterkin did not leave him in doubt.
'I mean that you think yourself very fine, and always have, and that are girl of the carpet-bag thinks herself fine, too, and refused my Bill for you, who hain't a cent in the world. I seen it in her face when I twitted her on it, and she riz up agin me like a catamount. But I'll be even with you both yit. I've got you in my power, young man, but--' and here he came a step or two nearer to Harold, and dropping his voice to a whisper said: 'I sha'n't do nothin', nor say nothin' till you've gin your evidence, and if you hold your tongue I will. You tickle me, and I'll tickle you! see!'
Harold was too indignant to reply, and feeling that he was degrading himself every moment he spent in the presence of that man, he left the room without a word, and went to his own apartment, but not to sleep, for never had he spent so wretched a night as that which followed his interview with Peterkin. Of what the man could do to him, he had no fear. His anxiety was all for Jerrie. Where did she find the diamonds, and for whom did she keep silence so long? and what would be said of the act when it was known, as it might be, though not from him?
Two or three times he arose and lighted the gas, examined the diamonds carefully to see if there were not some mistake. But there could be none. He had seen them on the lady's person and had heard them described so accurately that he could not be mistaken; and then the box was the same he had once seen when Jack took him to his mother's room to show him what Uncle Arthur had brought. That was a tortoise shell, of an oval shape, lined with blue satin, and this was a tortoise shell, oval shaped, and lined with blue satin. Harold felt, when at last the daylight shone into his room, that if it had tarried a moment longer he must have gone mad. He was very white and haggard, and there were dark rings under his eyes, when he went down to the office, where the first person he met was Billy, who also looked pale and worn, with a different expression upon his face from anything Harold had ever seen before. It was as if all life and hope had gone, leaving him nothing now to care for. In his anxiety and worry about the diamonds Harold had scarcely given a thought to what Peterkin had said of Jerrie's refusal of Billy, for it seemed so improbable that the latter would presume to offer himself to her; but at sight of Billy's face it came back to him with a throb of pity for the man, and a thrill of joy for himself for whom Peterkin had said his son was rejected.
'Does Billy know of the diamonds, I wonder?' he thought.
As if to answer the question in the negative, Billy came quickly forward, and offering his hand, bade Harold good-morning, and then motioning him to a seat, took one beside him, and began: 'I'm awful sorry, Hal, th-that you are mix-mixed up in th-this but I sup suppose you m-must t-tell the truth.'
'Yes, I must tell the truth, Harold said.'
'Fa-father will be so m-mad,' Billy continued. 'I wi-wish I could t-t-testify f-for you, bu-but I can't. You were th-there, I wa-wan't, and all I know fa-father told me; bu-but d don't volunteer information.'
'No,' Harold said, slowly, wishing that the ocean were rolling between him and this detestable suit.
Once he resolved to go to Judge St. Claire, deliver up the diamonds, and tell him all he knew about them, but this would be bringing Jerrie into the matter, and so he changed his mind and wondered aimlessly about the town until it was time for him to appear at the court-house, where a crowd was gathering. It was late before the suit known as _Wilson vs. Peterkin_ was called, and later still when Harold took the stand.
White and trembling, so that both his hands and his knees were shaking visibly, he seemed more like a criminal than a witness, he was so agitated and pre-occupied, too, it would seem, for at first his answers were given at random, as if he hardly knew what he was saying; nor did he, for over and beyond the sea of long faces confronting him, Judge St. Claire's wondering and curious--Billy's wondering, too--Wilson's disappointed and surprised, and Peterkin's threatening and exultant by turns--he saw only Jerrie coming to him in the lane and asking him to keep the diamonds for her--saw her, too, away back years ago up in the little low room, with her fever-stained cheeks and shorn head, talking the strangest things of prisons, and substitutes, and accessories, and assuring some one that she would never tell, and was going for him, if necessary.
Who was that man? Where was he now? and why had he imposed this terrible secret upon Jerrie?
These were the thoughts crowding through his brain while he was being questioned as to what he knew of the agreement between the plaintiff and defendant while in the office of the latter. Once a thought of Maude crossed his mind with a keen pang of regret, as he remembered the lovely face which had smiled so fondly upon him, mistaking his meaning utterly, and appropriating to herself the love he was trying to tell her was another's. And with thoughts of Maude there came a thought of Arthur, the very first which Harold had given him, Arthur, the crazy man, who himself had hidden the diamonds and for whom Jerrie was ready to sacrifice so much. It was clear as daylight to him now, the anxiety and stain were over, and those who were watching him so intently as he gave his answers at random, with the sweat pouring like rain down his face, were electrified at the start he gave as he came to himself and realized for the first time where he was, and why he was there. Arthur would never see Jerrie wronged. _She_ was safe, and with this load lifted from him, he gave his whole attention to the business on hand, answering the questions now clearly and distinctly.
When at last the lawyer said to him, 'Repeat what you can remember of the conversation which took place between the plaintiff and the defendant on the morning of ----, 18--,' he gave one sorry look at poor Billy, who was the picture of shame and confusion, and then, in a clear, distinct voice, which filled every corner of the room, told what he had heard said in his presence, and what he knew of the transaction, proving conclusively that the plaintiff was right and Peterkin a rascal, and this in the face of the man who had asked him not to _blab_ and who shook his fist at him threateningly as the narrative went on.
'Would you believe the defendant under oath?' was asked at the close, and Harold answered, promptly: 'Under oath--yes.'
'Would you, if not under oath?'
'If an untruth would be to his advantage, no,' and then Harold was through.
As he stepped down from the witness stand old Peterkin arose, so angry that at first he could scarcely articulate his words.
'You dog! you liar! you thief! he screamed; 'to stand there and lie so about me! I'll teach you--I'll show 'em what you are. If there's a perlice here, I call on 'em to arrest this feller for them diamonds of Miss Tracy's! They are in his pocket--or was last night. I seen 'em myself, and he dassent deny it.'
By this time the court-house was in wild confusion, as the spectators arose from their seats and pressed forward to where Peterkin stood denouncing Harold, who was white as ashes, and looked as if he were going to faint, as Billy hastened to his side, whispering: 'Lean on me, and I will get you out of this. Father is mad.'
But order was soon restored, though not until Peterkin had yelled again, as Harold was leaving the room: 'Search him, I tell you! Don't let him escape! He's got 'em in his pocket--Miss Tracy's diamonds! Lord of heavens! don't you remember the row there was about 'em years ago?'
Of what followed during the next hour Harold knew very little. There was a crowd around him, and cries of 'He is going to faint!' while Billy's stammering voice called pleadingly, 'St-stand back, ca-can't you, and gi-give him air.'
Then, a deluge of water in his face; then a great darkness and the voices sounded a long way off, and he felt so tired and sleepy, and thought of Jerry, and Maude, and lived over again the scene in the Tramp-House, when he found the former in the bag, and felt her little fat arms around his neck as he staggered with her through the snow, wondering why she was so heavy, and why her feet were dragging on the ground. When he came more fully to himself, he was in a little room in the court-house, and Billy's arm was lying protectingly across his shoulder, while Billy's father was bellowing like a bull: 'Be you goin' to let him go! Ain't you goin' to git a writ and arrest him! Why don't you handcuff him, somebody? And you, Bill, be you a fool to stan' there a huggin' him as if he was a gal! What do you mean?'
'Ha-Hal is my fr-friend, father. He never to-took the diamonds,' Billy answered, sadly, while Judge St. Claire, who had the box of jewels in his hand and was looking very anxious, turned to the angry man clamoring so loudly for a _writ_ and said, sternly: 'Even if Harold took the diamonds--which he did not, I am certain of that--there is some mistake which he will explain; but if he took them, it is too late to arrest him. A theft commited ten years ago cannot be punished now.'
'May the Lord give you sense,' Peterkin rejoined, with a derisive laugh. 'Don't tell me that a body can't be punished for stealin' diamonds ef 'twas done a hundred years ago,' 'But it is true, nevertheless,' the judge replied.
Turning to another lawyer who was standing near, Peterkin asked: 'Is that so, square? Is it so writ? Is that the law?'
'That is the law,' was the response.
'Wall, I'll be condumbed, if that don't beat all!' Peterkin exclaimed. 'Can't be sent to prison! I swow! There ain't no law or justice for nobody but _me_, and I must be kicked to the wall! I'll give up, and won't try to be nobody, I vurm!' And as he talked he walked away to ruminate upon the injustice of the law which could not touch Harold Hastings, but could throw its broad arms tightly around himself.
Meanwhile the Judge had ordered a carriage and taken Harold with him to his private room in the hotel, where the hardest part for Hal was yet to come.
'Now, my boy,' the judge said, after he had made Harold lie down upon the couch and had locked the door, 'now, tell me all about it. How came you by the diamond?'
It was such a pitiful, pleading, agonized face which lifted itself from the cushion and looked at Judge St. Claire, as Harold began: 'I cannot tell you now--I must not? but by and by perhaps I can. They were handed to me to keep by some one, just for a little while. I cannot tell you who it was. I think I would die sooner than do it. Certainly I would rather go to prison, as Peterkin wishes me to.'
There was a thoughtful, perplexed look on the judge's face as he said: 'This is very strange, Harold, that you cannot tell who gave them to you, and with some people will be construed against you.'
'Yes, I know it; but I would rather bear it than have that person's name brought in question,' was Harold's reply.
'Do you think that person took them?' the judge asked.
'No, a thousand times, no!' and Harold leaped to his feet and began to pace the floor hurriedly. 'They never took them, never; I'd swear to that with my life. Don't talk any more about it, please; I can't bear it. I have gone through so much to-day, and last night I never slept a wink. Oh, I am so tired!' and with a groan he threw himself again upon the couch, and, closing his eyes, dropped almost instantly into a heavy slumber, from which the judge did not rouse him until after dinner, when he ordered some refreshments sent to his room, and himself awoke the young man, whose face looked pinched, and white, and haggard, and who could only swallow a cup of coffee and a part of a biscuit.
'I am so tired,' he kept repeating; 'but I shall be better in the morning;' and long before the night train had come he was in bed sleeping off the effects of the day's excitement.
The next morning when he went down to the office he was surprised and bewildered at the crowd which gathered around him--the friends who had came on the train to stand by and defend him, if necessary; and as the home faces he had known all his life looked kindly into his, and the familiar voices of his boyhood told him of sympathy for and faith in him, while hand after hand took his in a friendly clasp, that of Dick St. Claire clinging to his with a grasp which said plainer than words could have done: 'I believe in you, Hal, and am so sorry for you,' the tension of his nerves gave way entirely, and, sinking down in their midst, he cried like a child when freed from some terrible danger.
He had not thought before that he cared for himself what people said, but he knew now that he did, and this assurance of confidence from his friends unnerved him for a time; then, dashing away his tears and lifting up his face, on which his old winning smile was breaking, he said: 'Excuse me for this weakness; only girls should cry, but I have borne so much, and your coming was such a surprise. Thank you all. I cannot say what I feel. I should cry again if I did.'
'Never mind, old boy,' Dick's cheery voice called out. 'We know what you would say. We came to help you, just a few of us; but if anything had really happened to you, why, all Shannondale would have turned out to the rescue.'
'Thank you, Dick,' Harold said, the tears starting again; then, as his eye fell for the first time upon Tom, he exclaimed, with a glad ring in his voice, 'and you, too, Tom!'
'Yes, I thought I'd come with the crowd and see the fun,' Tom answered, indifferently, as he walked away by himself.
Tom had said very little, on the train, or after they had reached the hotel, but no one had listened with more eagerness to every detail of the matter than he had done, and all that morning he was busy gathering up every item of information, and listening to the guesses as to who the person could be who gave the diamonds to Harold.
The jewels had been identified by his father and by himself, although an identification was scarcely necessary as Harold had distinctly said: 'They are the Tracy diamonds, and the person who gave them, to me said so.'
But who was the person? That was the question puzzling the heads of all the Shannondale people as the morning wore on, and each went where he liked. At last, toward noon, Tom found himself near Harold in front of the court-house, and going up to him, said: 'Hal, I wan't to talk to you a little while.'
'Yes,' Hal said, assentingly, and selecting out a retired corner, Tom began: 'Hal, I've never shown any great liking for you, and I don't s'pose I have any, but I don't like to see a man kicked for nothing, and so I came over with the rest.'
'Thank you, Tom,' Harold replied, 'I don't think you ever did like me, and I don't think I cared if you didn't, but I'm glad you came. Is that all you wished to say to me?'
'So,' Tom answered. 'Jerrie is very sick--' 'Jerrie! Jerrie sick! Oh, Tom!'
It was a cry of almost despair as Harold thought, 'What if she should die and the people never know.'
'She had an awful headache when you left her in the lane, and I walked home with her, and the next morning she was raving mad--kind of a brain fever, I guess.'
Harold was stupefied, but he managed to ask: 'Does she talk much? What does she say?'
There was alarm in his voice, which the sagacious Tom detected at once, and, strengthened in his suspicion, he replied: 'Nothing about the diamonds, and the Lord knows I hope she won't.'
'What do you mean!' Harold asked, in a frightened tone.
'Don't you worry,' Tom replied. 'I wouldn't harm Jerrie any more than you would, but--Well, Hal, you are a trump! Yes, you are, to hold your tongue and let some think you are the culprit. Hal, Jerrie gave you the diamonds. I saw her do it in the lane as I came up to you. I did not think of it at the time, but afterward it came to me that you took something from her and slipped it into your pocket, and that you both looked scared when you saw me. Jerrie was abstracted and queer all the way to the house, and had a bruise on her head, and she keeps talking of the Tramp House and Peterkin, who, she says, dealt the blow. I went to the Tramp House, and found the old table on the floor, with three of the legs on it; the fourth I couldn't find. I thought at first that the old wretch had quarreled with her about you on account of the suit, and she had squared up to him, and he had struck her; but now I believe _he_ had the diamonds, and she got them from him in some way, and he struck her with the missing table-leg. If you say so, I'll have him arrested.'
Tom had told his story rapidly, while Harold listened breathlessly, until he suggested the arrest of Peterkin, when he exclaimed: 'No, no, Tom. No; don't you see that would mix Jerrie's name up with the diamonds, and that must not be. She must not be mentioned in connection with them until she speaks for herself; and, besides, I do not believe it was Peterkin who took them. It might have been your Uncle Arthur.'
'Uncle Arthur?' Tom said, indignantly. 'Why, he gave them to mother.'
'I know he did,' Harold continued; 'but in a crazy fit he might have taken them away and secreted them and then forgotten it, and Jerrie might have known it, and not been able to find them till now. Many things go to prove that;' and very briefly Harold repeated some incidents connected with Jerrie's illness when she was a child.
'That looks like it, certainly,' Tom said; 'but I am awfully loth to give up arresting the brute, and believe I shall do it yet for assault and battery. He certainly struck her. You will see for yourself the lump on her head.'
So saying Tom arose to go away, but before he went made a remark quite characteristic of him and his feeling for Harold, to whom he said, with a laugh: 'Don't for thunder's sake, think us a kind of a Damon and Pythias twins, because I've joined hands with you against Peterkin and for Jerrie. Herod and Pilate, you know, became friends, but I guess at heart they were Pilate and Herod still.'
'No danger of my presuming at all upon your friendship for myself, though I thank you for your interest in Jerrie,' Harold replied.
Then the two separated, Tom going his way and Harold his, until it was time for the afternoon train which was to take them home.
The suit had gone against Peterkin, and it was in a towering rage that he stood in the long depot, denouncing everybody, and swearing he would sell out Lubbertoo and every dumbed thing he owned in Shannondale and take his money away, 'and then see how they'd git along without his capital to boost 'em.' At Harold he would not even look, for his testimony had been the most damaging of all, and he frowned savagely when on entering the car he saw his son in the same seat with him, talking in low, earnest tones, while Harold was evidently listening to him with interest. Small as he was and mean in personal appearance, there was more of true manhood in Billy's finger than in his father's whole body. The suit had been a pain and trouble to Billy, from beginning to end, for he knew his father was in the wrong, and he bore no malice toward Harold for his part in it, and when the diamonds came up, and his father was clamoring for a writ, he was the first to declare Harold's innocence and to say he would go his bail. Now, there was in his mind another plan by which to benefit his friend, and rival, too--for Billy knew he was that; and the heart of the little man ached with a bitter pain and sense of loss whenever he thought of Jerrie, and lived over again the scene under the butternut tree by the river, when her blue eyes had smiled so kindly upon him and her hands had touched his, even while she was breaking his heart. When Billy reached his majority his father had given him $100,000, and thus he had business of his own to transact, and a part of this was just now centered in Washington Territory, where, in Tacoma, on Puget Sound, he owned real estate and had dealings with several parties. To attend to this an agent was needed for a while, and he said to himself; 'I'll offer it to Hal, with such a salary that he cannot refuse it; that will get him out of the way until this thing blows over.'
Billy knew perfectly well that although everybody said Harold was innocent and that nine-tenths believed it, there would still be a few in Shannondale--the scum whose opinions his father's money controlled--who, without exactly saying they doubted him, would make it unpleasant for him in many ways; and from this he would save him by sending him to Tacoma at once, and thus getting him out of the way of any unpleasantness which might arise from his father's persecutions or those of his clan. It was this which he was proposing to Harold, who at once thought favorably of it--not because he wished to escape from the public, he said, but because of the pay offered, and which seemed to him far more than his services would be worth.
'You are a noble fellow, Billy,' he said. 'I'll think of the plan, and let you know after I've seen Jerrie and Judge St. Claire.'
'A-all ri-right; he'll a-advise you to go,' Billy said, as they arose to leave the car, followed by Peterkin, who had been engaged in a fierce altercation with Tom, who had accused him of having struck Jerrie, and threatened to have him arrested for assault and battery the moment they reached Shannondale.
'Thunder and lightning and guns' old Peterkin exclaimed, while the spittle flew from his mouth like the spray from Niagara. 'I assault and batter Jerry Crawford! --a gal! What do you take me for, young man? I'm a gentleman, I be, if I ain't a Tracy; and I never salted nor battered nobody, and she'll tell you so herself. Heavens and earth! this is the way 'twas,' and Peterkin shook from his head to his feet--for, like most men who clamor so loudly for the law, he had a mortal terror of it for himself, and Tom's threatening looks and words made him afraid. 'This is how 'twas. I found her in the Tramp-House, and I was all-fired mad at her about somethin'--I shan't tell what, for Bill would kill me; but I pitched into her right and left; and, by gum, she pitched into me, so that for a spell it was nip-and-tuck betwixt us; and, by George, if she didn't order me out of the Tramp-House, and said it was her'n; and I'll be dumbed if I don't believe she'd av put me out, too, body and bones, if I hadn't gone. She was just like a tiger; and, I swan, I was kinder feared on her, and backed out with a kinder flourish of my fist on that darned old rotten table, which went all to smash; and that's all I know. You don't call that 'sault and batter, do you?'
Tom could not say that he did, but he replied: 'That's your version of it. Jerrie may have another, and her friends ain't going to have her abused by a chap like you; and my advice is that you hold your tongue, both about her and Harold. It will he better for you. Do you understand?'
'You bet!' Peterkin said, with a meaning nod, breathing a little more freely as he caught sight of the highest tower of _Lubbertoo_, and more freely still when he arrived at the station, where he was met by his coat-of-arms carriage, instead of a writ, and was suffered to go peaceably home, a disappointed, if not a better man.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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43
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HAROLD AND JERRIE.
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The news which so electrified all Shannondale was slow in reaching Mrs. Crawford, but it did reach her at last, crushing and overwhelming her with a sense of shame and anguish, until as the day wore on, Grace Atherton, and Mrs. St. Claire, and Nina, and many others came to reassure her, and to say that it was all a mistake, which would be soon cleared up.
Thus comforted and consoled, she tried to be calm, and wait patiently for the train. But there was a great pity for her boy in her heart as she sat by Jerrie's bedside and watched her in all her varying moods, now perfectly quiet, with her wide open eyes staring up at the ceiling as if she were seeing something there, now talking of Peterkin, and the Tramp House, and the table, and the blow, and again of the bag, which she said was lost, and which her grandmother must find.
Thinking she meant the carpet bag, Mrs. Crawford brought that to her, but she tossed it aside impatiently saying: 'No, no; the other one, which tells it all. Where is it! I must have lost it. Find it, find it. To be so near, and yet so far. What did it say? Why can't I think? Am I like Mr. Arthur--crazy, like him?'
Mrs. Crawford thought her crazier than Arthur, and waited still more impatiently for Harold, until she heard his step outside, and knew that he had come.
'Harold!'
'Grandma!' was all they said for a moment while the poor old lady was sobbing on his neck, and then he comforted her as best he could, telling her that it was all over now--that no one but Peterkin had accused him--that everybody was ready to defend him, and that after a little he could explain everything.
'And now I must see Jerrie,' he continued, starting for the stairs, and glad that his grandmother did not attempt to follow him.
Jerrie had heard his voice, and had raised herself in bed, and as he came in, met him with the question: 'Have you brought them? Has any one seen them?'
The strange light in her eyes should have told Harold how utterly incapable she was of giving any rational answers to his questions, but he did not think of that, and instead of trying to quiet her, he plunged at once into the subject she had broached: 'Do you mean the diamonds?' he asked.
'Yes,' she replied, 'the diamonds! the diamonds! Where are they?'
'Mrs. Tracy has them by this time,' Harold replied.
'Mrs. Tracy!' Jerrie exclaimed. 'What has she to do with them? They are not hers. They are mine--they are mine! Bring them to me--bring them to me.'
She was terribly excited, and for a time Harold bent all his energies to soothe her, and at last when from sheer exhaustion she became quiet he said to her: 'Jerrie, where did you find the diamonds?'
She looked at him curiously, but made no reply, and he continued: 'You must tell me where you found them: it is necessary I should know.'
Still she did not reply, but stared at him, as if not fully comprehending what he meant.
'Jerrie,' he said again, 'do you love me?'
Quickly her eyes filled with tears, and she replied: 'Love you, Harold! Yes, more than you ever dreamed of; more than you love me.'
Instantly Harold had his arms around her, for she had risen to a sitting posture, and pillowing her head upon his breast, he said: 'No, darling, that is impossible, for I love you better than my life,' and his lips pressed hers passionately. He felt that this was their betrothal, for he did not take into consideration the state of her mind; but she undeceived him quickly, for although she kissed him back, she said, with a tinge of sarcasm in her voice: 'Aren't you afraid they will see you?'
'Who are they?' he asked, and she replied 'The people, and the Harvard boys and Maude.'
He did not know at all what she meant, but at the mention of Maude he groaned involuntarily, as the white face came up before him again and the eyes looked into his, fuller far of love and tenderness than those confronting him so steadily, with no consciousness of his real meaning in them.
'Those diamonds have caused me a great deal of trouble,' he began again, 'and will cause me more unless you tell me where you found them. Try and think. Was it in the Tramp House?'
That started her at once, and she began to rave of the Tramp House, and the rat-hole, and the table, and Peterkin, who dealt the blow. The bruise on her head had not proved so serious as was at first feared, and with her tangled hair falling over her face Harold had not noticed it. But he looked at it now and questioned her of it, and asking if Peterkin had struck her there.
'No,' she said, and began the senseless babbling of rat-holes, and table-legs and bags, and diamonds until Harold became alarmed and went for his grandmother.
There was nothing to be learned from Jerrie in her present condition, and so Harold started for the Tramp House to see what that would tell him. The table was still upon the floor, with the three legs piled upon it, while the fourth one was missing. But Harold found it at last; for, remembering what Jerrie had said of the rat-hole, he investigated that spot, and from its enlarged appearance drew his own conclusion. Jerrie had found the diamonds there; he had no doubt of it, and he told Tom Tracy so; for, as if there was a fascination about the place for him, Tom appeared in the door-way just as Harold was leaving it. Sitting down upon the bench where Jerrie had sat that day when Peterkin attacked her, the two young men who had been enemies all their lives, but who were now drawn together by a common sympathy and love for the same girl, talked the matter over again, each arriving at the same theory as the most probable one they could accept.
'Arthur, in a crazy fit, had secreted the diamonds, and Jerrie knew it, but possibly not where he had put them. This accounted for her strange sickness when a child, while her finding them later on, added to other causes, would account for her sickness now. Peterkin owns that he was blowing her up for something, and that he knocked the table down with his fist, but he swears he didn't touch her,' Tom said, repeating in substance all Peterkin had said to him in the train when shaking with fear of a _writ_.
'And do you still mean to keep silent with regard to Jerrie?' Tom asked.
'Yes,' Harold replied; 'her name must not be mentioned in connection with the diamonds. I can't have the slightest breath of suspicion touching Jerrie, _my sister_.'
'Sister be hanged!' Tom began savagely, then checked himself, and added with a sneering laugh: 'Don't try to deceive me, Hal, with your sister business. You love Jerrie, and she loves you, and that is one reason why I hate you, or shall, when this miserable business is cleared up. Just now we must pull together and find out where she found the diamonds, and who put them there. To write to Uncle Arthur would do no good, though seeing him might; the last we heard he was thinking of taking the coast voyage from San Francisco to Tacoma.'
'Tom,' Harold exclaimed, with great energy, as he sprang to his feet, 'that decides me;' and then he told of the offer Billy had made him on the car. 'When I saw how sick Jerrie was, I made up my mind not to accept it, although I need the money badly. But now, if Jerrie gets no worse, I shall start for Tacoma in a few days and shall find your uncle Arthur, if he is to be found.'
It was growing dark when the two young men finally emerged from the house and stood for a moment outside, while Harold inquired for Maude.
'She is not very well, that's a fact,' Tom said, gloomily; 'and no wonder, when mother keeps her cooped up in one room, without enough fresh air, and lets nobody see her except the family and the doctor, for fear they will excite her. She knows nothing about the diamonds, nor that Jerrie is sick. I did tell her, though, that you had come home; and, by Jove! I pretty near forgot it. She wants to see you bad; but, Lord! mother won't let you in. No use to try. She's like a she-wolf guarding its cub. Good-night.'
And Tom walked away, while Harold went back to the cottage, where he found Jerrie sleeping very quietly, with a look on her face so like that it had worn in her babyhood, when he called her his little girl, that he involuntarily stooped down and kissed it as one would kiss a beautiful baby.
The next morning Jerrie was very restless, and talked wildly of the Tramp House and the diamonds, insisting that they were hers and must be brought to her.
'Why did you tell her about them?' Mrs. Crawford asked, reproachfully.
But Harold did not reply, his mind was so torn with distracting doubts as to whether he ought to take the western trip or not.
If he went, he must go at once, and to leave Jerrie in her present state seemed impossible. He would consult the physician first, and Judge St. Claire next. The doctor gave it as his opinion that Jerrie was in no danger, if she were only kept quiet. She had taken a severe cold and overtaxed her strength, while most likely she had inherited from some one a tendency to be flighty when anything was the matter, and he thought Harold might venture to leave her.
'Yes, I'd go if I were you,' he added, looking intently at the young man; for, like Billy, he too thought it might be pleasanter for him to be out of the way for a time, although he did not say so.
And this was the view the judge took of it, after a few moments' conversation. His first question had been: 'Well, my boy, can you tell me now who gave them to you?'
'No, I can't,' was Harold's reply; and then, acting upon a sudden impulse, he burst out impetuously: 'Yes, I will tell you, for I can trust you, and I want your advice so badly.'
So he repeated rapidly all he knew, and his theory with regard to Arthur, whom he wished so much to find, and of Billy's proposition that he should go on his business to Tacoma. For a few moments the judge seemed perplexed and undecided, for he was balancing in his mind the pros and cons for going from the people, or staying to face them. If he stayed he might have some unpleasant things to bear and hear, for there were those who would talk, in spite of their protestations of the young man's innocence; while to go might look like running away from the storm, with the matter unexplained. On the whole, however, he decided that it was better to go.
'Jerrie's interests are safe with me,' he said, 'and by the time you return everything will be explained; but find Mr. Tracy as soon as possible. I am inclined to think your theory with regard to him correct.'
So it was decided that Harold should go, and the next night was appointed for him to start. Had he known that Peterkin, and even Mrs. Tracy, were each in his or her own way insinuating that he was running from public opinion, nothing could have induced him to leave. But he did not know it, and went about his preparations with as brave a heart as he could command under the circumstances. Jerrie was more quiet now, though every effort on his part to learn anything from her concerning the diamonds brought on a fit of raving, when she would insist that the jewels were hers, and must be brought to her at once.
'But you told me they were Mrs. Tracy's,' he said to her once.
With a cunning gleam in her eyes, she replied: 'So they are, or were; but oh, how little you know!'
And this was all he could get from her.
He told her he was going away, but that did not seem to affect her, and she only began to talk of Maude, who, she said, must not be harmed.
'Have you seen her? have you seen her?' she kept saying.
'Not yet,' he replied, 'but I am going to say good-bye;' and on the day of his departure he went to the Park House and asked if he could see Maude.
'Of course not,' was Mrs. Tracy's prompt reply, when the request was taken to her. 'No one sees her, and I certainly shall not allow him to enter her room.'
'But, Dolly,' Frank began, protestingly, but was cut short by the lady, who said: 'You needn't "Dolly" me, or try to take his part, either. I have my opinion, and always shall. He cannot see Maude, and you may tell him so,' turning now to the servant who had brought Harold's message, and who softened it as much as possible.
Harold had half expected a refusal, and was prepared for it. Taking a card from his pocket, he wrote upon it: 'DEAR MAUDE,--I am going away for a few weeks, and am very sorry that I cannot see you; but your mother knows best, of course, and I must not do anything to make you worse. I shall think of you very often, and hope to find you much better when I return.
'HAROLD.'
'Will you give this to her?' he said to the girl, who answered that she would, and who, of course, read every word before she took it to her young mistress, late in the afternoon, while the family were at dinner, and she was left in charge of the invalid.
'Mr. Hastings sent you this,' she said, handing the card to Maude, into whose face the bright color rushed, but left it instantly as she read the few hurried lines.
'Going away! Gone! and I didn't see him!' she exclaimed, regardless of consequences. 'And mother did it. I know she did. I _will_ talk till I spit blood; then see what she'll say!' she continued, as the frightened girl tried to stop her, and as she could not, ran for Mrs. Tracy, who came in much alarm, asking what was the matter.
'You sent Harold away. You didn't let him see me, and he is--' Maude gasped, but could get no farther, for the paroxysm of coughing which came on, together with a hemorrhage which made her so weak that they thought her dying all night, she lay so white, and still, and insensible, save at times when her lips moved, and her mother, bending over her, heard her whisper: 'Send for Harold.'
But it was too late now; the train had come and gone, and taken Harold with it, away from the girl _he_ loved and from, the girls who loved him so devotedly, and both of whom, for a few days after his departure, went down very near to the gates of death, and whose first enquiry, when they at last came back to life and consciousness, was for Harold and why he stayed away.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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44
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JERRIE CLEARS HAROLD.
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The next day two items of news went like wildfire through the little town of Shannondale--the first, set afloat by Peterkin and helped on by Mrs. Tracy, that Harold had run away from public opinion, which was fast turning against him since he could not explain where he found the diamonds; and the second, that both Maude Tracy and Jerrie Crawford were at the point of death, which made Harold's sudden departure all the more heinous in the eyes of his enemies; for what but conscious guilt could have prompted him to leave his sister, who, it was said, was calling for him with every breath, and charging him with having taken the diamonds? Now, this was false; for although Jerrie's fever had increased rapidly during the night, and her babbling was something terrible to hear, there was in it no accusation of Harold, although she was constantly talking to him, and asking for the diamonds and the bag.
'It is a pity he ever told her about them,' the doctor said, as twice each day, morning and night, for four successive days, he came and looked upon her fever-stained cheeks, and counted her rapid pulse, and took her temperature, and listened to her strange talk; and then, with a shake of his head, drove over to Tracy Park and stood by poor little Maude's couch, and looked into her death-white face, and counted her faint heartbeats, and tried in vain to find some word of encouragement for the stricken man, who looked about as much like death as the young girl so dear to him. And every morning, on his way from the cottage to Tracy Park, the doctor saw under the pines two young men, Tom and Dick, seated upon the iron bench each whittling a bit of pine, which one was unconsciously fashioning into a cross and the other into a grave-stone.
Tom had found Dick there working at his cross, and, after a simple good-morning, had sat down beside him and whittled in silence upon another bit of wood until the doctor appeared on his way to Tracy Park. Then the whittling ceased, and both young men arose, and, going forward, asked how Jerrie was.
'Pretty bad. Hal oughtn't to have gone, though I told him there was no danger. We must telegraph if she gets worse,' was the reply, as the doctor rode on.
Tom and Dick separated, and saw no more of each other until the next morning, when they went again, and whittled in silence under the pines until the doctor came in sight, when the same questions were asked and answered as on the previous day.
Billy never joined them, but sat under the butternut tree where Jerrie had refused him, for hours and hours watching the sluggish river, and wondering what the world would be to him if Jerrie were not in it. Had Billy been with Tom and Dick, he could not have whittled as they did, for all the nerve power had left his hands, which lay helplessly in his lap, and when he walked he looked more like a withered old man than a young one of twenty-seven.
Maude was the first to rally--her first question for Harold, her second for Jerrie--and her father, who was with her, answered truthfully that Harold had not returned, and that Jerrie was sick and could not come to her. He did not say how sick, and Maude felt no alarm, but waited patiently until Jerrie should appear. For Maude, on her brass bedstead with its silken hangings, and every possible luxury around her, there were hired nurses and a mother's care, with many kind inquiries, while it would seem as if every hand in town was stretched out to Jerrie, who was a general favorite. Flowers and fruit and delicacies of every kind were sent to the cottage, carriage after carriage stopped before the door, offer after offer of assistance was made to Mrs. Crawford, while Nina and Marian Raymond were there constantly; and Billy went to Springfield for a chair in which to wheel his sister to the cottage, for she could not yet mount into the dog-cart; and Tom and Dick whittled on until the cross and the grave-stone were finished, and, with a sickly smile, Tom said to Dick: 'Would you cut Jerrie's name upon it?'
'No; oh, no!' Dick answered, with a gasp. 'She may be better to-morrow.'
When, after a few days, the crisis was past, and Jerrie's strong constitution triumphed over the disease which had grappled with it, the whole town wore a holiday air as the people said to each other gladly: 'Jerrie is better; Jerrie will live!'
Her recovery was rapid, and within a week after the fever left her and she awoke to perfect consciousness, she was able to sit up a part of every day, and had walked across the floor and read a letter from Harold to his grandmother, full of solicitude for herself and enthusiasm for his trip over the wild mountains and across the vast plains to the lovely little city of Tacoma, built upon a cliff and looking seaward over the sound.
'Dear Harold,' Jerrie whispered. 'I shall be so glad when he comes home. Nothing can be done till then, and I am so bewildered when I try to think.'
In her weak state, everything seemed unreal to Jerrie, except the fact that she had found her mother--and such a mother! --and many times each day she thanked her God who had brought her this unspeakable joy, and asked that she might do right when the time came to act. She knew the bag was safe, for she had climbed to the top shelf and found it just where she had put it. But where were the diamonds? Had Harold taken them with him? Had he told any one? Did his grandmother know anything about them? she wondered. She tried in many ways to draw Mrs. Crawford out, but was unsuccessful, for there were now too much pain and bitterness connected with the diamonds for Mrs. Crawford to speak to her of them. The poisonous breath of gossip had been at work ever since Harold went away, quietly aided and abetted by Mrs. Tracy, who never failed to roll her eyes and shrug her shoulders when Harold's name was mentioned, and openly pushed on by Peterkin, until Tom Tracy went to him one day and threatened to have him tarred and feathered and ridden on a rail, if he ever breathed Harold's name again in connection with the diamonds.
'Wall, I swow!' was all Peterkin said, as he put an enormous quid of tobacco in his mouth, and walked away, thinking to himself, 'Twould take an all-fired while to scrape them tar and feathers off of me, I'm so big, and I b'lieve the feller meant it. Them high bucks wouldn't like no better fun than to make a spectacle of me; so I guess I'll dry up a spell.'
But the trouble did not stop with Peterkin's talk, for a neighboring Sunday paper, which fed its readers with all the choicest bits of gossip, came out with an article headed 'The Tracy Diamonds,' and after narrating the story in the most garbled and sensational manner, went on to comment upon the young man's having run away, rather than face public opinion, and to comment upon the law which could not touch him because the offence was committed so long ago.
One after another, and without either knowing that the other had done so, Tom, and Dick, and Billy, waited upon the editor of the Sunday _News_, threatening to sue him for libel if he did not retract every word of the offensive article in his next issue, which he did. But the mischief was done, and the paper found its way at last to Jerrie, sent unwittingly by Ann Eliza, who covered it over a basket of fruit and flowers which was carried one afternoon to the cottage.
Jerrie had been down stairs several times, but was in her room when the basket was brought to her. Raising the paper, she was about to throw it on the floor, when her eye caught the words, 'The Tracy Diamonds,' and with bloodless lips and wildly beating heart she read the article through, understanding the situation perfectly, and resolving at once how to act. It seemed to her that she was lifted above and out of herself, she felt so strong, and light, and well, as she threw on her bonnet and shawl, and taking the leather bag in her hand, hurried down stairs in quest of Mrs. Crawford.
'Grandma!' she exclaimed, 'why haven't you told me about Harold, and the suspicion resting on him, and why did you let him go until I was better, and what are the people saying? Tell me everything.'
Jerrie would not be put off, and Mrs. Crawford told her everything she knew, and that she herself had added to the mystery by the strange things she had said in her delirium about the diamonds, which she insisted were hers.
'And they are mine!' Jerrie said, while Mrs. Crawford looked at her in alarm, for her madness had returned.
'Where are you going?' she gasped, as Jerrie turned toward the door.
'To Tracy Park, to claim my own and clear Harold!' was the reply. 'When I come back I will tell you all, but now I cannot wait.'
'But, Jerrie, you are not strong enough to walk there, and besides they have company this afternoon, some kind of a new-fangled card party, and you must not go,' Mrs. Crawford said.
'I have the strength of twenty horses,' Jerrie said, 'and if they have company, so much the better, for there will be more to hear my story. Good-bye.'
She was off like an arrow, and went almost upon a run through the leafy woods until the house was reached, and then she stopped a moment to take breath and look about her. How very fair and beautiful it was, that home of the Tracys, and Jerrie's heart beat so hard that she felt for a moment as if she were choking to death as she sat under a maple tree and tried to think it all over, to make sure there was no mistake. Opening the box she took out two documents, and read them again as she had the night she was taken sick. One was a certificate of marriage, the other of a birth and baptism; there was no mistake.
Holding the papers in one hand and the bag in the other, she went on to the house, from which shouts of laughter were issuing, Nina's voice, and Marian's, and Tom's, and Dick's, and Mrs. Tracy's. Jerrie shuddered a little when she heard that, for it brought back to her mind all the slights she had received from that woman who was so cruel to Harold, and the pity which had been springing up in her heart ever since she looked up at the windows of Maude's room and thought of the white-faced girl lying there, died out, and it was more a Nemesis than a gentle, forgiving woman who walked boldly into the hall and entered unbidden at the drawing-room door.
Mrs. Tracy was having a progressive euchre party that afternoon. A friend in Boston had written her about it, and, proud to be the first to introduce it in Shannondale, she stood, flushed and triumphant, with the restored diamonds in her ears and at her throat, laughing merrily with the others at Judge St. Claire, who had won the booby prize--a little drum, as something he could beat--and who, with a perplexed look in his face, was staring at the thing as if he did not quite get the joke.
Apart from the rest, Frank Tracy sat looking on, though with no apparent interest in the matter. He had joined in the game because his wife told him he must, and had borne meekly her sarcastic remarks when he trumped her ace and ordered up on nothing. His thoughts were not with the cards, but up stairs with Maude, who seemed to be much better, and for whom there was constantly a prayer in his heart.
'Spare her, and I will make reparation; I will tell the truth.'
He was trying to bribe the Lord to hear him, and there was some such thought in his mind when he saw Jerrie in the door--tall, thin, and white from her recent sickness, with eyes which rolled, and shone, and flashed as Arthur's did sometimes, and falling at last upon Mrs. Tracy, where they rested with an intensity which must have drawn that lady's notice to her, if Frank had not exclaimed, as he rose to his feet: 'Jerrie! How did you get here?'
Then all turned and looked at her, and crowded around her with exclamations of surprise and inquiries as to how she got there.
For a moment Jerrie stood like one in a catalepsy, with no power to move or speak, but when Mrs. Tracy came forward, and in her iciest tones said to her: 'Good-afternoon, Miss Crawford. To what am I indebted for this unexpected pleasure?' her faculties came back, her tongue was loosened, and she replied in a clear voice, which rang through the room like a bell, and was, indeed, the knell to all the lady's greatness: 'I am here to claim my own, and to clear Harold from the foul suspicion heaped upon him--by whom, at first, I do not know, but it was helped on by you. I have seen the paper, have heard the whole from grandma, and am here to defend him. It was I who gave him the diamonds! It was for me he kept silent, and let you think what you would.'
'You gave him the diamonds?' Mrs. Tracy repeated, as one by one all the members of the party, even the judge and Tom, gathered close to her in their astonishment. 'You gave him the diamonds! You! and have come to confess yourself a--' She never finished the sentence, for something in Jerrie's face frightened her, while her husband, who had come forward, laid his hand warningly upon her arm.
So absorbed were they all that no one saw the little white-robed girl, who, they supposed, was lying up stairs in her room, but who at the sound of Jerrie's voice had, in her eagerness to see her, crept down the stairs, and now stood in the door-way opposite to Jerrie, her large, bright eyes looking in wonder upon the scene, and her ears listening intently to what was as new to her as it had been to Jerrie an hour ago.
'Don't give me the name you have more than once given to Harold,' Jerrie said, as with a gesture she silenced Mrs. Tracy. 'The diamonds are mine, not yours. Can one steal his own?'
'Yours! Your diamonds! What do you mean?' Mrs. Tracy asked.
'They were my mother's,' Jerrie replied, 'and she sent them to me.'
They all thought her crazy except Frank, to whom there had come a horrid presentiment of the truth, and who had clutched hard his wife's arm as she said questioningly, in a mocking, aggravating tone: 'And your mother was--?'
Then Jerrie stepped into the room, and stood in their midst like a queen among her subjects as she answered: 'My mother was Marguerite Heinrich, of Wiesbaden, better known to you as Gretchen; and my father is Arthur Tracy, and I am their lawful child. It is so written here,' and she held up the papers and the bag; 'I am Jerrie Tracy!'
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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45
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WHAT FOLLOWED.
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'Thank God that it is out! I couldn't have borne it much longer,' leaped involuntarily from Frank's lips.
No one heard it save Jerrie, and she scarcely heeded it then; for with one bound, as it seemed to the petrified spectators, who divided right and left to let her pass, she reached the opposite door-way, and stooping over the little figure lying there so still, lifted it tenderly, and carrying it up stairs, laid it down in the room it would never leave again until other hands than hers carried it out and laid it away in the Tracy lot, where only Jack and the dark woman were lying now.
Maude had heard all Jerrie was saying, and understood it, too; and at the words, 'I am Jerrie Tracy,' she felt an electric thrill pass over her, like what she had experienced when watching the acting in some great tragedy; then all was darkness, and she knew no more until Jerrie was bending over her and she heard her mother saying: 'Leave her to me, Miss Crawford. You have done harm enough for one day. You have killed my daughter!'
'No!' Maude cried, exerting all her strength. 'She has not hurt me. She must not go, I want her; for if what she said is true, she is my own cousin. Oh, Jerrie, I am so glad!' and throwing her arms around Jerrie's neck, Maude sobbed convulsively.
As yet Maude saw only the good which had come to her, if the news were true; the evil had not yet been presented to her, and she clung tightly to Jerrie, who, nearly distraught herself, did not know what to do. She knew that Mrs. Tracy looked upon her as an intruder, and possibly a liar; but she cared little for that lady's opinion. She only thought of Frank and what he would say.
Lifting up her head at last from the pillow where she had lain it for a moment, while Maude's thin little hands caressed the golden hair, she saw him standing at the foot of the bed, taller, straighter than she had seen him in years, with a look on his face which she knew was not adverse to herself.
'Jerrie,' he said, slowly and thickly, for something choked his speech, 'I can't tell you now all I feel, only I am glad for you and Arthur, but gladder for myself.'
What did he mean? Jerrie wondered; while Maude's eyes sought his questioningly, and his wife said, sharply: 'You are talking like a lunatic! Do you propose to give up so easily to a girl's bare word! Let Jerrie prove it, before she is mistress here.'
Then into Maude's eyes there crept a look of terror and pain, and she whispered: 'Yes, Jerrie, prove it. There were papers in your hand, and a bag, and you said, "It is so written here." Bring the papers and read them to us--here in this room. I can bear it. I must hear them. I must know.' 'Better let her have her way,' Frank said; and Dolly could have knocked him down, he spoke so cheerfully; while Jerrie answered: 'I can't read them myself aloud. They are written in German.'
'But Marian can. I saw her there. Let them all come up; they will have to know,' Maude persisted.
After a moment, during which a powerful tonic had been given to his daughter, Frank went down to his guests, who were eagerly discussing the strange story, which not one of them doubted in the least.
In her haste to reach Maude, Jerrie had dropped the bag and the two papers, which Judge St. Claire picked up and held for a moment in his hand; then passing the papers to Marian, he said: 'It can be no secret now, and Jerrie will not care. What do the papers contain?'
Running her eyes rapidly over them, Marian said: 'The first is a certificate of marriage between Arthur Tracy and Marguerite Heinrich, who were married October 20th, 18--, in the English church at Wiesbaden, by the Rev. Mr. Eaton, then the officiating clergyman. The second is a certificate of the birth and baptism of Jerrine, daughter of Arthur and Marguerite Tracy, who was born at Wiesbaden, January 1st, 18--, and christened January 8th, 18--, by the Rev. Mr. Eaton.'
Then a deep silence fell upon the group, while Tom stood like one paralyzed. He understood the situation perfectly, and knew that if Jerrie was mistress there, he could never hope to be master.
'May as well evacuate at once,' he said at last, with an attempt to smile as he walked slowly out of the house, which he felt was his inheritance no longer.
Just then Frank came down, saying that Maude insisted upon knowing what was in the papers which Marian was to read, while the others were to come up and listen. He did not seem at all like a man who had lost anything, but bustled about cheerily; and when the judge said to him apologetically, 'We know the contents of two of the papers. They are certificates of the marriage of Arthur with Gretchen, and of Jerrie's birth. I hope you don't mind if we read them,' he answered, briskly.
'Not at all--not in the least. Arthur and Gretchen! I thought so. Where is Tom? He must hear the papers.'
He found his son under the true where he had been sitting the morning when Jerrie came near fainting there, and in his hand was a curious bit of pine finished like a grave-stone--the same he had whittled under the pines, and on which he was now carving, 'Euchred, August --, 18--.'
'This is the monument to our downfall,' he said, as his father came up to him with something so pitiful in his face and voice that Frank gave way suddenly, and, sitting down beside him, laid his hand upon his tall son's head and cried for a moment like a child, while Tom's chin quivered, and he was mortally afraid there was something like tears in his own eyes, and he meant to be so brave and not show that he was hurt.
'I am sorry for you, my boy,' Frank said at last, 'but glad for Jerrie--so glad--and she will not be hard on us.'
'I shall ask no favors of her. I can stand it if you can, though money is a good thing to have.'
And then, without in the least knowing why, he thought of Ann Eliza, and wondered how her ankle was getting along, and if he ought not to have called upon her again.
'Marian is going to read the papers in Maude's room, and I have come for you,' Frank said.
'I don't care to hear them,' Tom replied. 'I am satisfied that we are beggars, and Jerrie the heiress.'
But Frank insisted, and Tom went with him to his sister's room, followed by their friends, for whom the dinner was waiting and spoiling in the kitchen, where as yet no hint of what was transpiring had reached, save the fact that Maude had been down stairs and fainted. She was propped upon pillows scarcely whiter than her face save where two crimson spots burned brightly, and her eyes were fixed constantly upon Jerrie, who sat beside her, holding her cold, clammy hands, which she occasionally patted, and kissed and caressed.
'Where did you find the bag?' the judge asked; and then Jerrie narrated the particulars of her interview with Peterkin, whose destruction of the table had resulted in her finding the bag with the diamonds in it. 'They were mother's,' she said, the last words almost a sob, as she turned her eyes upon Mrs. Tracy, who stood like a block of stone, with no sympathy or credulity upon her face. 'Father bought them for her at the same time with Mrs. Tracy's, which they are exactly like. It is so written in her letter. And she sent them for me. They are mine and I gave them to Harold to keep untill I could think what to do. The diamonds are mine.'
She was still looking at Mrs. Tracy, on whom all eyes were now resting as the precious stones flashed, and glittered, and shone in the sunlight in the hall in all the colors of the rainbow.
For an instant the proud woman hesitated, then, quickly unclasping the ear-rings and the pin, she laid them in Jerrie's lap.
'You are welcome to your property, if it is yours, I am sure,' she said, and was about to leave the room.
But her husband kept her back.
'No, Dolly,' he said. 'You must stay, and hear, and know. It concerns us all.'
As he had closed the door and stood against it she had no alternative except to stay, but she walked to the window and stood with her back to them all, while Marian put into English and read, in a clear, distinct voice, and without the least hesitation, that message from the dead.
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{
"id": "15321"
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46
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THE LETTERS.
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There were four of them--two in Arthur's handwriting: one directed to Mrs. Arthur Tracy, Wiesbaden, postmarked Liverpool; one to Margaret Heinrich, Wiesbaden, postmarked Shannondale; one in a strange handwriting to Arthur Tracy, if living; and one to Arthur Tracy's friends if he were dead, or incapable of understanding it. And it was this last which Marian read; for as Arthur was living, she felt that with his letters strangers had nothing to do. The letter to the friends, which had evidently been written at intervals, as the writer's strength would permit, was as follows: 'WIESBADEN, December ----, 18--, 'To the friends of Mr. Arthur Tracy, if he is dead, or incapable of understanding this letter, from his wife, who was Marguerite Heinrich, and whom he always called Gretchen.
'I want to tell you about it for the sake of my little Jerrie, whom, if her father is dead, I give to your care, praying God to deal with you as you are good and just to her. I was seventeen when I first saw Mr. Tracy. My father was dead. I was an only child, and my mother kept a little fancy shop in Wiesbaden. I went to school and learned what other girls like me learned--to read and write, and knit and sew, and fear God and keep His commandments. People called me pretty. I don't know that I was, but he told me so when he came to me one day as I was knitting under a tree in the park. He had a picture made of me as I was then, and it is on the wall, but I have pawned it for the rent, as I have almost everything.'
'Oh, Jerrie!' Marian exclaimed at this point.
But Jerrie's face was buried in Maude's pillow and she made no response. So Marian read on: 'He came many times, for I was always there waiting for him, I am afraid; but when he said he loved me, and wanted me for his wife I could not believe it, he was so grand, so like nobility, and I so poor and plain. Then mother died suddenly--oh, so suddenly--well to-day--dead to-morrow--with cholera, and I was left alone. ' "Gretchen we must he married now," he said to me, the night after the funeral; and I answered him, "yes, we must be married;" and we were, the next day, in the little English Church, by Mr. Eaton, the pastor. You will find the certificate with the other papers. Do you ever remember a beautiful moonlight night, when the air was soft, and warm, and sweet with many summer flowers, and there was music in the distance, and heaven seemed so near that you could almost touch the blue lining which separates it from us? Well, just like that was my life with Arthur for a few months. Oh, how I loved him, and how he loved me! It frightened me sometimes, he was so fierce and--I don't know what the word is--so something in his love. He never left me a moment. He couldn't, he said, for I was his balance-wheel, and without me he was lost. I think now he was crazy then. I know he was afterward when he did such queer things and forgot so often--sometimes the house we lived in, sometimes his own name, and at last, me, his Gretchen! That was so sad, when he went away, and stayed away for weeks, and said he had forgotten. But he was sorry, too, and made it up, and for ten day heaven came down again so I could touch it; then he went away and I have never seen him since.
'You must excuse me, his friends--if I stop a little while to cry; it makes me no lonesome to think of the long years--four and more--which have been buried with the yesterdays, under the flowers, and under the snow, since Arthur went away and left me all alone. If I had told him, he might have come back, he was so fond of children; but I was not sure, and would not tell a lie, and let him go without a hint. I wrote him once I had something to tell him when he came which would make him glad, as it did me, and he never replied to it, though he wrote two or three times more, and sent me money, but did not tell me where he was, only he was being cured, he said--that was all. In January my baby was born, and I had her christened Jerrine, by Mr. Eaton. You will find it among the papers. Then, how I longed for him, and waited, and watched; but he never came, and I knew he had forgotten; but I did not doubt his love, or that he would one day come back; and I tried to improve myself and learn what was in books, so I could mate with him better when he came home, which he never did; and the years went on, and my little Jerrine grew more lovely every day. She is standing by me now, and says, "Are you writing to him?"
'Darling Jerrie, you will be kind to her, won't you, for his sake, and for me, too, who will be dead when you yet this?'
Jerrie was sobbing now, and Maude's arm was around her neck, while Frank had walked to a window, and, like his wife, was looking out upon the lawn, which he did not see for the tears which filled his eyes.
'When the money stopped,' the letter went on, 'we grew so poor, Jerrie and I and Nannine--that is the French woman who lives with me and whom Jerrie calls Mah-nee. She will bring my child to you when I am dead; and oh, be kind to her, for a truer, more faithful woman never lived. She is such a comfort to me, except when she scolds about Arthur and calls him a _bête noire_, which he is not, as you will see. He was shut up, I don't know where, but think it was where they put people with bad heads, and he forget everything till he was out, and as far as Paris on his way to America. Then he remembered and wrote me from Liverpool such a letter--full of love and sorrow for the past, and sent me such lovely diamonds, just like those he had bought for his sister in America, he said--and he was going home at such a date on the Scotia, and he wished me to join him in Liverpool. I send the letter with this to prove that I write true. But it was too late, for I was too weak to travel; neither could I write to him, for he gave me no address. 'That was last September, and I have been dying ever since, for my heart broke when I thought of what was and what might have been could I have found him. The money he sent me then I am saving for Nannine and Jerrie to take them to America when I am dead. All the days and nights I prayed that Arthur might remember and write me again, and God heard, and he did; and five days ago I received his letter. So crazy it was, but just as full of love and tenderness and a desire to see me. He told me of his lovely home and the Gretchen room, where my picture is in the window; and in case there should be no one to meet me at the station when I arrived he sent me directions how to find Tracy Park, and told me just what to do when I reached New York. He would come for me himself, he said, only the sea made him so sick and he was afraid he should forget everything if he did. But you will see in his letter what he wrote and how fond he was of me; and if he is alive and too crazy to understand now, tell him, when he is better, how I loved him and prayed for him every hour that God would bring him, at last, where I am going so soon. Nannine will take him my Bible, with passages marked by me, and a photograph which I had taken a year ago, and which will tell you how I looked then. Now I am so thin and pale that Arthur would hardly know me. I send, too, a lock of Jerrie's hair, cut when she was three weeks old. Darling Jerrie! She is such a comfort to me, and so old and womanly for her years! She will remember much of our life here, for she notices everything and understands it, too, and goes over, as in a play, what she sees and hears.
'We have been cold and hungry sometimes; but not often; the neighbors are so kind; and when I am dead they will see that Nannine is made ready for America, with Jerrie; and the papers, and the diamonds, which I might have pawned when our need was greatest, but I could not. I must save them for Jerrie, and may she wear them some day, and many days in the years to come, when her mother is dust and ashes in the ground, but a glorified spirit in Paradise, where I shall watch over her, and, if I can, be with her often, and keep myself in her mind, so that she will never forget my face or the old home in Germany.
'God bless my little daughter, and make her a true, noble woman; and God bless you, Arthur's friends, who read this, and incline you to be kind and just to Jerrie, and see that she has her own; for there must be money at Tracy Park; and if you are poor and Jerrie comes rich, tell her from her mother to be kind to you, and give as you have given to her. Now I must stop, I am so tired, and it is growing dark, and Nannie has opened the stove door to let the light fall on the paper in my lap, and Jerrie is standing by me and says, "Are you going to God pretty soon?"
'Yes, darling, very soon--to-night, perhaps, or to-morrow, or when He will. The air grows cold, the night is coming on, my eyes grow dim, my head is tired. I think, yes, I think it will be to-morrow.
'Good-bye.
'GRETCHEN TRACY.'
As she finished reading Marian arose, and going up to Jerrie kissed her lovingly and said to her in German: 'That was your mother's picture in our old home in Wiesbaden. I am so glad for you.'
A low sob was Jerrie's reply, and then Judge St. Claire asked: 'Is that all?'
'Yes,' Marian said; 'All except Mr. Tracy's letters to Gretchen. Oh, no,' she added; 'there is something more;' and feeling in the bag, she drew out two small papers, one crumpled and worn, as if it had been often referred to, the other folded neatly and tied with a white ribbon.
This Marian opened first, and found it to be a certificate, written in English, to the effect that Mrs. Arthur Tracy, _née_ Marguerite Heinrich, died at such a date and was buried by the Rev. Mr. Bellows, the resident rector of the English church; the other was in Arthur's handwriting, and the directions he had written to his wife, as to what she was to do and how to find Tracy Park.
'Yes,' Judge St. Claire said, coming forward and taking the paper from her hand, 'this is what the station-master saw the poor woman examining that night in the storm. She probably dropped it into the bag without stopping to fold it. There can be no doubt.'
Then a deep silence reigned for a moment in the room, until Mrs. Tracy, who, all through the reading had stood like a block of granite by the window, turned and walking swiftly up to Jerrie, said, in a bitter tone: 'Of course there is no mistake. I do not doubt that you are mistress here, and am ready to leave at once. Shall we pack up and quit to-night?'
'Dolly!' 'Mother!' came angrily and sternly from both Tom and Frank, and 'Oh, mamma, please,' came faintly from Maude, while Jerrie lifted up her head, and looking steadily at the cruel woman, said: 'Why are you so hard with me? I cannot help it. I am not to blame. I mean to do right; only wait--a little. I am so sick now--so dizzy and blind. Oh, somebody lead me out where I can breathe. I am choking here.'
It was Tom who reached her first, and passing his arm around her, took her into the open air and to a seat under the tree where once before she had almost fainted, as she did now, with her head upon his shoulder, for he put it there, and then pushed her hair back from her face as he said lightly: 'Don't take it so hard; if we can stand it, you can!'
Then Jerrie straightened up and said: 'Oh, Tom, do you want to kill me now?'
'What do you mean?' he asked, and she replied: 'Don't you know you said under the pines that you would kill any claimant to Tracy Park who might appear against you?'
'I remember it,' Tom said, 'but I didn't think then that the claimant would be Jerrie, my cousin,' and he put his arm around her as he continued: 'I can't say that I am not awfully cut up to be turned neck and heels out of what I believed would be my own, but if it must be, I am glad it is you who do it, for I know you'll not be hard upon us, or let Uncle Arthur be, even if mother is so mean. Remember, Jerrie, that I loved you and asked you to be my wife when I believed you poor and unknown.'
Tom was very politic and was speaking good words for himself, but all the good there was in him seemed now to be on the surface and while inwardly rebelling at his misfortune, he felt a thrill of joy in knowing that Jerrie was his cousin, and would not be hard upon him.
'Shall we go back to the house?' he said at last, and they went back, meeting the people upon the piazza, where they stopped for a moment while Jerrie's hands were shaken, and she was kissed and congratulated that at last the mystery was cleared, and her rights restored to her.
'Mr. Arthur Tracy ought to be here,' Judge St. Claire said.
'Yes, I'd thought of that,' Tom replied, first, 'and shall telegraph him to-morrow,' Then they said good night, and without going in to see either Mr. or Mrs. Tracy again, Tom and Jerry walked slowly toward the cottage, through the leafy woods, where the trees met in graceful arches overhead, and the moonlight fell in silver flecks upon the grass, and the summer air was odorous and sweet with the smell of the pines and the balm of Gilead trees scattered here and there. It was a lovely place, and Tom thought so with a keen sense of pain, as, after leaving Jerrie at her gate, he walked slowly back until he reached the four pines, where he sat down to think and wonder what he should do as a poor man, with neither business nor prospects.
'I don't suppose the governor has laid up much,' he said, 'for since Uncle Arthur came home he has done very little business, and has spent what really was his own recklessly and without a thought of saving, he was so sure to have enough at last, and Uncle Arthur was so free to give us what we asked for. But that will end when he knows he has a daughter, and as he never fancied me much, I shall either have to beg, or work, or starve, or marry a rich wife, which is not so easy for a poor dog to do. I don't suppose that Governor's daughter would look at me now, nor anyone else who is anybody. By George, I ought to have called on Ann Eliza before this time. I wonder if it's too late to go there now. I believe I'll walk round there anyway, and if I see a light, I'll go in, and if old _paterfamilias_--how I'd like to kick him--is there, I'll tell him the news, and that I know now he did not strike Jerrie with the table-leg, and perhaps I'll apologize for what I said when in the car. Tom Tracy, you are a scoundrel, and no mistake,' he added, with energy, as he arose, and struck into the field, through which he had dragged Ann Eliza the night of the storm.
There were lights at Le Bateau, and Tom was soon shaking hands with old _paterfamilias_, who was at home, and with Ann Eliza, who was now able to come down stairs.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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47
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ARTHUR.
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He had enjoyed himself immensely, from the moment he first caught sight of grand old Pike's Peak on the distant plains until he entered the city of the Golden Gate, and, standing on the terrace of the Cliff House, looked out upon the blue Pacific, with the sea lions disporting on the rocks below. For he went there first, and then to China-town, and explored every nook and corner, and opium den in it, and drank tea at twenty dollars a pound in a high-toned restaurant, and visited the theatre and the Joss House, and patronized the push-cars, as he called them, every day, and experienced a wonderful exhilaration of spirits, as he sat upon the front seat, with the fresh air blowing in his face, and only the broad, steep street, lined with palaces, before him.
'This is heaven! this clears the cobwebs!' he would say to Charles, who sat beside him with chattering teeth and his coat-collar pulled high about his ears, for the winds of San Francisco are cold even in the summer.
Arthur's first trip was to the Yosemite, taking the Milton route, and meeting with the adventure he so much desired; for in the early morning, between Chinese Camp and Priest's, the stage was suddenly stopped by two masked marauders, one of whom stood at the horses' heads, while the other confronted the terrified passengers with the blood-curling words: 'Hands up, every soul of you!'
And the hands went up from timid women and strong men, until click-dick came in rapid succession from the driver's box, where Arthur sat, and shot after shot followed each other, one bullet grazing the ear of the highwayman at the horses' head, and another cutting through the slouched hat of his comrade near the stage.
'Leave, or I'll shoot you dead! I've five more shots in this one, and two more revolvers in my pockets, and I'm not afraid!' Arthur yelled, jumping about like a maniac, as for the time being he was, and so startling the robbers that they fled precipitately, followed for a little distance by Arthur, who leaped from the stage and started in pursuit, with a revolver in each hand, and ball after ball flying ahead of him as he ran.
When at last he came back, the passengers flocked around him, grasping his hands and blessing him as the preserver of their money, if not of their lives. After that Arthur was a lion, whom all people in the valley wished to see and talk with, and with whom the landlord bore as he had never borne with a guest before, for Arthur found fault with the rooms, which he likened to bath-tubs, and fault with the smells which came from the river, and fault with the smoke in the parlour, but made ample amends by the money he spent so lavishly, the scores of photographs he bought, and the puffs he wrote for the San Francisco papers, extolling the valley as the very gate of heaven, and the hotel as second only to the Palace, and signing himself "Bumble Bees."
He went on every trail, and started for the highest possible peak, and when he stood on the top of old Capitan and looked down upon the world below, he capered and shouted like a madman, singing at the top of his voice, "Mine eye have seen the coming of the glory of the Lord, glory, glory, hallelujah!" until the rocky gorges rang with the wild echoes which went floating down the valley below, where the sun was shining so brightly and the grass was growing so green.
On his return to San Francisco after an absence of several weeks, he took up his abode at the Palace Hotel, which he turned topsy-turvy with his vagaries; but as in the valley, so here in the city, the landlord could afford to bear much from one who spent his money so freely and paid so lavishly; and so he was allowed to change rooms every day if he liked, and half the plumbers in the city were called in to see what caused the smells which he declared worse than anything he had ever met in his life, and which were caused in part by the disinfectants which he bought by the wholesale and kept in his bath room, his wash-room, and under his bed, until the chambermaid tied her nose in camphor when she went in to do her work.
But his career was brought to a close suddenly one morning in August, when, just as he was taking his coffee and rolls in his room, Charles brought him the following telegram: 'Come immediately. There's the devil to pay.
'TOM TRACY.'
Arthur read the message two or three times, not at all disturbed by it, but vastly amused at its wording; then, putting it down, he went on with his breakfast until it was finished, when he took a card from his pocket and wrote upon it: 'Pay him then, for I sha'n't come. ARTHUR TRACY.'
This was handed to Charles with instructions to forward it to Tracy Park. This done, he gave no further thought to the message so full of such import to himself, but began to talk of and plan his contemplated trip to Tacoma by the next steamer which sailed. It was six o'clock when he had his dinner in his own private parlour, where he was served by both Charles and a waiter, and where a second telegram was brought him.
'Confound it,' he said, 'have they nothing to do at home but to torment me with telegrams? Didn't I tell them to pay the old Harry and have done with it? What do they mean?' and putting the envelope down by his plate he went quietly on with his dinner until he was through, when he took it up, and, breaking the seal, read: 'Come at once. I need you. JERRIE.'
That changed everything, and with a bound he was in the next room, gesticulating fiercely, and ordering Charles to step lively and get everything in readiness to start home on the first eastward bound train which left San Francisco.
'That rascally Tom is a liar,' he said. 'It's not the old Harry to pay. It's Jerrie. Do you hear, it's Jerrie. Bring me some paper, quick, and don't stand staring at me as if I were a lunatic. It's Jerrie who needs me.'
Charles brought the paper, on which his master wrote: 'Coming on the wings of the wind, Yours respectfully, 'ARTHUR TRACY.'
In less than half an hour this singular message was flying along the wires across the continent, and within a few hours Arthur was following it as fast as the steam horse could take him.
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{
"id": "15321"
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48
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WHAT THEY WERE DOING AND HAD DONE IN SHANNONDALE.
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If the earth had opened suddenly and swallowed up half the inhabitants of Shannondale the other half could not have been more astonished than they were at the news which Peterkin was the first to tell them, and which he had risen very early to do, before some one else should be before him. Irascible and quick-tempered as he was, he was easily appeased, and the fact that Jerrie was Arthur Tracy's daughter changed his opinion of her at once.
'The biggest heiress in the county except my Ann 'Liza, and, by gum, I'm glad on't for her and Arthur. I allus said she was hisen, and by George, to think that I helped her into her fortin, for if I hadn't of knocked that rotten old table down she'd of never found them memoirs,' he said to the first person to whom he communicated the news, and then hurried off to buttonhole and enlighten others, until everybody knew and was discussing the strange story.
Before noon scores of people had found it in their way to walk past the cottage, hoping to catch sight of Jerrie, while several went in and told her how glad they were for her and Mr. Arthur, and looked at her with wondering eyes as if she were not quite the same girl they had known as Jerrie Crawford.
When, the previous night, Mrs. Crawford had listened to the story Jerrie told her after her return from the Park House, she had been for a few moments stupefied with amazement, and had sat motionless on her chair until she felt Jerrie's soft hands upon her head smoothing her silvery hair, and Jerrie's voice said to her: 'Dear grandma, I told you your working days were over, and they are, for what is mine is yours and Harold's, and my home is your home always, so long as you live.'
The poor old lady put her head upon Jerrie's arm and cried hysterically for a moment; then she rallied, and brushing away her tears, kissed the young girl who had been so much to her, and whom for a brief moment she feared she might have lost. Far into the night they sat, talking of the past and the future, and of Harold, who was in Tacoma, where he might have to remain for three or four weeks longer. He had written several times to his grandmother and once to Jerrie, but had made no mention of the diamonds, while in her letters to him Mrs. Crawford had refrained from telling him what some of the people were saying, and the construction they were putting upon his absence. Jerrie had not yet written to him, but, 'I shall to-morrow,' she said, 'and tell him to hurry home, for I need him now, if ever.'
Jerrie was very tired when she went at last to bed, but the dreamless sleep which came upon her, and which lasted until a late hour in the morning, did her good, and probably saved her from a relapse, which might have proved fatal. Still she was very pale and weak when she went down stairs about nine o'clock and found Tom waiting for her. He had been up since sunrise, strolling through the park, with a troubled, sorry look on his face for he was extremely sorry for himself, though very glad for Jerrie, whose sworn ally he was and would be to the end. In a way he had tried to comfort his mother by telling her that neither his uncle nor Jerrie would be unjust to her, if she'd only behave herself, and treat the latter as she ought, and not keep up such a high and mighty and injured air, as if Jerrie had done something wrong in finding out who she was.
But Dolly would not be comforted, and her face wore a sullen, defiant expression, as she moved about the handsome house where she had queened it so long that she really looked upon it as her own, resenting bitterly the thought that another was to be mistress there. She had talked with her husband, and made him tell her exactly how much he was worth in his own right, and when he told her how little it was, she had exclaimed, angrily: 'We are beggars, and may as well go back to Langley and sell codfish again.'
She had seen Tom that morning, and when to her question, 'Why are you up so early?' he replied, 'To attend to Jerrie's affairs,' she tossed her head scornfully, and said: 'Before I'd crawl after any girl, much less Jerrie Crawford! You'd better be attending to your own sister. She's worse this morning, and looks as if she might die any minute.'
Then Tom went to Maude, who, since the shock of the night before, had lain as if she were dead, except for her eyes, in which there was a new and wondrous light, and which looked up lovingly at Tom as he came in and kissed her, a most unusual thing for him to do.
'Dear Tom,' she whispered, 'come closer to me,' and as he bent down to her, she continued, 'is every thing Jerrie's?'
'Yes, or will be. She is Uncle Arthur's daughter.'
'Shall we be very poor?'
'Yes, poor as a church mouse.'
Then there was a pause, and when Maude spoke again she said slowly: 'For me, no matter--sorry for you, and father and mother; but glad for Jerrie. Stand by her, Tom; tell mother not to be so bitter--it hurts me. Tell Harold, when he comes, I meant to do so much for him, but Jerrie will do it instead. Tell her I must see her, and send for Uncle Arthur.'
There was a lump in Tom's throat as he left his sister's room, and going to the village, telegraphed to his uncle's head-quarters at the Palace Hotel, San Francisco, that he was to come at once.
At least a hundred people stopped him on his way to the office, asking if what they had heard was true, and to all he replied: 'True as the gospel; we are floored, as Peterkin would say.'
And then he hurried to the cottage to see Jerrie, and tell her of the message sent to Arthur, though not how it was worded After a moment he continued, hesitatingly, as if half ashamed of it: 'I called at _Lubbertoo_ last night to enquire after Ann Eliza's foot, and you ought to have seen Peterkin when I told him the news. At first he could not find any word in his vocabulary big enough to swear by, but after a little one came to him, and what do you think it was?'
Jerrie could not guess, and Tom continued.
He said, "by the great Peterkin!" and then he swowed, and vowed, and snummed, and vummed, and dummed, and finally said he was glad of it, and had always known you were a Tracy. Ann Eliza was so glad she cried, and I think Billy cried, too, for he left the room suddenly, with very suspicious-looking eyes. Why, everybody is glad for you, Jerrie, and nobody seems to think how mean it is for us; but I'm not going to whine. I'm glad it's you, and so is Maude, and she wants to see you. I believe she's going to die, and--and--Jerrie--' Something choked Tom for a moment, then he went on: 'If Uncle Arthur should get high, and order us out at once, as father seems to think he will, you'll--you'll--let us stay while Maude lives, won't you?'
'Tom,' Jerrie said, reproachfully, 'What do you take me for, and why does your father think his brother will order him out?'
'I don't know,' Tom replied, 'but he seems awfully afraid to meet him. Mother says he was up all night walking the floor and talking to himself, and yet he says he is glad, and he is coming this morning to see you and talk it over. I believe I hear him now speaking to Mrs. Crawford. Yes, 'tis he; so I guess I'll go; and when I hear from my telegram I'll let you know. Good-bye.'
A moment after Tom left the room his father entered it, looking haggard and old, and frightened, too, it seemed to Jerrie, as she went forward to meet him with a cheery 'good-morning, Uncle Frank.'
It was the first time she had addressed him by that name, and her smile was so bright and her manner so cordial that for an instant the cloud lifted from his face, but soon came back darker than ever as he declined the seat she offered him and stood tremblingly before her.
Frank had not slept a wink the previous night, nor had he been in bed, but had walked his room until his wife said to him angrily: 'I thought you were glad; seems to me you don't act like it; but for pity's sake stop walking, or go somewhere else do it and not keep me awake.'
Then he went into the hall outside, and there he walked the livelong night, trying to think what he should say to Jerrie, and wondering what she would say to him, for he meant to tell her everything. Nothing could prevent his doing that; and as soon as he thought she would see him he started for the cottage, taking with him the Bible, the photograph and the letter he had secreted so long. All the way there, he was repeating to himself the form of speech with which he should commence, but when Jerrie said to him, so graciously, 'Good morning, Uncle Frank,' the words left him, and he began, impetuously; 'Don't call me uncle. Don't speak to me, Jerrie, until you have heard what I have come to confess on my knees, with my white head upon the floor, if you will it so, and that would not half express the shame and remorse with which I stand before you and tell you I am a cheat, a liar, a villain, and have been since that day when I first saw you and that dead woman we thought your mother.'
Jerrie was dumb with surprise, and did not speak or move as he went on rapidly, telling her the whole, with no attempt at an excuse for himself, except so far as to report what he had done in a business point of view, making provision for her in case of his death and enjoining it upon his children to see that his wishes were carried out.
'Here is the Bible,' he said, laying the book in her lap. 'Here is the photograph, and here the letter which you gave me to post, and which, had it been sent, might have cleared the mystery sooner.'
He had made his confession, and he stood before her with clasped hands and an expression upon his face such as a criminal might wear when awaiting the jury's decision. But Jerrie neither looked at him nor spoke, for through a rain of tears she was gazing upon the sweet face, sadder and thinner than the face of Gretchen in the window, but so like it that there could be no mistaking it, and so like to the face which had haunted her so often, and seemed so near to her.
'Mother, mother! I remember you as you are here, sick and sorry, but oh, so lovely!' she said, as she pressed her lips again and again to the picture, with no thought or care for the wretched man who had come a step nearer to her, and who said at last: 'Will you never speak to me, Jerrie? Never tell me how much you despise me?'
'Then she looked up at the face quivering with anguish and entreaty, and the sight melted her at once. Indeed, as he had talked she had scarcely felt any resentment toward him, for she was sure that though his error had been great, his contrition and remorse had been greater, and she thought of him only as Maude's father and the man who had always been kind to her. And she made him believe at last that she forgave him for Maude's sake, if not for his own.
'Had my life been a wretched one because of your conduct,' she said, 'I might have found it harder to forgive you, but it has not. I have not been the daughter of Tracy Park, it is true, but I have been the petted child of the cottage, and I would rather have lived with Harold in poverty all these years than to have been rich without him. And do you know, I think it was noble in you to tell me, when you might have kept it to yourself.'
'No, no. I couldn't have done that much longer,' he exclaimed, energetically, as he began to walk up and down the room. 'I could not bear it. And the shadow which for years has been with me night and day, counselling me for bad, was growing so black, and huge, and unendurable that I must have confessed or died. But it is gone now, or will be when I have told my brother.'
'Told your brother! Mr. Tracy--Uncle Frank--you cannot mean to do that?' Jerrie exclaimed.
'But I do mean to do it,' Frank replied, 'as a part of my punishment, and he will not forgive as you have done. He will turn me out at once, as he ought to do.'
Jerrie thought this very likely, and with all her powers she strove to dissuade Frank from making a confession which could do no possible good, and might result in untold harm.
'Remember Maude,' she said, 'and the effect this thing would have upon her if your brother should resort to immediate and violent means, as he might in his first frenzy.'
'But, I mean to tell Maude, too,' Frank replied.
Then Jerrie looked upon him as madder than Arthur himself, and talked so rapidly and argued so well that he consented at last to keep his own counsel, for the present at least, unless the shadow still haunted him, in which case he must tell as an act of contrition or penance.
'He will think the photograph came with the other papers in the bag,' Jerrie said, as she kissed the sweet face, which looked so much like life that it was hard to think there was not real love and tenderness in the eyes which looked into hers so steadfastly.
It was the hardest to forgive the letter hidden so long, and Jerrie did feel a pang of resentment, or something like it, as she took it in her hand and thought of the day when Arthur had confided it to her, saying he could trust her when he could not another. And she had trusted Frank, who had not been true to the trust, and here, after the lapse of years, was the letter, in her hands, with its singular superscription, covering its whole side, and its seal unbroken. But she would break it now. Surely she might do that, if Arthur was never to see it; and after a moment's hesitancy, she opened it, and read, first, wild, crazy sentences, full of love and tenderness for the little Gretchen to whom they were addressed, and whom the writer sometimes spoke to as living, and again as dead. There was the expression of a strong desire to see her, a wish for her to come where her husband was waiting for her, and her diamonds too. Here Jerrie started with an exclamation of surprise, and involuntarily read aloud: 'The most exquisite diamonds you ever saw, and I long to see them on you. They are safe, too--safe from her--Mrs. Frank Tracy--who had the boldness to flaunt them in my face at a party the other night. How she came by them I can't guess; but I know how she lost them, I found them on her dressing-table, where she left them when she went to breakfast, and took possession at once. That was no theft, for they are mine, or rather yours, and are waiting for you in my private drawer, where no one has ever looked, except a young girl called Jerrie, who interests me greatly, she is so much like what you must have been when a child. There has been some trouble about the diamonds--I hardly know what, my head is in such a buzzing most of the time that everything goes from me but you. Oh, if I had remembered you years ago as I do now--' Jerrie could read no further, for the letter dropped from her hands, as she cried joyfully: 'I knew he had them. I was sure of it, though I did not know where they were.'
Then very briefly she explained to Frank that on the morning when the diamonds were missed, Arthur was so excited because Harold had been in a way accused, and had rambled off into German, and said many things which made her know that he had taken them himself and secreted them.
'You remember my sickness,' she said, and how strangely I talked of going to prison as an accessory or a substitute? Well, it was for your brother I was ready to go; and when he told me, as he did one day, that he knew nothing of the diamonds, I was never more astonished in my life; but afterward, as I grew older, I came to believe that he had forgotten them, as he did other things, and that some time he would remember and make restitution, I am glad we know where they are, but we cannot get them until he returns. When do you think that will be?'
Frank did not know. It would depend, he said, upon whether he was in San Francisco when Tom's telegram was received. If he were and started at once, travelling day and night, he would be home in a week.
It seemed a long time to wait in Jerrie's state of mind, and very, very short to the repentant man, who shrank from his brother's return as from an impending evil, although it was a relief to think that he need not tell him what a hypocrite he had been.
'Thank you, Jerrie,' he said at last, as he rose to go, 'Thank you for being so kind to me. I did not deserve it. I did not expect it. Heaven bless you. I am glad for you, and so is Maude. Oh, Jerrie, heaven is dealing hard with me to take her from me, and yet it is just. I sinned for her; sinned to see her in the place I was sure was yours, although the shadow was always telling me that I did not and never could know for sure that you were Arthur's child; but I did, and I meant to go to Germany some day, when I had the language a little better, and clear it up, and then I had promised myself to tell you. Will you lay again that you forgive me before I go back to Maude?'
He was standing before her with his white head dropped upon his hat, the very picture of misery and remorse, and Jerrie laid her hand upon his head, and said: 'I do forgive you, Uncle Frank, fully and freely, for Maude's sake if no other; and if she lives what is mine shall be hers. Tell her so, and tell her I am coming to see her as soon as I am able, I am so tired to-day, and everything is so strange. Oh, if Harold were here.'
Jerrie was indeed so tired and exhausted that for the remainder of the day she lay upon the couch in her room, seeing no one but Judge St. Claire and Tom, both of whom came up together, the latter bringing the answer to his telegram, and asking what to do next.
'Why, Tom,' Jerrie said, as she read Arthur's reply, 'pay him then, for I shan't come,' what does he mean? What did you say to him, and whom are you to pay?'
With a half comical smile Tom replied, 'I told him the Old Nick was to pay, though I am afraid I used a stronger name for his Satanic majesty than that. I guess you'll have to try what you can do.'
And so Jerrie's message, 'I need you,' went across the continent, and brought the ready response, 'coming on the wings of the wind.' It was Judge St. Claire who wrote to Harold, for Jerrie's nerveless fingers could not grasp the pen, and she could only dictate what she wished the judge to say.
'Tell him everything,' she said, 'and how much I want him here; and tell him, too, of Maude, whose life hangs on a thread. That may bring him sooner.'
It was three days before Jerrie went again to the Park House, and then Tom came for her, saying Maude was failing very fast. The shock which had come upon her so suddenly with regard to Jerrie's birth and the suspicions resting upon Harold had shortened the life nearing its close, and the moment Jerrie entered the room she knew the worst, and with a storm of sobs and tears knelt by the sick girl's couch and cried: 'Oh, Maude, Maude, I can't bear it. I'd give up everything to save you. Oh, Maude, Maude, you don't know how much I love you!'
Maude was very calm, though her lips quivered a little and the tears filled her eyes as she put her hand caressingly upon Jerrie's golden hair. A great change had come over Maude since the night when she heard Jerrie's strange story--a change for the better some might have thought, although the physician who attended her gave no hope. She neither coughed nor suffered pain, and could talk all she liked, although often in a whisper, she was so very weak. 'Yes, Jerrie,' she said, 'I know you love me, and it makes me very glad, and dying seems easier for it; for, Jerrie, oh, Jerrie! once before I knew about you, and when I feared I might die, I wrote something on paper for father to see when I was dead, and it was that he should take you in my place, you and Harold.'
Maude's voice shook a little here, but she soon steadied it and went on: 'I wanted him to give you what I thought would be mine had I lived, and what all the time was yours. Oh, Jerrie, how can you help hating me, who have stood so long where you ought to have stood, and enjoyed what you ought to have enjoyed?'
'Maude,' Jerrie cried, as she kissed the little wan face, 'don't talk like that; as if I, or any one, could ever have hated you. Why, I worshiped you as some little empress when I used to see you in your bright sashes and yellow kid boots, with the amber beads around your neck; and if the contrast between your finery and my high-necked gingham apron and white sun-bonnet sometimes struck me painfully, I had no wish to take the boots and sashes from you, whom they fitted so admirably; and as we grew older and you did not shrink from or slight Jerrie Crawford, I cannot tell you how great was the love which grew in my heart for you, the dearest girl friend I ever had, and a thousand times dearer now that I know you are my cousin.'
Maude was silent for a moment, and then she asked abruptly: 'Jerrie, why did you never fall in love with Harold?'
'Oh, Maude!' and Jerrie started as if Maude had struck her, while the tell-tale blood rushed to her face, and into her eyes there came a look which even Maude could not understand.
'Jerrie,' she exclaimed, 'forgive me. I didn't know, I never guessed, I was go stupid; but I have been thinking so much since Harold went away. Does he know about you? who you are? and how long before he will come home?'
'Judge St. Claire wrote him everything three days ago,' Jerrie replied, 'and told him how sick you were. That will surely bring him at once, if it is possible for him to leave; but it will he three or four days now before the letter will reach him, and take a week for him to come. Would you like to see him very much?'
'Yes,' Maude answered with a sob, 'very much, but I never shall. Jerrie, did Harold ever--did he--does he--love you?'
'He never told me so,' Jerrie answered, frankly; 'but I have thought that he loved you' 'N--no,' Maude answered, piteously, with the great tears in her eyes. 'It is all a mistake, and when I am dead and Harold comes, promise to tell him something from me, will you?'
'Yes,' Jerrie answered, and Maude continued: 'Tell him the very first time you and he are alone together, and speak of me, that I have been thinking and thinking until it came to me clear as day that it was all a mistake, a stupid blunder on my part. I was always stupid, you know; but I believe my brain is a little clearer now. Will you tell him, Jerrie?'
'Mistake about what?' Jerrie asked with a vague apprehension that the task imposed upon her might not be a pleasant one if she know all it involved.
'Harold will tell you what,' Maude answered 'He will understand what I mean, and you must tell him, for I shall not be here when he comes, I am sure of it. I hope to live till Uncle Arthur comes, for I must see him and ask him not to be hard on poor father, and tell him that I am sorry that I have been so long in your place where you should have been. You will stay here when he comes, and be with me to the last. I want you with me--want you to hold my hand when I say good-bye for ever. You are so strong that I shall not be afraid with you to see and hear as long as I hear and see anything.'
'And are you afraid?' Jerrie asked, and Maude replied: 'Of the death struggle, yes; but not what lies beyond where He is, the Saviour, for I know I am going to Heaven; and when you think me asleep I am often praying silently for more faith and love, and for you all, that you may one day come where I soon shall be. Heaven is very, very beautiful, for I have seen it in my dreams--a material heaven some would say, for there are trees and flowers, and grass; and on a golden bench, beneath a tree whose leaves are like emeralds, and whose blossoms are like pearls, I am sitting, on the bank of a shining river, resting, resting, and waiting, as little Pilgrim waited for the coming of the Master, and for you all.'
Maude was very tired now, and her voice was so low that Jerrie could scarcely hear it, while the eyelids drooped heavily, and in a few moments she fell asleep, with a rapt look on her as if she were already resting on the golden seat beneath the tree whose leaves were emeralds and whose blossoms were like pearls.
That night Jerrie wrote as follows: 'Dear Harold, come home as soon as you can, for Maude is very low, and, unless you come soon, you will never see her again. The judge has written you of me, but I must tell you myself that nothing can ever change me from the Jerrie of old; and the fact which makes me the happiest is that now I can help you who have been so kind to me. How I long to see you and talk it all over. We expect Mr. Arthur in a few days. I cannot call him father yet, until he has given me the right to do so by calling me daughter first; but to myself I am calling Gretchen mother all the time--dear, sweet, darling little mother! Oh, Harold, you must come home and share my happiness. Truly Harold, you ought to see how stiffly Mrs. Tracy carries herself toward me--stiffer, if possible, than she did when I came up the front steps in my muddy shoes and she bade me go round to the back door. Poor Mrs. Tracy!'
During the next few days Jerrie stayed with Maude, who constantly grew weaker and weaker, and who asked about every hour if anything had been heard from her uncle since his message that he was coming.
'I shall never see Harold,' she said to Jerrie; but I must live till uncle Arthur comes, and you are put in your right place.'
And at last, one lovely September morning, a telegram was brought to Frank from Charles, which said the travellers would be home that afternoon, and that the carriage must be sent to meet them.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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49
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TELLING ARTHUR.
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Who should do the telling was the question which for some time was discussed by Frank and Judge St. Claire and Jerrie. Naturally the task fell upon the latter, who for three or four days prior to Arthur's arrival remained altogether at the Park House, watching by Maude, and going over and over again in her mind what she should say and how she should commence.
At last the announcement came that Arthur was in Albany, and then it seemed to Jerrie that she had suddenly turned into stone, for every thought and feeling had left her, and she had no plan or action or speech as she moved mechanically about Arthur's rooms, making them bright with flowers, especially the Gretchen room, which seemed a bower of beauty when her skilful hands had finished it. Once, as she was passing through the hall with her arms full of flowers she met Mrs. Tracy, whose face wore a most forbidding expression as she said: 'I hope you will leave a few flowers for Maude. You know she likes them so much.'
Jerrie made no reply, but by the pang of resentment which shot through her heart at the smallness of the woman, she knew she was not past all feeling, and that there was still something human in the stone, as she had styled herself.
Slowly the day wore on, every minute seeming an hour, and every hour a day, until at last Jerrie heard the carriage driving down the avenue, and not long after the whistle of the engine in the distance. Then, bending over Maude and kissing her fondly, she said: 'Pray for me, darling, I am going to meet my father.'
Arthur had been very quiet during the first part of the journey from San Francisco, and it was with difficulty that Charles could get a word from him.
'Let me alone,' he said once, when spoken to. 'I am with Gretchen. She is on the train with me, and I'm trying to make out what it is she is telling me.'
But after Chicago was left behind his mood changed, and he became as wild and excitable as he had before been abstracted and silent. Sometimes he was on the top of old Capitan, looking down into the valley below, and singing 'glory, hallelujah,' at the top of his voice, while the startled passengers kept aloof from him as from a lunatic. Again he was out upon the platform urging the conductor to greater speed; and when at last Shannondale was reached, he bounded from the car upon the platform before the train stopped, and was collaring Rob, the coachman, and demanding of him to know what was the matter with Jerrie, and why he had been sent for. Rob, who had received his instructions to be wholly non-committal answered stolidly that nothing was the matter with Jerrie, but that Miss Maude was very sick and probably would not live many days.
'Is that all?' Arthur said, gloomily, as he entered the carriage. 'I do not see what the old Harry has to do with Maude's dying, and certainly Tom's telegram said something about that chap. I have it in my pocket. Yes, here it is. "Come immediately. The devil is to pay." That doesn't mean Maude. There is something else Rob has not told me. 'Here, you rascal, you are keeping something from me! What is it? Out with it!' he shouted to the driver, as he thrust his head from the carriage window, where he kept it, and in this way was driven to the door of the Park House, where Frank was waiting for him outside, and where, inside, Jerrie stood, holding fast to the banisters of the stairs, her heart throbbing wildly one moment, and the next seeming to lie pulseless as a piece of lead.
She heard Arthur's voice as he came up the steps, speaking to Frank, and asking why he had been sent for; and the next moment she saw him entering the hall, tall and erect, but with the wild look in his eyes which she knew so well, but which changed at once to a softer expression as they fell upon her.
'Cherry, you here!' he cried, with a joyful ring in his voice as he sprang to her side and kissed her forehead and lips.
Then Jerrie grew calm instantly, although she could scarcely restrain herself from falling on his neck and sobbing out, 'Oh, my father! I am your daughter Jerrie!' But the time for this had not come, and when he questioned her eagerly as to why she had sent for him, she only replied: 'Maude is very sick. But come with me to your rooms, and I will tell you everything.'
'Then there is the deuce to pay; I thought so,' he said, as he followed her upstairs into the Gretchen room, where he stood for a moment, amazed at the effect produced by the flowers and vines which Jerrie had arranged so skilfully, 'It is like Eden,' he said, 'and Gretchen is here with me. Darling Gretchen!' he continued, as he walked up to the picture and kissed the lovely face which, it seemed to Jerrie, smiled in benediction upon them both, the husband and the daughter, as they stood there side by side, Jerrie's hands resting on his shoulder, which she pressed hard, as if to steady herself, while he talked to the inanimate face before him.
'Have you been lonesome, Gretchen, and are you glad to have me back again! Poor little Gretchen!' And now he turned to Jerrie, who was pale to the lips, and said: 'It all came to me on the top of those mountains about Gretchen--who she was, and how I forgot her so long--that is the strangest of all; and, Cherry,' here his voice dropped to a whisper, 'I know for sure that Gretchen is dead--that came to me, too.'
'Yes, Gretchen is dead,' Jerrie answered him, with the sound of a sob in her own voice, while her hands tightened their grasp on his shoulder, as she went on; 'I have had a message from Gretchen, and that is why we sent for you.'
Jerrie's hands were not strong enough to hold him then, and, wrenching himself from her, he stood confronting her with a look more like that of a maniac than any she had ever seen in him before, and which might have frightened one with nerves less strong than Jerrie's. But she was not afraid, and a strange calmness fell upon her, now that she had actually reached a point where she must act, and her eyes, which looked so steadily into Arthur's, held them fast, even while he interrogated her rapidly.
'A message from Gretchen! How, when, and where is it? Give it to me quick, or tell me about it? Where is she, and when is she coming?'
'Never!' answered Jerrie sadly. 'I told you she was dead. But sit here,' and she motioned him to a large cushioned chair. 'Sit here and let me tell you what I know of Gretchen.'
Something in the girl's manner mastered him and made him a child in her hands.
Sinking into the chair, pale and panting with excitement, he leaned his head back wearily, and closing his eyes, said to her: 'Begin. What did Gretchen write?'
Jerrie felt that she could not stand all through the interview, and bringing a low ottoman to Arthur's side, seated herself upon it just where she could look into his face and detect every change in it.
'Let me tell you of Gretchen as she was when you first knew her,' she said, 'and then you will be better able to judge of the truth of all I know.'
He did not reply, and she went on: 'Gretchen was very young--sixteen or seventeen--when you first saw her knitting in the sunshine under the trees in Wiesbaden, and very beautiful, too--so beautiful that you went again and again to look at her and talk to her, until you came to love her very much, and told her so at last; but you seemed so much above her that she could not believe you at first. At last, however, you made her understand, and when her mother died suddenly--' 'Her mother was Mrs. Heinrich, and kept a kind of fancy store,' Arthur interposed, as if anxious that nothing should be omitted.
'Yes, she kept a fancy store,' Jerrie rejoined; 'and when she died suddenly and left Gretchen alone, you said to her, "We must be married at once," and you were, in the little English chapel, by the Rev. Mr. Eaton, who was then rector.' Here Arthur's eyes opened wide and fixed themselves wonderingly upon Jerrie, as he said: 'Are you the old Harry that you know all this? But go on; don't stop; it all comes back to me so plain when I hear you tell it. She wore a straw bonnet trimmed with blue, and a white dress, but took it off directly for a black one because her mother was dead. Did she tell you that?'
'No,' Jerrie replied. 'She told me nothing of the dress, only how happy she was with you, whom she loved so much, and who loved her and made her so happy for a time that earth seemed like heaven to her, and then--' Here Jerrie faltered a little, but Arthur's sharp 'What then?' kept her up, and she continued: 'Then something came to you, and you began to forget everything, even poor little Gretchen, and went away for weeks and left her very sad and lonely, not knowing where you were; and then, after some months, you went away and never came back again to the little wife who waited, and watched, and prayed, and wanted you so badly.'
'Oh, Cherry! oh, Gretchen! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do it; I surely didn't. May God forgive me for forgetting the little wife! Was it long? Was it months, or was it years? I can't remember, only that there was a Gretchen, and I left her,' Arthur said.
'It was years, four or five, and--and'--Jerrie's breath came heavily now and her words slowly, for she was nearing the point relating to herself and wondering what the effect would be upon him. 'After a while there came into Gretchen's life the dawning of a great hope, a great joy, which she felt would make you glad, and wishing to keep it a secret till you came home, she only gave you a hint of it. She wrote: "I have something to tell you which will make you as happy as it does me--"' 'Stop!' and Arthur put out both his hands as if groping for something which he could not find; then he said, 'Go on,' and Jerrie went on, slowly now, for every word was an effort, and spoken so low that Arthur bent forward to listen to her.
'I don't know just where Gretchen's home was when she lived alone waiting for you. I only know that after a while there came to it a little baby--a girl baby--Gretchen's and yours--' She did not get any further, for with a bound Arthur was on his feet, every faculty alert, every nerve strung to its utmost pitch, and every muscle of his face quivering with wild excitement, as he exclaimed: 'A baby! Gretchen's baby and mine! A little girl! Oh, Cherry, if you are deceiving me now!'
Jerrie, too, had risen, and was standing before him with her hands upon his arm and her eyes, so like Gretchen's, looking into his, as she said: 'I am not deceiving you. There was a baby born to you and Gretchen sometime in January, 18--, and it was christened in the little church where you were married by the Rev. Mr. Eaton. Oh, Mr. Arthur, how can I tell you; she, the baby, is living yet--grown to womanhood now, for this happened about twenty years ago, and the girl is almost twenty--and is waiting and longing so much for her father to recognize and claim her. Oh, don't you understand me? Look at _me_ and then at Gretchen's picture!'
For an instant Arthur stood like one stricken with catalepsy, his eyes leaping from Jerry's face to Gretchen's, and from Gretchen's back to Jerrie's, and then, with a motion of his hands as if fanning the air furiously, he gasped: 'Twenty years ago--twenty years ago? How old are you, Cherry?'
'About twenty,' she answered, but her voice was a whisper, and her head fell forward a little, though she kept her eyes upon Arthur, who went on: 'And they christened my baby and Gretchen's you say? What name did they give her? Speak quick, for I believe I am dying.'
'They called her Jerrine, but you know her as Jerrie, for--for I am Gretchen's daughter,' fell from Jerrie's lips.
With a wild, glad cry, 'My daughter! oh, my daughter! Thank God! thank God!' Arthur sank back into the chair, from which he had risen, fainting and insensible.
For hours he lay in a state so nearly resembling death that but for the physician's reassurance that there was no danger, Jerrie would have believed the great joy given her was to be taken from her at once. But just as the twilight shadows began to gather in the room he came to himself, waking as from some quiet dream, and looking around him until his eyes fell upon Jerrie sitting by his side; then into his white face there flashed a look of ineffable joy and tenderness and love, as he said, with a smile the most willing and sweet Jerrie had ever seen.
'My daughter, my little Cherry, who came to me up the ladder, with Gretchen's eyes and Gretchen's voice, and I did not know her--have not known her all these years, although she has so puzzled and bewildered me at times. My daughter! oh, my daughter!'
He accepted her unquestioningly, and with a glad cry Jerrie threw herself into the arms he stretched toward her, and on her father's bosom gave free vent to the feelings she had restrained so long, sobbing passionately as she felt Arthur's kisses upon her face, and his caressing hands upon her hair, as he kept repeating: 'My daughter! Gretchen's baby and mine!'
'There is more to tell. I have not heard it all, or how you came by the information,' he said, when Jerrie was little composed and could look at and speak to him without a burst of tears.
'Yes, there is much more. There is a letter for you, with those you wrote to her,' Jerrie said, 'but you must not have them to-night. To-morrow you will be stronger, now you must rest.'
She spoke like one with authority, and he did just what she bade him do--took the food she brought him, went to bed when she said he must, and, with her hand locked in his, fell into a heavy slumber, which lasted all through the night, and late into the next morning. It almost seemed as if he would never waken, the sleep was so like death; but the doctor who watched him carefully quieted Jerrie's fears and told her it would do her father good, and that in all probability he would awake with a clearer mind than he had had in years, for as a great and sudden shock sometimes produces insanity, so, contrarywise, it sometimes restored a shattered mind to its equilibrium.
And the doctor was partially correct, for when at last Arthur awoke he seemed natural and bright, with a recollection of all which had happened the day before, and an earnest desire for the letters and the rest of the story which Jerrie told him, with her arm across his neck, and her cheek laid occasionally against his, as she read him the letter directed to his friends, and then showed him the certificate of her birth and her mother's death.
'Born January 1st, 18--, to Arthur Tracy and Marguerite, his wife, a daughter,' Arthur repeated, again and again, and as often as he did so he kissed the bright face which smiled at him through tears, for there was almost as much sadness as joy mingled with the reading of those messages from the dead.
Just what Gretchen's letter to Arthur contained, Jerrie never knew, except that it was full of love and tenderness, with no word of complaint for the neglect and forgetfulness which must have hastened her death.
'Oh, Gretchen, I can't bear it, I can't,' Arthur moaned, as he laid his hand upon Jerrie's shoulder and sobbed like a child. 'To think I could forget her, and she so sweet and good.'
Everything came back to him for a time, and he repeated to Jerrie much which was of interest to her concerning her mother, but with which the reader has nothing to do; while Jerrie, in turn, told him all she could remember of her life in the old house where Gretchen had died. Idle fancies she had sometimes thought these memories of the past, but now she knew they were real. And Arthur hung upon her words with breathless interest, moaning occasionally when she told of the sweet-faced woman who cried so much and prayed so much, and whose death scene she had once enacted for him when a little child. At his own letters addressed to Gretchen he barely glanced, muttering, as he did so, 'how could I have written such crazy bosh as that?' and then suddenly recollecting himself, he asked for the photograph mentioned in Gretchen's letter to his friends, and which he seemed to think had come with the other papers, just as Jerrie meant he should. Taking it from the bag she handed it to him, while his tears fell like rain as he gazed upon the face which was far too young to wear the sad, wan look it did.
'That is as I remember her,' Jerrie said, referring again to the strange ideas which had filled her brain and made her sure that not the dark woman found dead at her side was her mother, but another and far different person, whose face haunted her so continually and whose voice she sometimes seemed to hear speaking to her from the dim shadows of the far-off past when they lived in the little house in Wiesbaden, where the picture hung on the wall.
Arthur remembered the picture well and when it was taken, though that, too, had faded from his mind, until Jerrie told him of it.
'We will go there together, Cherry,' he said, 'you and I, and find the house and the picture, and Gretchen's grave, and bring them home with us. There is room for them at Tracy Park.
He was beginning to talk wildly now, but Jerrie quieted him, and taking up the box of diamonds opened it suddenly and held it before his eyes. In reading the letters he had not seemed to pay any attention to the diamonds, but when Jerrie said to him; 'These were mother's. You sent them to her from England,' he replied, 'Yes, I remember. I bought them in Paris with other things--dresses, I think--for her,' while into his face there came a troubled look as if he were trying to think of something.
Jerrie, who could read him so well, saw the look, and, guessing at once its cause, hastened to say: 'Father, do you remember that you gave Mrs. Tracy some diamonds like these, and that some one took them from her? Try and think,' she continued, as she saw the troubled look deepen on his face, and the fire beginning to kindle in his eyes. 'It was years ago, just after a party Mrs. Tracy gave, and at which she wore them. You were there and thought they were Gretchen's, did you not?'
'Ye-es,' he answered slowly. 'I believe I did. What did I do with them? Do you know?'
'I think you put them in your private drawer. Suppose you look and see.'
Obedient to her as a child, Arthur opened his private drawer, bringing out one thing after another, all mementoes of the old Gretchen days, and finally the diamonds, at which be looked with wonder and fear, as he said to Jerrie: 'Did I take them? Will they call it a steal? I thought they were Gretchen's. I remember now.'
Jerrie did not tell him then of the trouble the secreting of the diamonds had brought to her and Harold, but she said: 'No one will think it a steal, and Mrs. Tracy will be glad to get her jewels back. May I take them to her now?'
'Take them to her? --no,' Arthur said, decidedly. 'She has another set--I bought them for her, and she wears them all day long. Ha, ha! diamonds in the morning, with a cotton gown;' and he laughed immoderately at what be thought Dolly's bad taste. 'Take them to her? No! They are yours.'
'But I have mother's,' Jerrie pleaded; 'and I cannot wear two sets.'
'Yes, you can--one to-day, one to-morrow. I mean you shall have seven--one for everyday in the week. What has Dolly to do with diamonds. They are for ladies, and she is only a whitewashed one.'
He was very much excited, and it took all Jerrie's tact to soothe and quiet him.
'Father,' she began and then he stopped short, for the sound of that name spoken by Jerrie had a mighty power over him--'Father, listen to me a moment.'
And then she told him of the suspicions cast upon Harold, and said: 'You do not wish him to suffer any more?'
'Harold? The boy who found you in the carpet-bag--Amy's boy! No, never! Where is he that I have not seen him yet? Does he know you are my daughter?'
Jerrie had not mentioned Harold before, but she told her father now where he was, and why he had gone, and that she had written him to come home, on Maude's account, if on no other.
'Yes--Maude--I remember; but Harold did not care for Maude. Still, he had better come. I want him here with you and me; and you must stay here now, day and night. Select any room or rooms you please; all is yours, my daughter.'
'But I cannot leave grandma,' Jerrie said.
'Let her come, too,' Arthur replied. 'There is room for her.'
'No,' Jerrie persisted; 'that would not be best. Grandma could not live with Mrs. Tracy.'
'Then let Dolly go at once, I'll give the order now;' and Arthur put out his hand to the bell-cord.
But Jerrie stopped him instantly, saying to him: 'Remember Maude. While she lives she must stay here.'
'Yes, I forgot Maude. Poor little Maude, I have not seen her yet,' Arthur replied, subdued at once, and willing now that Jerrie should take the jewels to Dolly, who deserved but little forbearance from Jerrie's hand.
Up to the very last Mrs. Tracy had, unconsciously perhaps, clung to a shadowy hope that Arthur might repudiate his daughter and call it a trumped-up affair; but when she heard how joyfully he had acknowledged and claimed her, she lost all hope, and her face wore a sullen, defiant expression as she walked about the house and through the handsome rooms, the very furniture of which had nearly all been bought with Arthur's money, and consequently was not her own. Since the coming of Jerrie, when the dark shadow settled upon Frank, and remorse was always torturing him, he had had no heart for business, and had, to all intents and purposes, lived upon his brother's generosity, which had never failed.
'Get what you like; there is money enough,' was always Arthur's reply, when a request for anything was made to him, and thus they had literally been sponges, taking everything and giving nothing, until now, when all was lost--the luxury, the elegance, the ease, and the prestige of Tracy Park, which they had enjoyed so much. It was hard, and Dolly felt that she could not bear it, and that she hated the girl through whom this change had come, and in every possible way she meant to wound and annoy her; so when the cook came to her that day for orders for dinner, she answered, curtly: 'Go to the heiress. She is mistress now.'
In the hall, coming to seek her, Jerrie met the cook, who, with a comical look on her face, asked what she would have for dinner.
'I don't know what you mean,' Jerrie said, and when the cook explained, her cheeks flushed for an instant and her eyes blazed with resentment But she controlled herself quickly and said, 'Tell Mrs. Tracy--but, no, I am going to her room and will tell her myself.'
Knocking at Mrs. Tracy's door, she was admitted to the presence of the lady, who simply stared at her as if asking why she were there. Jerrie told her in a few words that her own diamonds had been found, and where they had been secreted, and that she had come to return them.
'Then your father was the thief,' Dolly said, with that rasping, aggravating tone so hard to hear unmoved.
'Call him what you please. A crazy man is not responsible for his acts,' Jerrie answered, calmly; then, more proudly and decidedly, went on, 'By the way, Mrs. Tracy, I was met by the cook with a singular request, and I wish to say that as there can be but one mistress in a house, it is my wish that so long as you remain here you are that mistress in your own department; of course I shall take charge of my father's, and see that his wishes are carried out. Good afternoon,' and with a proud, lofty bearing, Jerrie walked from the room, leaving Dolly to her own morbid and angry thoughts.
Not even the restored diamonds had power to conciliate her, and they were so beautiful as she held them up, admiring their brilliancy and their size.
'I'll never wear them, never, because she has some like them,' she said to herself; and then the thought flashed upon her that she could sell them, and thus add to the sum which her husband had invested in his own name.
Ten thousand dollars, that was all, he had told her, and she had calculated the income, only six hundred dollars a year to live on--less than she now wasted yearly upon bric-a-brac and things of which she tired so soon.
It was a sombre outlook, and it is not strange that her tears fell fast upon the costly stones, whose value she could not guess, although she knew it must be great, they were so superior in size and quality to any she had ever seen.
'Yes, I will sell them,' she said, 'and invest the proceeds in my own name; but even that will hardly keep the wolf from the door, for Frank is growing more and more imbecile every day, and Tom is good for nothing. He'll have to scratch for himself, though, I can tell him.'
Here her ladylike, but very characteristic, soliloquy was brought to an end by a faint call, which had the power to drive every other thought from her heart, for the mother-love was strong even with her, and going to Maude, she asked what she wanted.
'Uncle Arthur,' Maude replied; 'I have not seen him yet. And Jerrie, too, she has scarcely been here to-day.'
Maude's request was made known to Arthur, who, two or three hours later, went to her room, and kissing her lips, told her how sorry he was to see her so sick, and that he hoped she would soon be better.
Frank had been alone with Maude for a long time that day, and he was with her now, sitting upon the side of her bed, near the head, with his arm across her pillow, and his eyes fixed anxiously upon her as she held her conference with his brother.
'No, uncle,' she said; 'I shall never be any better in this world; but by-and-by, pretty soon, I shall be well in the other And I want to tell you how glad I am for you and Jerrie, and to thank you for your kindness to us all these years, when Jerrie should have been here in our place.'
'Yes, yes,' Arthur said, with a wave of his hand. 'Only I didn't know. If I had--' 'It would have been so different,' Maude interrupted him. 'I know that, but I want you to be kind to poor father still, and forgive him, he is sorry, and--' 'Oh, Maude, Maude,' came like a groan from Frank, as he laid his hand on Maude's lips, while Arthur replied: 'Forgive him! For what? He couldn't help being here. I sent for him. He did not keep Jerrie from her rightful position as my daughter. If he had I could never forgive him. Why, I believe I'd kill him, or any other one who, knowing that Jerrie was my daughter, kept it from me.'
He was gesticulating now with both hands, and Jerrie, who had listened wonderingly to the conversation, took hold of them as they were swaying in the air, and said to him softly: 'Father!'
The word quieted him, and with a gasp his mind seemed to change at once.
'Maude is very tired,' Jerrie went on; 'perhaps we'd better go now and come again to-morrow.'
'Yes, yes, that's best, child. I'm not fond of sick rooms, though I must say this is very free from smells,' Arthur replied; then stooping down he kissed Maude again, saying to her as he rose to go: 'Don't worry about your father; he is my brother, and he was kind to Jerry. I shan't forget that. Come, my daughter.'
And putting his arm fondly around Jerrie he left the room.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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50
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THE FLOWER FADETH.
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It took some days after Arthur's return for the household to settle down into anything like order and quiet, Arthur was so restless and so happy, and so anxious for everyone to recognise Jerrie as his daughter--Miss Tracy, as he called her when presenting her to the people who had known her all her life--the St. Claires, and Athertons, and Crosbys, and Warners--who came to call upon and congratulate him. Even Peterkin came in his coat-of-arms carriage, with a card as big as the back of Webster's spelling book, and himself gotten up in a dress coat, with lavender kids on his burly hands, which nearly crushed Arthur's in their grasp as he expressed himself 'tickleder than he ever was before in his life.'
'And to think I was the means on't,' he said, 'for if I hadn't of kicked that darned old table into slivers when I was givin' on't to Jerrie, she'd never of know'd what was in that dumbed rat-hole. I was a leetle too upstrupulous, I s'spose, but I'll be darned if she didn't square up to me like a catamount, till my hair riz right up, and I concluded the Tramp House was no place for me. But I respect her for it; yes, I do, and by George, old chap, I congratulate you with my whole soul, and so does May Jane, and so does Ann 'Lizy, and so does Bill, and so does the whole caboodle on us.'
This was Peterkin's speech, which Arthur received more graciously than Jerrie, who, remembering Harold, could not be very polite to the man who had injured him so deeply. As if divining her thoughts, Peterkin turned to her and said: 'Now, one word, Miss Tracy, about Hal. I hain't one to go halves in any thing, and I was meaner to him than pussly; but you'll see what I'll do. I've met with a change, I swow, I have,' and he laid his lavender kid on his stomach. 'He never took them diamonds, nor May Jane's pin, nor nothin', and I've blasted it all over town that he didn't, and I've got a kerridge hired, and some chaps, and a brass band, and a percession, and when Hal comes, there's to be an oblation to the depot, with the bugle a playin' "Hail to the Chief," and them hired chips a histen' him inter the kerridge, with the star-spangled banner a floatin' over it, and a drawin' him home without horses! What do you think of that for high?' and he chuckled merrily as he represented the programme he had prepared for Harold's reception.
Jerrie shuddered, mentally hoping that Harold's coming might be at night, and unheralded, so as to save him from what she knew would fill him with disgust.
That call of Peterkin's was the last of a congratulatory nature made at Tracy Park for weeks, for the shadow of death had entered the grand old house, the doors and windows of which stood wide open, one lovely September morning, about a week after Arthur's return. But there was no stir or sign of life, except in the upper hall, near the door, and in the room where Maude Tracy was dying. Jerrie had been with her constantly for two or three days, and the converse the two had held together would never be forgotten, Maude was so peaceful and happy, so sure of the home beyond, where she was going, and so lovely and sweet to those around her, thinking of everything and planning everything, even whose hands were to lower her into the grave.
'Dick, and Fred, and Billy, and Harold,' she said to Jerrie, one day, 'Something tells me Harold will be here in time for that; and if he is, I want those four to put me in the grave. They can lift me, for I shall not be very heavy,' and, with a smile, she held up her wasted arms and hands, not as large now as a child's. 'And, Jerrie,' she went on, 'I want the grave lined with boughs from our old playing place--the four pines, you know--and many, many flowers, for I shudder at the thought of the cold earth which would chill me in my coffin. So, heap the grave with flowers, and come often to it, and think lovingly of me, lying there alone. I am thinking so much of that poem Harold read me long ago of poor little Alice, the May queen, who said she should hear them as they passed, with their feet above her in the long and silent grass. Maybe the dead can't do that. I don't know, but if they can, I shall listen for you, and be glad when you are near me, and I know I shall wait on the golden seat by the river. Remember your promise to tell Harold that it was all a mistake. My mind gets clearer toward the end, and I see things differently from what I did once, and I know how I blundered. You will tell him?'
Again Jerrie made the promise, with a sinking heart, not knowing to what it bound her; and as Maude was becoming tired, she bade her try to rest while she sat by and watched her.
The next day, at the same hour, when the balmy September air was everywhere, and the mid-afternoon sun was filling the house with golden light, and the crickets' chirp was heard in the long grass, and the robins were singing in the tree-tops, another scene was presented in the sick room, where Frank Tracy knelt at his dying daughter's side, with his face bowed on his hands, while her fingers played feebly with his white hair as she spoke to Arthur, who had just come in. They had told him she was dying and had asked for him, and with his nervous horror of everything painful and exciting, he had shrunk from the ordeal; but Jerrie's will prevailed, and he went with her to the room, where Frank, and his wife, and Tom were waiting--Tom standing, with folded arms, at the foot of the bed, and looking, with hot, dry eyes, into the face on the pillow, where death was setting his seal; the mother, half-fainting upon the lounge, with the nurse beside her; and Frank, oblivious of everything except the fact that Maude was dying.
'Kiss me good-bye, Uncle Arthur,' she said, when he came in, 'and come this side where father is.' Then, as he went round and stood by Frank, she reached her hand for his, and, putting it on her father's head, said to him: 'Forgive him, Uncle Arthur; he is so sorry, poor father--the dearest, the best man in the world. It was for me; say that you forgive him.'
Only Frank and one other knew just what she meant, although a sudden suspicion darted through Jerrie's mind, and, when Arthur looked helplessly at her, she whispered to him: 'Never mind what she means--her mind may be wandering; but say that you forgive him, no matter what it is.'
Thus adjured, Arthur said to the grief-stricken man, who shook like an aspen: 'I know of nothing to forgive except your old disbelief in Gretchen, and deceiving me about sending the carriage the night Jerrie came; but if there is anything else, no matter what it is, I do forgive you freely.'
'Thanks,' came faintly from Maude, who whispered: 'It is a vow, remember, made at my death-bed.'
She had done all she could, this little girl, whose life had been so short, and who, as she once said, had been capable of nothing but loving and being loved; and now, turning her dim eyes upon Jerrie, who was parting the damp hair upon her brow, she went on: 'Remember the promise, and the flowers, and the golden seat where you will find me resting by the flowing river whose shores I am now looking upon, for I am almost there, almost to the golden seat, and the tree whose leaves are like emeralds, and where the grass and flowers are like the flowers and grass of summer just after a rain. I am glad for you, Jerrie. Good-bye; and you, father dear, good-bye.'
That was the last, for Maude was dead; and the servants, who had been standing about the door, stole noiselessly back to their work, with wet eyes and a sense of pain and loss in their hearts, for not one of them but had loved the gentle girl now gone forever from their midst.
If was Jerrie who led Frank from the room to his own, where she left him by himself, knowing it would be better so, and it was Arthur who took Dolly out, for Tom had disappeared, and no one saw him again until the next day, when he came down to breakfast, with a worn, haggard look upon his face, which told that he did care, though his mother thought he did not, and taunted him with his indifference. Poor Tom! He had gone directly to his room and locked the door, and smoked and smoked, and thought and thought, and then, when it was dark, he had stolen out into the park as far as the four pines, and smoked, and looked up at the stars and wondered if Maude were there with Jack, sitting on the golden seat by the river. Then going back to the house where no one saw him, he went into the silent room where Maude was lying, and looked long and earnestly upon her white, still face, and wondered in a vague kind of way if she knew he was there, and why he had never thought before what a nice kind of girl she was, and why he had not made more of her as her brother.
'Maude,' he whispered, with a lump in his throat, 'if you can hear me, I'd like to tell you I am sorry that I was ever mean to you, and I guess I did like you more than I supposed.'
Then he kissed her pale forehead and went to his room, where he smoked the night through, and in the morning felt as if he had lived a hundred years since the previous night, and wondered how he should get through the day. It occurred to him that it might be the proper thing to see his mother; and after his breakfast he went to her room, and was received by her with a burst of tears and reproaches for his indifference and lack of feeling in keeping himself away from everybody, as if it were nothing to him that Maude was dead, or that there was nothing for him to do.
'Thunderation, mother!' Tom exclaimed, 'would you have me yell and scream, and make a fool of myself? I sat up all night long, which was more than you did, and I've been meditating in the woods, and have seen Maude and made it square with her. What more can I do?'
'You can see to things,' Mrs. Tracy replied. 'Your father is all broken up and has gone to bed, and it is not becoming in me to be around. Somebody must take the helm.'
'And somebody has,' Tom answered her. 'Uncle Arthur is master of the ceremonies now. He is running the ranch, and running it well, to.'
And Tom was right, for Arthur had taken the helm, and aided and abetted by Jerrie, was quietly attending to matters and arranging for the funeral, which Dolly said must be in the house, as she would not go to the church, with a gaping crowd to stare at her. So it was to take place at the house on Friday afternoon, and Arthur ordered a costly coffin from New York, with silver mountings and panels, and almost a car-load of flowers and floral designs, for Jerrie had explained to him Maude's wishes with regard to her grave, which they lined first with the freshest of the boughs from the four pines, filling these again with flowers up to the very top, so that the grave when finished seemed like one mass of flowers, in which it would not be hard to lie.
Dolly had objected to Billy as one of the pall-bearers. He was too short and inferior looking, she said, and not at all in harmony with Dick, and Fred, and Paul Crosby, the young man who, in Harold's absence, had been asked to take his place. But Arthur overruled her with the words 'It was Maude's wish,' and Billy kept his post.
The day arrived, and the hour, and the people came in greater crowds than they had done when poor Jack was buried, or the dark woman, Nannine, with only Jerrie as chief mourner, and the procession was the longest ever seen in Shannondale; and Dolly, even while her heart was aching with bitter pain, felt a thrill of pride that so many were following her daughter to the grave.
Arrived at the cemetery, there was a halt for the mourners to alight and the bearers to take the coffins from the hearse and carry it to the grave--a halt longer than necessary, it seemed to Jerrie, who under the folds of her veil did not see the tall young man making his way through the ranks of the people crowding the road, straining every nerve to reach the hearse, which he did just as the four young men were taking the coffin from it.
With a quick movement he put Paul Crosby aside, saying, apologetically: 'Excuse me, Paul. I must carry Maude to her grave. She wished it so.'
Then, taking the young man's place, he went slowly on to the open grave near which piles and piles of flowers were lying ready to cover the young girl who it was hard for him to believe was there beneath his hand, cold and dead, with no word of welcome for him who had tried so hard to see her, and was only in time for this, to help lay her in the grave and to listen to the solemn words 'ashes to ashes,' and hear the dreadful sound of earth to earth falling upon the box which held the beautiful coffin and the lovely girl within it.
Even then Jerrie did not see him, but when she took a step or two forward to look into the grave before it was filled up, and someone put a hand upon her shoulder and said, 'Not too near, Jerrie,' she started suddenly, with a suppressed cry, and turning, saw Harold standing by her, tall, and erect, and self-possessed, as he faced the multitude, some of whom had suspected him of a crime, but all of whom were ready now to do him justice and bid him welcome home.
'Oh, Harold,' Jerrie said, as she grasped his arm, 'I am so glad you are here. I wish you had come before.'
Harold could not reply, for they were now leaving the spot, and many gathered around him; first and foremost, Peterkin, who came tramping through the grass, puffing like an engine, and, unmindful of the time or place, slapping him upon the shoulder, as he said: 'Well, my boy, glad to see you back, 'pon my soul, I be; but you flustrated all my plans. I was meanin' to give you an oblation; got it, all arranged, and you spiled it by takin' us onawares, like a thief in the night. I beg your pardon,' he continued, as he met a curious look in Harold's eyes, 'I'm a blunderin' cuss, I be. I didn't mean nothin', I've ever meant nothin', and if I hev' I'm sorry for it.'
Harold did not hear the last, for he was handing Jerrie into the carriage with her father, who bade him enter, too; saying they would leave him at the cottage where he wished to go as soon as possible. There was no time for much conversation before the cottage was reached, and Harold alighted at the gate, and no allusion whatever had been made to Jerrie's changed relations until Harold stood looking at her as she kept her seat by her father and made no sign of an intention to stop. Then he said, as calmly as he could: 'Do you stay at the Park House altogether now?'
'Oh, no,' she answered quickly. 'I have been there a great deal with Maude, but am coming home to-night. I could not leave grandma alone, you know.'
She acknowledged the home and the relationship still, and Harold's face flushed with a look of pleasure, which deepened in intensity when Arthur, with a wave of the hand habitual to him, said: 'I must keep her now that you are here to see to the grandmother, but will let you have her to-night. Come up later, if you like, and walk home with her.'
'I shall be most happy to do so,' Harold said, and then the carriage drove away, while he went in to his grandmother, who had not attended the funeral, but who knew that he had returned and was waiting for him.
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{
"id": "15321"
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51
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UNDER THE PINES WITH HAROLD.
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It seemed to Harold that it had been a thousand years since he had left Shannondale, so much had come into and so much had gone out of his life since he said good-bye to the girl he loved and to the girl who loved him. One was dead, and he had only come in time to help lay her in her grave; while the other, the girl he loved, was, some might think, farther removed from him than death itself could have removed her.
But Harold did not feel so. He had faith in Jerrie--that she would not change, though there had been a time during the first homesick weeks in Tacoma, when, knowing from his grandmother of her convalescence, and still hearing from her no explanation with regard to the diamonds, which he knew a few still suspected him of having taken, in his impatience and humiliation he had cried out, 'Jerrie has forgotten. She is not standing by me, forever and ever, amen, as she once promised to do.' But this feeling quickly passed, and there came a day when he read the judge's letter in the privacy of his room at the Tacoma, and rejoiced with an exceeding great joy for Jerrie, whose house and birthright had been so strangely restored. He never doubted the story for a moment, but felt rather as if he had known it always, and wondered how any one could have imagined for a moment that blue-eyed, golden-haired Jerrie was the child of the dark, coarse looking woman found dead beside her. 'I am so glad for Jerrie,' he said, without a thought that her relations to himself would in any way be changed.
Once, when she had told him of the fancies which haunted her so often, he had put them from him with a fear that, were they true, Jerrie would be lost to him forever. But he had no such misgivings now; and when Jerrie's letter came, urging his return, both for her own sake and Maude's, he wrote a few hurried lines to her, telling her how glad he was for her, and of his intention to start for the East as soon as possible. 'To-morrow, perhaps,' he wrote, 'in which case I may be there before this letter reaches you, for the mails are sometimes slow, and the judge's communication was overdue three or four days.'
Starting the second day after his letter, Harold travelled day and night, while something seemed beckoning him on--Maude's thin, white face, and Jerrie's, too; and when, between St. Paul and Chicago, there came a detention from a freight car off the track, he felt that he must fly, so sure was he that he was wanted and anxiously looked for at Tracy Park, where at that very time Maude was dying. The next afternoon he left Chicago, and with no further accident reached Shannondale just as the long procession was winding its way to the cemetery.
He had heard from an acquaintance in Springfield that Maude was dead, and of her request that he should be one of the pall-bearers, together with Dick, and Fred, and Billy. 'And I will do it yet,' he said, with a throb of pain, as he thought of the little girl who had died believing that he loved her. Once or twice he had resolved to write and tell her as carefully as possible of her mistake, but as often had changed his mind, thinking to wait until she was better; and now she was dead, and the chance for explanation gone forever; but he would, if possible, carry out the wish she had expressed with regard to himself.
Striking into the fields from the station, he reached the cemetery in time to take his place by Billy and carry poor little Maude to her last resting place; and then he looked for Jerrie, and felt an indefinable thrill when he saw her on her father's arm, and began to realize that she was Jerrie Tracy. But all that was over now; he had talked with her face to face, and had found her the Jerrie he had always known, and he was going to see her in her own home, at Tracy Park--the daughter of the house, the heiress of Arthur Tracy, and of more than two millions, it was said--for, despite Frank's extravagance, all of which Arthur had met without a protest, his money had accumulated rapidly, so that he was a much richer man now, than when he first came home from Europe.
Harold found the family at dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Tracy and Tom in the dining-room, and Arthur and Jerrie in the Gretchen room, to which he was taken at once.
'Come in--come in, my boy. You are just in time for dessert,' Arthur said, rising with alacrity and going forward to meet him; while Jerrie, too, arose and took his hand, and made him sit by her, and questioned him on his journey, and helped him to the fairest peach and the finest bunch of grapes, and, without seeming to do so, examined him from head to foot, and thought how handsome and grand he was, and felt sure that her father thought so too.
With a part of the first money Billy had paid him, or rather had told him to draw in Tacoma, Harold had bought himself the clothes which he needed sadly; and though it was only a business suit, and had travelled thousands of miles, it fitted him well, and it was not at all a shabby Harold sitting at Arthur's table, but a young man of whom anyone might have been proud. And Jerrie was proud of him and of her father, too, as they talked together; and Harold showed no sign of any inequality, even if he felt it, which he did not.
'A fine young man, with the best of manners, and carries himself as he were the lord high chancellor,' Arthur said, when, after dinner, Harold left there to pay his respects to the other inmates of the family, whom he found just leaving the dining-room.
Dolly bowed to him coldly at first, and was about to pass on, when, with a burst of tears, she offered him her hand, and sobbed: 'Oh, Harold, why didn't you come before? Maude wanted to see you so badly.'
This was a great deal for Dolly, and Tom stared at her in amazement, while Harold explained that he had come as soon as he possibly could, and tried to say something of Maude, but could not, for the tears which choked him. Frank was unfeignedly glad to see him, and told him so.
'Our dear little girl was fond of you, Hal. I am sure she was, and I shall always like you for that. Heaven bless you, my boy,' he said, as he wrung Harold's hand and then hurried away after his wife, leaving Harold alone with Tom, who, awfully afraid he should break down, said, indifferently: 'Glad to see you, Hal. Wish you had come before Maude died. She was in a tearin' way to see you. Have a cigar? Got a prime lot in my room. Will you go there?
Harold was in no mood for cigars, and, declining Tom's offer, sauntered awhile around the grounds, where he found himself constantly expecting to find the dead girl sitting under a tree wailing for him with the light whose meaning he now knew kindling in her beautiful eyes as she bade him welcome and told him how glad she was to see him. He was glad now that he had not written and told her of her mistake, and he felt in his heart a greater tenderness for the Maude dead than he ever could have felt for the Maude living.
It was beginning to grow dark when he returned to the house where he found Jerrie in the hall ready to go home. Arthur was at her side, with his arm thrown lovingly around her, and as he passed her over to Harold, he said: 'Make the most of her to-night, my boy, for to-morrow she comes home to stay. Heaven bless you, my daughter!'
His words sent a thrill through both Harold and Jerrie, who walked on in silence until they reached the four pines, where Jerrie halted suddenly and said: 'Let us sit down, Harold. I have a message from Maude, which I promised to deliver the first time we were alone together after you came home.'
Jerrie's voice trembled a little, and after they were seated she was silent until Harold said to her: 'You were going to tell me of Maude;' then she started and replied: 'Yes; she wanted so much to see you and tell you herself. I don't know what she meant, but she said she had made a mistake, and I must tell you so, and that you would understand it. She had been thinking and thinking, she said, and knew it was a stupid blunder of hers; that was what she called it--a stupid blunder; and she was sorry for you that she had made it, and bade me say so, and tell you no one knew but herself and you. Dear little Maude! I wish she had not died.'
Jerrie was crying now, and perhaps that was the reason she did not mind when Harold put his arm around her and drew her closer to him, so close that his brown hair touched her golden curls, for the night was warm and she had brought her bonnet in her hand all the way, while he had taken off his hat when they sat down under the pines, which moaned and sighed above them for a moment, and then grew still, as if listening for what Harold would say.
'Yea,' he began slowly, 'I think I know what Maude meant by the mistake. Did she say I must tell you what it was?'
'She said you would tell me, but perhaps you'd better not,' Jerrie replied, 'Yes, I must tell you,' he continued, 'as a preliminary to what I have to say to you afterward, and what I did not mean to say quite so soon; but this decides me,' and Harold drew Jerrie a little closer to him as he went on: 'Did you ever think that I loved poor little Maude?'
'Yes, I have thought so,' was Jerrie's answer.
'She thought so, too,' Harold continued, 'and it was all my fault; my blunder, not hers. I loved her as I would a sister; as I did you in the olden days, Jerrie. She was so sweet and good, and so interested in you and all I wanted to do for you, that I regarded her as a very dear friend, nothing more. And because I looked upon her this way, I foolishly went to her once to confess my love for another; her dearest and most intimate friend, and ask if she thought I had a chance for success. I must have bungled strangely, for she mistook my meaning and thought I was speaking of herself and in a way she accepted me; and before I had time to explain, her mother came in and I have never seen her since; but I shall never forget the eyes which looked at me so gladly, smiting me so cruelly for the delusion in which I had to leave her. That is what Maude meant. She saw the mistake, and wished to rectify it by giving me the chance to tell you myself what I wanted to tell you then and dared not.'
Jerrie trembled violently, but made no answer, and Harold went on: 'It may seem strange that I, who used to be so much afraid of Jerrie Crawford that I dared not tell her of my love, have the courage to do it now that she is Jerrie Tracy, and I do not understand it myself. Once when you told me your fancies concerning your birth, a great fear took possession of me, lest I should lose you, if they were true; but when I heard that they were true, I felt so sure of you that I could scarcely wait for the time when I could ask you, as I now do, to be my wife, poor as I am, with nothing but love to give you. Will you, Jerrie?'
His face was so close to hers now that her hot cheeks touched his as she bent her head lower and lower, but she made no reply for a moment, and then she cried: 'Oh, Harold, it seems so soon, with Maude only buried to-day. What shall I say? What ought I to say?'
'Shall I tell you?' he answered, taking her hand in his. 'Say the first English word you ever spoke, and which I taught you. Do you remember it?' ' _Iss_' came involuntarily from Jerrie, in the quick, lisping accent of her babyhood, when that was all the English she could master; and almost before it had escaped her, Harold smothered it with the kisses he pressed upon her lips as he claimed her for his own.
'But, Harold,' she tried to explain between his kisses, 'I meant that I _did_ remember. You must not--you must not kiss me so fast. You take my breath away. There! I won't stand it any longer. I'm going straight home to tell grandma how you act!'
'And so am I,' Harold said, rising as she did, but keeping his arm around her as they went slowly along in the soft September night, with the stars, which were shining for the first time on Maude's grave, looking down upon then, and a thought of Maude in their hearts, and her dear name often upon their lips, as they talked of the past as lovers will, trying to recall just when it was that friendship ceased and love began, and deciding finally that neither knew nor cared when it was, so great was their present joy and anticipation of the future.
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{
"id": "15321"
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52
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'FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE.'
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'Grandma, Jerrie has promised to be my wife!' Harold said to his grandmother that night when he took Jerrie in to her about ten o'clock, during which time they had walked to the Tramp House, and sitting down upon the chair which would hold but one, had talked the whole matter over, from the morning Harold first saw the sweet little face in the carpet-bag to the present moment when the same sweet face was pressed lovingly against his, and the same arms which had clung to him in the snow were around his neck in the darkness, as they went over with the old, old story, newest always and best to the last one who listens to it and believes that it is true.
'Father, I have promised to marry Harold,' Jerrie said to Arthur the next morning as she stood before him in the Gretchen room, with Harold's hand in hers, and a look in her face something like what Gretchen's had worn when Arthur first called her his wife.
'Lord bless you, I knew it was coming, but did not think it would be quite so soon. You shock my nerves dreadfully,' Arthur exclaimed, springing up and walking two or three times across the room. Then, confronting the young couple, he said, 'Going to marry Harold? I knew you would all this time. Well, he will do as well as any one to look after the business. Frank is no good, and Colvin is too old. So, get married at once, within a week if you like. I'm off for Germany next month, to find Gretchen's grave, and the house, and the picture, and everything, and as I shall take you with me I shall need some one with brains to look after things while I am gone.'
'But father,' Jerrie began, 'if I go to Germany, Harold will go, too, and if he stops here, I shall stay.'
Arthur looked at her inquiringly a moment, and then, as he begun to understand, replied: 'Ah, yes, I see; "where thou goest, I go, and where thou--" and so forth, and so forth. Well, all right; only you must come here directly; it will never do to stay there, now you are engaged; and you must be married in this room, with Gretchen looking on, and soon, too. No wedding, of course, Maude's death is too recent for that; but soon, very soon, so we can get off. I'll engage passage at once in the Germanic, which sails the 15th of October, and you shall be married the 10th. That's three weeks from to-day, and will give you a few days in New York. I'll leave Frank here till we return, and then he must go, of course, and the new mistress step in with Mrs. Crawford to superintend. We will get some nice man and woman to stay with her while we are gone.'
He had settled everything rapidly, but Jerrie had something to say upon the subject. She did not wish to come to Tracy Park altogether while Mrs. Tracy was there; she would rather enjoy the lovely room which Harold had built for her, she said, and preferred to be married in the cottage, the only home she had ever known.
'I shall stay with you all day,' she continued, 'but go home at night.'
'And so have a long walk with Harold. Yes, I see,' Arthur said, laughingly, but assenting finally to her proposal.
It was Jerrie now who planned everything, with Harold's assistance, and who broached the subject of Frank's future to her father, asking what provision he intended to make for him when he left Tracy Park.
'What provision?' Arthur said. 'I guess he has made provision for himself all these years, when my purse has been as free to him as myself. Colvin tells me there has been an awful lot of money spent somewhere.'
'Yes,' Jerrie replied, 'but you gave him permission to spend it, and it would hardly be fair now to leave him with little or nothing, and he so broken down. When Maude feared she was going to die, and before she knew who I was, she wrote a letter for her father and you, asking him to give me what he would have given her, and you to do the same. So now, I want you to give Maude's father what you would have given me for Maude's sake.'
'Bless my soul, Jerrie!' Arthur said. 'What a beggar you are! I don't know what I should have given you; all I am worth, perhaps. How much will satisfy you for Frank? Tell me, and it is done.'
Jerrie thought one hundred thousand dollars would not be any too much, nor did it seem so to Arthur, who placed but little value upon his money, and Jerrie was deputed to tell her uncle what provision was to be made for him, and that, if he wished, he was to remain at the park until his brother's return from Europe.
Frank was not in his own room, but Mrs. Tracy was, and to her Jerrie first communicated the intelligence that she was to be married and go with her father to Germany. The look which the highly scandalized lady gave her was wonderful, as she said: 'Married! almost before the crape is off the door, or the flowers wilted on Maude's grave! Well, that shows how little we are missed; and I am not surprised, though I think Maude would be, at Harold, certainly. I suppose you know there was something between them; but a man will do any thing for money. I wish you joy of your husband.'
Jerrie was too indignant to explain any thing, and hurried off in quest of her uncle, whom she found in Maude's room, where he spent the most of his time, walking up and down and examining the different articles which had belonged to his daughter, and which, at his request, remained untouched as she had left them. Her brushes, her comb, her bottled perfumery, her work-box, her Bible, a little half-finished sketch, and her soft bed-slippers she had worn when she died, and one of which he held in his hand when Jerrie went in to him.
'It is so like Maude,' he said, with quivering lips, as she went to his side, 'and when I hold it in my hand I can almost hear the dear little feet, which I know are cold and dead, coming along the hall as she used to come, and will never come again. I think I should like to die here in this room and go where Maude has gone, and I believe I should go there. I am sure God has forgiven me, and Maude forgave me, too, for I told her.'
'You did! I thought so,' Jerrie said.
'Yes, I had to tell her,' he continued, 'and I am glad I did, and she loved me just the same. You saw her die. You heard what she said to me. She must have believed in me, and that keeps me from going mad. I told Dolly, too; the shadow was so black I had to; and she said she'd never speak to me again as long as she lived, and she didn't either until last night, when I was alone in here, crying on Maude's bed; then she came to me and called me Frank, and said she was sorry she had been so hard, and asked me what we were going to do, and where we were going. I'm sure I don't know; do you?'
He was so broken, so like a child in his appeal to her, that Jerrie's tears came fast as she told him of her approaching marriage and what her father intended doing for him. Then Frank broke down entirely, and cried like a child.
'I don't deserve it, and I know I owe it to you, whom I have injured so much,' he said, while Jerrie tried to comfort him.
'I must go back now to father,' she said at last; and, with a kiss upon his worn face, she went out into the hall, where she encountered Tom just coming from his mother's room.
'Hallo!' Tom cried, with an attempt at a smile, 'and so you are going to marry Harold?'
'Yes, Tom; I'm going to marry Harold,' Jerrie replied, unhesitatingly, as she laid her hand on Tom's arm and walked with him down the stairs.
It seemed to her the most natural thing in the world that she should marry Harold, and she was not at all abashed in speaking of it to Tom; but when outside they saw Harold coming up the walk, the color rushed to her cheeks, and her eyes grew wondrously bright with the love-light which shown in them, as she dropped Tom's arm and hurried to Harold's side.
'By George, I b'lieve I'll go and hang myself!' Tom said, under his breath, as he stalked moodily away; but instead of that he went across the fields to Le Bateau, where he sat for an hour, talking with old Peterkin and waiting for Ann Eliza, who had gone to Springfield, her father said, after a new gown, for which he was to pay two hundred dollars.
'Think on't!' he continued. 'When we was fust married and run the 'Liza Ann, the best gown May Jane had to her back was a mereener or balzarine--dummed if I know what you call it--at one and ninepence a yard; but now, lord land, what's two hundred dollar gownd to me! Ann Eliza can have forty on 'em, if she wants to. There she is; there's the kerridge! By gosh, though, ain't she a neat little filly!' and the father's face glowed with pride as he watched his daughter alighting from the carriage, to which Tom had hastened in order to assist her, for she was still a little lame and limped as she walked.
He saw the two hundred dollar gown, for Peterkin would have it displayed, and admired it, of course, and wished thut he had half the sum it cost in his own right, and wondered if he could stand it, as he walked slowly home, where he heard from his mother that they were still to remain at Tracy Park for a while, and that his father was to have one hundred thousand dollars settled upon him.
'I guess now I'll wait a spell, and let old Peterkin go to thunder,' he decided, and for two weeks and more Ann Eliza watched in vain for his coming, while Peterkin remarked to his wife that if Tom Tracy was goin' to play fast and loose with his gal, he'd find himself brought up standin' mighty lively.
The news that Harold and Jerrie were soon to be married, and go with Arthur to Germany, created some surprise, and some talk, too, in town, where many of the people had believed that there had been an understanding, if not an engagement, between Harold and Maude. But Tom put that right with a few decided words. There had never been an engagement, he said. Maude had liked Harold very much, and he had liked her, but had always preferred Jerrie; in short, matters had been as good as settled between them, long ago.
This last was a little fiction of Tom's brain, but the people accepted it as true, and began to look eagerly forward to the approaching marriage, wondering, as people will, who would be invited, and who would not. It took place the 10th of October, in Mrs. Crawford's little parlor, with only a few intimate friends present--Grace Atherton, the St. Claires, Ann Eliza Peterkin, and the Tracys, with the exception of Dolly, who could not do so great violence to her feeling, as to attend a wedding. Billy was not there, but he sent a magnificent emerald ring to Jerrie, with the following note: DEAR JERRIE,--I can't see you married, although I am glad for you, and glad for Hal. God bless you both. I shall never forget you as long as I live; and when you come back, maybe I can bear to see you as Hal's wife, but now it would kill me. Good-bye.
Jerrie read this note with wet eyes up in her room, and then passed it to Harold, to whom she told of that episode under the butternut tree, when Billy asked her to be his wife.
'Poor Billy! I am awful sorry for him, but I can't let him have you, Jerrie,' Harold said, passing the note back to her, and kissing her tenderly, as he added: 'That is my last kiss for Jerrie Tracy, my little girl of the carpet-bag. When I kiss you again, you will be my wife.'
'Come, children, we are waiting,' came with startling distinctness from Arthur at the foot of the stairs, and then Harold and Jerrie went down to the parlor, where they were soon made one, Arthur giving the bride away, and behaving pretty well under the circumstances.
He had been very flighty the day before, insisting that Jerrie should be married in white, with a blue ribbon on her bonnet, just as Gretchen had been, and when she reminded him of Maude's recent death, he replied: 'Well, Gretchen will wear colors if you do not.'
And again he brought out and laid upon his bed the dress bought in Paris years before, and which had been waiting for Gretchen on that stormy night when he heard the wild cry of the dying woman above the wintery gale. She was with him again in fancy, and when he went out to the carriage which was to carry him to the cottage, he stepped back and stood a moment by the door as if to let some one enter before him, and all during the ceremony those nearest to him heard him whispering to himself, 'I, Arthur, take thee, Gretchen,' and so forth; but when it was over he came to himself and seemed perfectly rational, as he kissed his daughter and shook hands with his son-in-law, to whom he gave a check for ten thousand dollars, saying as he did so, that young men must have a little spending money.
It was a very pleasant wedding, and every one seemed happy, even to Dick, whose spirits, however, were rather too gay to be quite natural, and whose voice shook just a little as he called Jerrie Mrs. Hasting, and told her he hoped to see her in Paris in the spring as he thought of going over there with Nina to join the Raymonds.
'Oh, I hope you will! Nothing could make me so happy as to meet you there,' Jerrie said, looking at him with an expression which told him she was thinking of the pines and was sorry for him.
The newly married pair were going directly to New York, where Arthur was to join them on the 4th, as the _Germanic_ sailed the 15th.
All the wedding guests accompanied them to the station, Tom accepting a seat in the coupé with Ann Eliza, who wore her two hundred dollar gown, and was, of course, overdressed. But Tom did not think much about that. He was ill at ease that morning, though trying to seem natural; and when the train which took Jerrie away disappeared from view, he felt as if everything which had made life desirable had left him forever, and he cared but little now what he did, or with whom his lot was cast.
So when Ann Eliza, who had cried at parting with Jerrie, dried her eyes and said to him, 'It is such a fine day; suppose we drive along the river; it may dispel the blues,' he assented, and soon found himself bowling along the smooth turnpike with Ann Eliza, whom he thought rather interesting, with the tears shed for Jerrie on her long, light eyelashes.
'I shall miss her so much, and be so lonely without her. I hope you'll call often,' she said to him, when at last the drive was over, and Tom promised that he would, and kept his promise, too; for after Arthur left, he found Tracy Park so insupportably dull, with his father always in Maude's room and his mother always in tears, that it was a relief to go to Le Bateau and be made much of as if he were a prince and treated to nice little lunches and suppers, even if old Peterkin did make one of the party and disgust him so at times that he felt as if he must snatch up his hat and fly.
And one night, when the old man had been more than usually disagreeable and pompous, he did start up abruptly and leave the house, mentally vowing never to enter it again.
'I'd rather saw wood and gather swill, as Hal used to, than listen to that infernal old brag,' he was saying to himself, when he heard a wheezy sound behind him, and looking round saw the old brag in full pursuit and beckoning him to stop.
'I'm goin' to walk a spell with you,' he said, locking his arm in Tom's as he came up. 'I want to have a little talk.'
'Yes,' Tom faltered, with a dreadful sinking of the heart, while Peterkin went on: 'You see you've been a comin' to Lubbertoo off and on for mighty nigh a month, and as the parents of a family it's time I as't your intentions.'
'Intentions!' Tom stammered, trying to draw his arm from Peterkin's.
But he might as well have tried to wrench it from a vise, for Peterkin held it fast and went on: 'Yes, intentions! Thunderation, hain't a chap 'sposed to have intentions when he hangs round a gal who has money like my Ann 'Liza! I tell you what, Thomas,' and his manner became very insinuating and frank, 'as nigh as I can kalkerlate I'm worth three millions, fair and square, and there's three on 'em to divide it amongst--May Jane, Bill, and Ann 'Liza. Now, s'posin' we say three into three million, don't it leave a million?'
Tom acknowledged that it did, and Peterkin continued: 'Jess so. Now I ain't one of them mean skunks that wants his folks to wait till he's dead afore they enjoys themselves; and the day my Ann 'Liza is married, I plank down a million in hard cash for her and her husband to do what they darned please with; cut a dash in Europe as Hal is doin', if they like, or cut a splurge to hum, it's all one to me. I call that square, don't you?'
Tom admitted that he did, and Peterkin went on: 'Now, then, I ain't goin't to have Ann 'Liza's affections trifled with, and if I catch a feller a doin' on't, d'ye know what I'll do?'
Tom could not guess, and Peterkin continued: 'I'll lick him within an inch of his life, and then set the dogs on him, and heave him inter the river! See?'
It was not a warm day, but Tom was perspiring at every pore as he saw presented to him the choice between a million or to be 'licked within an inch of his life and then dogged into the river.' Naturally he chose the first as the lesser evil of the two, and began to lie as he had never lied in his life before. He was very glad, he said, that Peterkin had broached the subject, as it made matters easier for him by showing him that his suit might not be rejected, as he had feared it might be.
'You know, of course, Mr. Peterkin,' he said, 'that I am a poor young man, with no expectations whatever, for though Uncle Arthur has settled something upon father, I cannot depend upon that, and how could I dare to look as high as your daughter without some encouragement?'
'Encouragement, boy? Great Scott!' and releasing Tom's arm, Peterkin hit him a friendly slap, which nearly knocked him down. 'Great Scott! What do you call encouragement? When a gal is so flustified at seeing you, and so tickled that she tetters right up and down, while her mother hunts heaven and earth for tit-bits to tickle your palate with--quail on toast, mushrooms, sweet-breads, and the Lord knows what--ain't that a sign they are willin'? Thunder and guns! what would you have? Ann 'Liza can't up and say "Marry me, Tom;" nor I can't up and say, "Thomas, marry my daughter," can I? But if you want to marry her, say so like a man, and I swan I'll meet you like a man, and a father!'
Alas for Tom! he had nothing left him to do except to say that he wished to marry Ann Eliza, and that he would come the next evening and tell her so.
It was Peterkin who answered his ring when he presented himself at the door of Le Bateau, Peterkin more inflated and pompous than ever as he shook the young man's hand, calling him Thomas--a name which aggravated him beyond all description--and telling him to go right into the parlor, where he would find Ann 'Liza waitin' for him, and where they could bill and coo as much as they liked, for he and May Jane would keep out of the way and give 'em a chance.
Even then Tom cast one despairing glance toward the door, with a half resolve to bolt; but Peterkin was behind him, pushing him on to his fate, which, after all, was not so very bad when he came to face it. There was nothing low, or mean, or coarse about Ann Eliza, who, but for her very bright red hair, would have been called pretty by some, and who was by no means ill-looking, even with her red hair, as she stood up to receive her lover, with a droop in her eyes, and a flush on her cheeks; for she knew the object of his visit, into which he plunged at once. He did not say that he loved her, but he asked her in a straightforward way to be his wife, and then waited for her answer, which was not long in coming, for Ann Eliza was no dissembler. She loved Tom Tracy with her whole soul, and felt herself honored in being sought by him.
'Oh, Tom!' she said, while the tears shone in her eyes, which Tom noticed for the first time were large and clear and very blue. 'It does not seem possible for you to love me, but, if you really do, I will be your wife and try to make you happy, and--and--' She hesitated a moment and then went on: 'Save you as much as possible from father. We cannot live here; you and he would not get on; he means well and is the kindest of fathers to me, but he is not like you, and we must go away.'
She was really a very sensible girl, Tom thought, and in his joy at finding her so sensible he stooped and kissed her forehead as the proper thing for him to do, while she, the poor little mistaken girl, threw herself into his arms and began to cry, she was so glad and happy.
Tom did not know exactly what he ought to do. It was a novel situation for him to be in, with a girl sobbing on his bosom, and his first impulse was to push her off; but when he remembered that she represented a million of dollars, he did what half the men in the world would have done in his place: he held her close and tried to quiet her, and told her he was not half good enough for her, and knew in his heart he was telling the truth, and felt within him that stirring of a resolve that she should never know he did not love her, and that he would make her happy, if he could.
And so they were betrothed without much billing and cooing, and Peterkin came in with Mary Jane and made a speech half-an-hour long to his future son-in-law, and settled just when they were to be married and what they were to do.
Christmas week was the time, and he vowed he'd give 'em a wedding which should take the starch entirely out of Gusty Browne, whose mother, Mrs. Rossiter Browne, would think Gusty was never married at all when she saw what he could do. Greatly he lamented that Harold and Jerry could not be present. 'But they'll see it in the papers,' he said, 'for I'll have a four column notice, if I write it myself, and pay for it too! And when you meet 'em in Europe you can tell 'em what they missed.'
To all this Tom listened, with great drops of cold sweat running down his back as he thought of the ridicule he should incur if Peterkin should carry out his intentions to 'take the rag off the bush,' as he expressed it. The trip to Europe pleased him, but the party filled him with a horror from which he saw no escape, until he consulted his mother, to whom he at once announced his engagement, but did not tell her of the check on a Springfield bank for $2,000 which Peterkin had slipped into his hand at parting with him, saying, when he protested against taking it: 'Don't be a fool, Thomas. I'm to be your dad, so take it; you'll need it. I know your circumstances; they ain't what they was, and I don't s'pose you've got enough to buy the engagement ring, I want a big one. A solitary--no cluster for me. I know what 'tis to be poor. Take it, Thomas.'
So Tom took it with a sense of shame which prompted him several times to tear it in shreds and throw them to the winds. But this he did not do, for he knew he should need money, as he had none of his own; and when, a few days before, he had asked Colvin for some, that worthy man, who had never taken kindly to him, had bidden him go to a very warm place for money, as he had no orders to give him any.
'Your uncle,' he said, 'settled one hundred thousand dollars on your father--the more fool he--and expects him to live on it. So my advice to you is that you go to work.'
Now, Tom couldn't work, and after a little Peterkin's gift did not seem so very humiliating to him, although he could not bring himself to tell his mother of it when he announced his engagement to her, which he did bluntly and with nothing apologetic in his manner or speech.
'I am going to marry Ann Eliza Peterkin some time during the holidays, and start at once for Europe,' he said, and then brought some water and dashed it in her face, for she immediately went into hysterics and declared herself dying.
When she grew calm, Tom swore a little, and talked a good deal, and told her about the million, which he said was not to be sneezed at, and told her what Colvin had said to him, and asked what the old Harry he was to do if he didn't marry Ann Eliza, and told her of the proposed party, asking her to save him from it if she could.
When she found she could not help herself, Dolly rose to the situation, and said she would see her daughter-in-law elect, whom Tom was to bring to her, as she could not think of calling at Le Bateau in her present state of affliction. So Ann Eliza came over in the coat-of-arms carriage, and her mother came with her. But her Dolly declined to see. She could not endure everything, she said to Tom, and was only equal to Ann Eliza, whom she met with a bow and the tips of her fingers, without rising from her chair. Still, as the representative of a million, Ann Eliza was entitled to some consideration, and Dolly motioned her to a seat beside her, and, with her black-bordered handkerchief to her eyes, said to her: 'Tom tells me you are going to marry him, and I trust you will try to make him happy. He is a most estimable young man now, and if he should develop any bad habits, I shall think it owing to some new and bad influence brought to bear upon him.'
'Yes'm,' Ann Eliza answered, timidly; and the great lady went on to talk of family, and blood, and position, as something for which money could not make amends, and to impress upon her a sense of the great honor it was to be a member of the Tracy family.
Then she spoke of the wedding party, which she trusted Ann Eliza would prevent, as nothing could be in worse taste when they were in such affliction, adding that neither herself nor Mr. Tracy could think of being present.
'Be married quietly, without any display, if you wish to please me,' she said; and with a wave of her cobweb handkerchief she signified that the conference was ended.
'Well, Annie, how did you and my lady hit it?' Tom asked, meeting Ann Eliza in the hall as she came out, flushed and hot from the interview.
'We didn't hit it at all,' Ann Eliza replied, with a sound of tears in her voice, and a gleam in her eye which Tom had never seen before. 'She just talked as if I were dirt, and that you were only marrying me for money. She don't like me and I don't like her, there!' and the indignant little girl began to cry.
Tom laughed immoderately, and, passing his arm around her as they went down the stairs, he said: 'Of course you don't like her. Who ever did like her mother-in-law? But you are marrying me, not my mother, so don't cry, _petite_.'
Tom was making an effort to be very kind, and even lover-like to his _fiancée_, who was easily comforted, and who, on her return to Le Bateau told her father plainly that the party must be given up, as it would be sadly out of place and deeply offend the Tracys. Very unwillingly Peterkin gave it up, and sent word to that effect to Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, who had already been apprised of the coming event and was having a wonderful gown made for the occasion.
'I find,' he wrote, 'that it wouldn't be at all _rachelshay_ to have a blow out whilst the family is in deep black; but when they git into lavender, and the young folks is home from their tower, I'll have a tearer.'
Peterkin tried two or three times to see Mrs. Tracy, but she put him off with one excuse after another, until Tom took the matter in hand and told her she was acting like a fool and putting on quite too many airs. Then she appointed an interview, and, bracing herself with a tonic, went down to the darkened, cheerless room, and by her manner so managed to impress him with her superiority over him and his that he forgot entirely the speech he had prepared with infinite pains, and which had in it a good deal about family _bonds_, and family _units_, and _Aaron's beard_, and brotherly love. This he had rehearsed many times to May Jane, with wonderful gestures and flourishes; 'but, I'll be bumped' he said to her on his return from the Park House, 'if I didn't forget every blessed word, she was so high and mighty. Lord! as if I didn't know what she sprung from; but that's the way with them as was born to nothin'. May Jane, if I ever catch you puttin' on airs 'cause you're a Peterkin, I b'lieve I'll kill you!'
After this, anything like familiar intercourse ceased between the heads of the two families until the morning after Christmas day, when Frank and Dolly drove over to Le Bateau, where were assembled the same people who had been present at Jerrie's wedding, and where Peterkin insisted upon darkening the rooms and lighting the gas, as something a little out of the usual order of things in Shannondale. Peterkin was very happy, and very proud of this alliance with the Tracy, and his pride and happiness shone in his face all through the ceremony; and when the clergyman asked, 'Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?' his manner was something grand to see as he stepped forward and responded, 'I do, sir,' in a voice so loud and full of importance that Dolly involuntarily groaned, while Tom found it hard to refrain from laughing.
Tom behaved very well, and kissed his bride before any one else had a chance to do so, and called May Jane mother and Peterkin father, after he saw the papers which made Ann Eliza own in her own right a million dollars; and when, an hour later, she handed over to him as his own, a deed of property valued at one hundred thousand dollars, he took her in his arms and kissed her again, telling her what was very true, that she was worth her weight in gold. Tom had felt his poverty keenly, and all the more so that Ann Eliza's engagement-ring, a superb solitaire, had actually been bought with her father's gift, as had their passage tickets to Europe. But now he was a rich man, made so by his wife's thoughtful generosity, and he was conscious of a new set of feelings and emotions with regard to her, and inwardly vowed that, so far as in him lay, he would make her happy.
They took the train for New York that afternoon, accompanied by Peterkin, who, when the ship sailed away next day, stood upon the wharf waving his hands and calling out as long as they could hear him, 'God bless you, my children! God bless you, my children!' Then he went back to Shannondale and called at Tracy Park, and reported to Frank, the only one he saw, that the youngsters had gone, and that Mrs. Thomas Tracy looked as well as the best on 'em in the ship, and a darned sight better than some!
After this the great houses of Le Bateau and Tracy Park settled down into perfect quiet, especially that of Tracy Park, where Dolly shut herself up in her mourning and crape, and Frank spent most of his time in Maude's room, with her photograph in his hand, and his thoughts busy with memories of the dear little girl lying in her grave of flowers under the winter snow.
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{
"id": "15321"
}
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53
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AFTER TWO YEARS.
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Two years since Harold and Jerrie went away, and it was October again, and the doors and windows of the Park House were all open to the warm sunshine which filled the rooms, where the servants were flitting in and out with an air of importance and pleased expectancy, for that afternoon the master was coming home, with Harold and Jerrie; and what was more wonderful and exciting still, there was in the party a little boy, born in Wiesbaden six months before, and christened Frank Tracy. They had gone directly to Germany--Arthur, Harold, and Jerrie--for the former would not stop a day until Wiesbaden was reached; and there, overcome with fatigue and the recollections of the past which crowded upon him so fast, Arthur fell sick and was confined to his room in the hotel for a week, during which time Jerrie explored the city with Harold and a guide, finding every spot connected with Gretchen and her life, even to the shop were Frau Heinrich had sold her small wares.
As soon as her father was able, she took him to them one by one. Hand in hand, for he seemed weak as a little child, they went to the bench under the trees where he had first seen Gretchen knitting in the sunshine, with the halo on her hair, and here Arthur took off his hat as if on consecrated ground, and whispered, 'May God forgive me!' then to the little shop once kept by Frau Heinrich, where Arthur astonished the woman by buying out half her stock, which he ordered sent to his hotel, and afterward gave away; then to the English church, where he knelt before the altar and seemed to be praying, though the words he said were spoken more to Gretchen than to God; then to the house where he had lived with his bride, when heaven came down so close that she could touch it, or rather, to the site of the house, for fire had done its work there and they could only stand before the ruins, while Arthur said again and again, 'May God forgive me!' then to the house where Jerrie had lived and Gretchen had died, and where the picture still hung upon the wall, a wonder and delight to all who had rented the place since Marian's parents parents lived there. Jerrie recognized it in a moment, and so did Arthur, but he could only wring his hands before it and sob, 'Oh, Gretchen, my darling, my darling!' Changed as the house was, Jerrie found the room she remembered so well, where she had played and her mother had died.
'The big stove stood here,' she said, indicating the spot, 'and mother sat there writing to you, when Nannine opened the door and let the firelight shine upon the paper. I can see it all so distinctly, and over there in the corner was the bed where she died.'
Then Arthur knelt down upon the spot, and as if the oft-repeated ejaculation, 'May God forgive me!' were wholly inadequate now, he said the Lord's Prayer, with folded hands and streaming eyes, while Jerrie stood over him, with her arm around his neck.
'Oh, Gretchen,' he cried; 'do you know I am here after so many years? --Arthur, your husband, who loved you through all? Come back to me, Gretchen, and I'll be so tender and true--tender and true! My heart is breaking, Gretchen, and only for Cherry, our dear little girl baby, I should wish I were dead, like you. Oh, Gretchen! Gretchen! sweetest wife a man ever called his! and yet I forgot you, darling--forgot that you had ever lived! May heaven forgive me for I could not help it; I forgot everything. Where are you, Cherry? It's getting so dark and cold, and Gretchen is not here--I think you must take me home.
Jerrie took him back to the hotel, where he kept his room for three days, and then they went to Gretchen's grave beside her mother, which Jerrie had found after some little search and enquiry. Here Arthur stood like a statue, holding fast to Jerrie, and gazing down upon the neglected grave, on which clumps of withered grass were growing and blowing in the November wind.
'Gretchen is not here in this place,' he said mournfully, with a shake of his head. 'She couldn't rest there a moment, for she liked everything beautiful and bright, and this is like the Potter's field. But we'll put up a monument for her, and make the place attractive; and by and by, when she is tired of wandering about, she may come back and rest when she sees what we have done, and knows that we have been here. We will buy that house too, he said, as he walked away from the lonely grave; and the next day Harold found the owner of the place and commenced negotiations for the house, which soon changed hands and became the property of Arthur.
Just what he meant to do with it he did not know, until Jerrie suggested that he should make it an asylum for homeless children, who should receive the kindest and tenderest care from competent and trustworthy nurses, hired for the purpose.
'Yes, I'll do it,' Arthur said, 'and will call it "The Gretchen Home." Maybe she will come there some time, and know what I have done.'
This idea once in his mind, Arthur never let go of it until the house was fitted up with school-rooms and dormitories, with the little white beds and chairs suggestive of the little ones rescued from want and misery and placed in the Gretchen home until it would hold no more. The general supervision of this home was placed in the hands of the English rector, the Rev. James Dennis, whose many acts of kindness and humanity among the poor had won for him the sobriquet of St. James, and with whom the interests of the children were safe as with a loving father.
'There is money enough--money enough,' said Arthur, when giving his instructions to the matron, a good-natured woman, who, he knew, would never abuse a child. 'Money enough; to give them something besides bread and water for breakfast, and mush and molasses for supper. Children like cookies and custard pie, and if there comes a circus to town let them go once in a while; it won't hurt them to see a little of the world.'
Frau Hirch looked at him in some surprise, but promised compliance with his wishes; and when in the middle of December he left Wiesbaden for Italy he had the satisfaction of knowing that the inmates of the Gretchen home were enjoying a bill of fare not common in institutions of the kind.
Another odd fancy had entered his brain, upon which he acted with his usual promptness. Every child not known to have been baptized, was to be christened with a new name, either Gretchen, or Jerrie, or Maude or Arthur, or Harold, or Frank.
'Suppose you have Tom, and Ann Eliza, and Hilly,' Jerrie suggested, and after a little demur Arthur consented, and the names of Tom, and Ann Eliza, and Billy were added to the list, which, in the course of time, created some little confusion in the Gretchen home, where Jerries, and Maudes, and Harolds, and Arthurs abounded in great profusion, these being the favorites of the children, who in most instances were allowed to choose for themselves.
It was not difficult to find in Wiesbaden people who had remembered Gretchen and the grand marriage she had made with the rich American, who afterward abandoned her. That was the way they worded it, and they remembered too, the little girl, Jerrine, whom, after her mother's death, the nurse, Nannine, took to her father's friends, since which nothing had been heard from her. Thus, had there been in Arthur's mind any doubt as to Jerrie's identity, it would have been swept away; but there was none. He had accepted her from the first as his daughter, and he always looked up to her as a child to its mother whom it fears to lose sight of.
The winter was mostly spent in Rome, where Harold and Jerrie explored every part of the city, while Arthur staid in his room talking to an unseen Gretchen, who afforded him almost as much satisfaction as the real one might have done. In May they visited the lakes and in June drifted to Paris, where Jerrie was overjoyed to meet Nina and Dick, who were staying with the Raymonds at a charming chateau just outside the city. Here she and Harold passed a most enjoyable week, and before she left she was made happy by something which she saw and which told her that Dick was forgetting that night under the pines, and that some day not far in the future he would find in Marian all he had once hoped to find in her. In Paris, too, she came one day upon Ann Eliza at the Bon Marché, with silks and satins piled high around her, and two or three obsequious clerks in attendance, for La Petite Américaine, who bought so lavishly everything she saw and fancied, was well known to the tradespeople, who eagerly sought her patronage and that of my lord monsieur, who inspired them greatly with his air of importance and dignity. Tom was enjoying himself immensely, and was really a good deal improved and a good deal in love with his little wife, whom he always addressed as Petite or Madame, and who was quite a belle and a general favorite in the American colony. Following a fashion, which Tom was sure had been made for his benefit, she had cut off her obnoxious red hair and substituted in its place a wig of reddish brown, which for naturalness and beauty was a marvel of art and skill, and became her so well that Tom really thought her handsome, or at least very stylish and stunning, which was better than mere beauty. They had a suite of rooms at the Continental, and there Harold and Jerrie dined with them in their private parlor, for Tom was quite too fine a gentleman to go to _table d'hôte_ with the common herd. Ann Eliza's grand maid, Doris, was with her still, and had come to look upon her young mistress as quite as great a personage as the Lady Augusta Hardy, whom she had ceased to quote, and who, with her mother, Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, was now in the city, attended, it was said, by a Polish count, who had an eye upon her money. Once, when they were alone, Jerrie asked Tom when he was going home, and, with a comical twinkle in his eye, he replied, 'When I hear that my respected father-in-law has gone off with apoplexy, and not before.' Jerrie thought this a shocking speech, but she was glad to see him so happy, and, as she told Harold, 'so much more of a man than she had ever supposed he could be.'
That summer Harold and Jerrie spent in Switzerland, with the Raymonds and St. Claires and Tracys, while Arthur went to Wiesbaden to see to the Gretchen Home, which he found so much to his taste that he remained there until Harold and Jerrie, after a trip through Austria and Germany, joined him in November, when they went again for the winter to Italy, coming back in the spring to Wiesbaden, and because Arthur would have it so, taking up their abode for a while in the Gretchen Home, which had been greatly enlarged and improved, and now held thirty deserted and homeless children. Here, in April, Jerrie's little boy was born, in the same room and corner where Gretchen had died, and where Arthur again went down upon his knees and said the Lord's Prayer, to which he added a fervent thanksgiving for Jerrie spared and a baby given to him.
'I hoped it would be a girl,' he said, 'for then we should have called it Gretchen; but as it is a boy, suppose we name it Heinrich?'
'No, father,' Jerrie said decidedly, 'Baby is not to be Heinrich, or Arthur, or Harold, although I think the last the dearest name in the world,' and she put up her hand caressingly to the brown beard of the tall young man bending over to kiss her pale face and look at his son. 'We will call the baby Frank Tracy.'
And so Frank Tracy was the name given to the child, who was more like its father than its mother, and whom Arthur called Tracy, which he liked better, he said, than he did Frank.
They remained in Wiesbaden until June, then went to Switzerland and Paris, and in October sailed for home, where the Park House was ready for them, with no mistress to dispute Jerrie's rights and no master except the lawful one. Just out of town on a grassy ridge overlooking the river, a gentleman from New York had built a pretty little cottage, which, as his wife died suddenly, he never occupied, but offered for sale, with all its furniture and appointments.
'Let's buy it,' Dolly said to her husband. 'We must go somewhere before Arthur comes home, and we can live there very respectably and economically, too.'
She was beginning to count the cost of everything now, and was almost penurious in her efforts to make their income go as far as possible. So they bought the pretty place, which she called Ridge Cottage, but Frank did not live to occupy it. After Tom went away and left him alone with his wife, who was not the most agreeable of companions, he failed rapidly, both in body and mind, and those who saw him walking about the house, with his white hair and bent form, would have said he was seventy rather than fifty years old. Every day, when the weather permitted, he visited Maude's grave, where he sometime stayed for hours looking down upon the mound talking to the insensible clay beneath.
'I am coming soon, Maude, very soon, to be here beside you,' he would say. 'Everybody has gone, even to Tom, and your mother is sometimes hard upon me because of what I did. And I am tired, and cold, and old, and the world is dark and dreary, and I am coming very soon.'
Then he would walk slowly back, taking the post office on his way, to inquire for letters from the folks, as he designated the absent ones. These letters were a great comfort to him, especially those from Jerrie, who wrote him very often and told him all they were doing and seeing, and tried to make him understand how much she loved and sympathised with him. Not a hint had been given him of the baby; and when, in June, he received a letter from her containing a photograph of the little boy named for him, he seemed childish in his joy, and started with the picture at once for Maude's grave. Kneeling down, with his face in the long grass, he whispered: 'Look, Maude! --Jerrie's baby boy, named for me--Frank Tracy! Do you hear me, Maude? Frank Tracy, for me--who wronged her so. God bless Jerrie, and give her many years of happiness when I am dead and gone, which will not now be long. I am coming very soon, Maude; sooner than you think, and shall never see Jerrie's little boy, God bless him!'
That night Frank seemed brighter than usual, and talked a great deal with his wife, who, to the last day of her life, was glad that she was kind to him and humored all his fancies; and once, when he lay upon the couch, with the baby's picture in his hand, she went and sat by him and ran her fingers caressingly through his white hair, and asked if he were not better.
'Yes, Dolly,' he said, taking her fingers in his hand and holding them fast. 'A great deal better. Jerrie's baby has done me good, and you, too, Dolly. You don't knew how nice it seems to have you smooth my hair; it is like the old days at Langley, when we sang in the choir together, and you were fond of me.'
'I am fond of you now, Frank,' Dolly replied, as she stooped to kiss the face in which there was a look she had never seen before, and which haunted her long after he had said good-night and gone to Maude's room, where he said he would sleep, as he was likely to be restless and might keep her awake.
The next morning Dolly took her breakfast alone, for Frank did not join her.
'Let him sleep,' she said to the servant, who suggested calling him; but when some time later, he did not appear, she went herself to Maude's room, into which the noonday sun was shining, for every blind and window was open and the light was so dazzling that for a moment she did not see the still figure stretched upon the bed, where with Maude's picture in one hand and Jerrie's baby's in the other, her husband lay, calmly sleeping the sleep which knows no waking.
On his face there was a look of rapturous joy, and on his lips a smile as if they were framing the loved name of Maude when death came and sealed them forever. Around him was no sign of struggle or pain, for the covering was not disturbed; and the physician when he came said he must have died quietly and possibly instantly without a note of warning. They buried him beside his daughter and then Dolly was alone in the great house, which became so intolerable to her that she left it early in August and took possession of the cottage on the Ridge, which, though scarcely less lovely, was not as large as the Park House and did not seem haunted with the ghosts of the dead.
And so it happened that Mrs. Crawford alone stood in the door-way to welcome the travellers when, late in the bright October afternoon they came, tired and dusty, but oh, so glad to be home once more and to feel that now it really was home to all intents and purposes.
'I never was so glad in my life, and if Uncle Frank were here I should be perfectly happy,' Jerrie cried, as she threw herself upon Mrs. Crawford's neck, hugging and kissing her awhile, and then taking her baby from the nurse she put it into the old lady's arms, saying as she did so: 'Another grandson for you--Harold's baby. Isn't he a beauty?'
And little Tracy was a most beautiful child, with his father's features and complexion, but Jerrie's expression and ways, and Mrs. Crawford felt, as she folded him to her bosom and cried over him, that he would be the crowning joy of her old age. At first Harold puzzled and perplexed her, he was so changed from the Harold who had shingled roofs and painted barns and worked in Peterkin's furnace. Foreign travel and prosperity set well upon him, and one could scarcely have found a more refined or polished young man than Harold as he moved about the premises, every inch a gentleman and every inch the master, with a bright smile and pleasant word for everyone, whether of high or low degree. He had known what poverty meant, with slights on account of it, and had risen above it all, and remembering the days when he worked in the Tracy fields and envied his companions their leisure and freedom from toil, he had resolved that, if possible, some portion of mankind should be happier because of him. He knew he was very fine-looking, for his tailor told him so, and his mirror told him so, and Jerrie told him so twenty times a day as she kissed his handsome face, and his grandmother frequently took off her spectacles to wipe away her glad tears as she looked at her boy and felt so proud of him.
All Shannondale hastened to call upon the travellers, and no one was louder or more demonstrative in his welcome than Peterkin, who called himself their _kin_, and was very proud of the connection and of his son _Thomas_, for whom he made many inquiries. It did not take long for the family to settle down into every-day quiet, Jerrie proving herself a competent and thorough housekeeper, while Harold was to all intents and purposes the head to whom everyone deferred and went for directions. Arthur, who had half died from seasickness, had at once taken to his rooms and his old mode of life, telling Harold and Jerrie to do what they liked and not bother him. One change, however, he made; he put Harold into the office in the place of Colvin, who had done his business for so many years, and who was glad to give it up, while Harold was glad to take it, as it gave him something to do and did not greatly interfere with his law studies, which he immediately resumed, applying himself so closely that he was admitted to practice within the year, and in time became one of the ablest lawyers in the State.
And now there remains but little to do except to gather up the few tangled threads of our story and bring it to a close. For another year the Raymonds and St. Claires remained abroad, and then, just before they sailed for home, there was a double wedding one morning in London, when Fred and Dick were the bridegrooms, and Marian and Nina were the brides. Dick had not forgotten the night under the pines, but he had ceased to remember it with pain; and when he asked Marian to be his wife he told her of it, and of his old love for Jerrie, while she in turn told him of a grave among the Alps by which she had stood with an aching heart, while strangers buried from her sight forever a young artist from Boston, who, had he lived, would have made it impossible for her to be the wife of Dick St. Claire. But Allan was dead, and Jerrie was a wife and mother, and so across the graves of a living and a dead love the two grasped hands, and, forgetting the past as far as possible, were content with the new happiness offered to them.
* * * * * It is five years now since Harold and Jerrie came home, and toddling about the house is a little girl two years old, whom they call Gretchen, and who has all the soft beauty of the Gretchen in the picture, together with Jerrie's stronger and more marked features. This little girl is Arthur's idol, and has succeeded in luring him from his den, in which, until she came, he was staying closer than ever. Now, however, he is with her constantly, either in the house or in the grounds, or sitting under a tree holding her in his lap, while he talks his strange talk to the other Gretchen, and the child listens wonderingly, with her great blue eyes fixed upon him.
'This is our grandchild,' he will say, nodding to the space beside him, while little Gretchen nods too, as if she also saw a figure sitting there. 'Our grandchild and Jerrie's baby, and you are its grandmother. Grandma Gretchen! That's funny;' and then he laughs, and baby laughs, and says after him, lispingly, 'Danma Detchen, that's funny.'
Then Tracy comes up with his whip and his cart, and his straw hat hanging down his back, and Arthur points him out to the spirit Gretchen as her grandson, who, he says, is all Hastings, with a very little Tracy and not a grain of German in him, 'but very nice, very nice; and you are his grandmother, too, and I am his grandfather, whom he once called an old crazy man because I wouldn't let him play in my room with a little alligator which his Aunt Dolly sent him from Florida.'
'Well, you be crazy, ain't you?' the boy says, seating himself upon the bench and nestling his brown head against the arm of the man, who replies: 'I don't know whether I am or not, but if to be very happy in the companionship of the living and of the dead, and to have one as real as the other is craziness, then I am crazy.'
And then, for the hundredth time, he tells to the boy, and to the baby, too, who seems to understand the story of the carpet-bag and the little girl, their mother, whom the boy, their father, found in the Tramp House one wintry morning years ago, and carried through the snow. And Tracy starts to his feet with dilating eyes, and says: 'I just wish I'd been there. I'd carried mamma, and wouldn't let her drop in the snow as papa did. Where was I then, grandpa?'
But grandpa does not answer, and begins the story of the cherries and the ladder, which Tracy likes even better than that of the carpet bag, particularly the part where the white sun-bonnet appears in the window, and the shrill voice calls out: 'Mr. Crazyman, Mr. Crazyman, don't you want some cherries?'
This Arthur makes very dramatic and real, and Tracy holds his breath; and sometimes when the question is more real than usual, little Gretchen puts out her hand, and says: '_Iss_, div me some.'
Then the boy and the old man laugh, and Tracy runs off after a passing butterfly, and Arthur goes on with talk to the baby and the other Gretchen beside him, until the former falls asleep, and he takes her to the crib he has had put in the bay window under the picture which smiles down upon the sleeping infant, whose guardian angel it seems to be.
The Tramp House has been repaired and renovated, the table mended, and the rat hole stopped up; and the trio frequently go there together, for it is the children's play-house, where Arthur is sometimes a horse, sometimes a bear, and sometimes a whole menagerie of animals. Once or twice he has been the dead woman on the table, with little Gretchen beside him in the carpet-bag, and Tracy tugging with all his might to lift her out; but after the day when he let her fall, and gave her a big bump upon the forehead, that kind of play ceased, and the boy was compelled to try some other make believe than that of the tragedy on the wintry night many years before.
Billy Peterkin has never married, and never will. His heart-wound was too deep to heal without a scar to tell where it had been; but he and Jerrie are the best of friends, and he is very fond of her children.
Tom is still abroad, waiting for that fit of apoplexy which is to be the signal for his return; but the probabilities are that he will wait a long time, for Peterkin, who is himself afraid of apoplexy, has gone through the Banting process, which has reduced his weight from fifty to seventy-five pounds, and as he is very careful in his diet Tom may stay abroad longer than he cares to do, unless Ann Eliza's persuasions bring him home to his dreaded father-in-law. There was a little girl born to them in Rome, whom they called Maude, but she only lived a few weeks, and then they buried her under the daisies in the Protestant burying ground, where so many English and Americans are lying. Ann Eliza sent a lock of the little one's hair to her father, who had it framed and hung in his bedroom, and wore on his hat a band of crape which nearly covered it.
Dolly still calls the Ridge Cottage her home, but she is not often there, for a mania for travelling has seized her, and she is always upon the move, searching for some new place, where she hopes to find rest and quiet. She still dresses in black, relieved at times with something white, but she has laid aside crape and sports her diamonds, which she did not find it necessary to sell, and which attract a great deal of attention, they are so clear and large. One year she spent in Europe with Tom and Ann Eliza, the latter of whom she made so uncomfortable with her constant dictation and assumption of superiority that Tom at last came to the rescue, and told her either to mind her business and let his wife alone or go home. As she could not do the former she came home, and joined a Raymond party to California, but soon separated herself from it, as the members were not to her taste. Every summer she goes either to Saratoga or the sea-side or the mountains, and every winter she drifts southward to Florida, where, at certain hotels, she is as well known as the oldest _habituée_. We saw her recently at Winter Park, where, at the Seminole, she has a maid and a suit of rooms, and as far as possible keeps herself aloof from the common herd, consorting only with the noted ones of the place, those she knows who have money and position at home. Poor foolish Dolly, who has forgotten Langley and its humble surroundings. There are many like her in real life, but only one in our story, to which we now write THE END.
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THE SWELL AND THE SURREY
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What true-bred city sportsman has not in his day put off the most urgent business--perhaps his marriage, or even the interment of his rib--that he might "brave the morn" with that renowned pack, the Surrey subscription foxhounds? Lives there, we would ask, a thoroughbred, prime, bang-up, slap-dash, break-neck, out-and-out artist, within three miles of the Monument, who has not occasionally "gone a good 'un" with this celebrated pack? And shall we, the bard of Eastcheap, born all deeds of daring to record, shall we, who so oft have witnessed--nay, shared--the hardy exploits of our fellow-cits, shall we sit still, and never cease the eternal twirl of our dexter around our sinister thumb, while other scribes hand down to future ages the paltry feats of beardless Meltonians, and try to shame old Father Thames himself with muddy Whissendine's foul stream? Away! thou vampire, Indolence, that suckest the marrow of imagination, and fattenest on the cream of idea ere yet it float on the milk of reflection. Hence! slug-begotten hag, thy power is gone--the murky veil thou'st drawn o'er memory's sweetest page is rent!
Harp of Eastcheap, awake!
Our thoughts hark back to the cover-side, and our heart o'erflows with recollections of the past, when life rode the pace through our veins, and the bark of the veriest mongrel, or the bray of the sorriest costermonger's sorriest "Jerusalem," were far more musical sounds than Paganini's pizzicatos or Catalani's clamorous caterwaulings.
And, thou, Goddess of the Silver Bow--chaste Diana--deign to become the leading star of our lucubrations; come perch upon our grey goose quill; shout in our ear the maddening Tally-ho! and ever and anon give a salutary "refresher" to our memory with thy heaven-wrought spurs--those spurs old Vulcan forged when in his maddest mood--whilst we relate such feats of town-born youths and city squires, as shall "harrow up the souls" of milk-sop Melton's choicest sons, and "fright their grass-galloping garrons from their propriety." But gently, Pegasus! --Here again, boys, and "let's to business," as they say on 'Change.
'Twere almost needless to inform our readers, that such portion of a county as is hunted by any one pack of hounds is technically denominated their country; and of all countries under the sun, that of the Surrey subscription foxhounds undoubtedly bears the bell. This superiority arises from the peculiar nature of the soil--wretched starvation stuff most profusely studded with huge sharp flints--the abundance of large woods, particularly on the Kent side, and the range of mountainous hills that run directly through the centre, which afford accommodation to the timid, and are unknown in most counties and unequalled in any.
One of the most striking features in the aspect of this chosen region of fox-hunting, is the quiet easy manner in which the sportsmen take the thing. On they go--now trotting gently over the flints--now softly ambling along the grassy ridge of some stupendous hill--now quietly following each other in long-drawn files, like geese, through some close and deep ravine, or interminable wood, which re-echoes to their never-ceasing holloas--every man shouting in proportion to the amount of his subscription, until day is made horrible with their yelling. There is no pushing, jostling, rushing, cramming, or riding over one another; no jealousy, discord, or daring; no ridiculous foolhardy feats; but each man cranes and rides, and rides and cranes in a style that would gladden the eye of a director of an insurance office.
The members of the Surrey are the people that combine business with pleasure, and even in the severest run can find time for sweet discourse, and talk about the price of stocks or stockings. "Yooi wind him there, good dog, yooi wind him." --"Cottons is fell." --"Hark to Cottager! Hark!" --"Take your bill at three months, or give you three and a half discount for cash." "Eu in there, eu in, Cheapside, good dog." --"Don't be in a hurry, sir, pray. He may be in the empty casks behind the cooper's. Yooi, try for him, good bitch. Yooi, push him out." --"You're not going down that bank, surely sir? Why, it's almost perpendicular! For God's sake, sir, take care--remember you are not insured. Ah! you had better get off--here, let me hold your nag, and when you're down you can catch mine;--that's your sort but mind he doesn't break the bridle. He won't run away, for he knows I've got some sliced carrots in my pocket to reward him if he does well. --Thank you, sir, and now for a leg up--there we are--that's your sort--I'll wait till you are up also, and we'll be off together."
It is this union of the elegant courtesies and business of life with the energetic sports of the field, that constitutes the charm of Surrey hunting; and who can wonder that smoke-dried cits, pent up all the week, should gladly fly from their shops to enjoy a day's sport on a Saturday? We must not, however, omit to express a hope that young men, who have their way to make in the world, may not be led astray by its allurements. It is all very well for old-established shopkeepers "to do a bit of pleasure" occasionally, but the apprentice or journeyman, who understands his duties and the tricks of his trade, will never be found capering in the hunting field. He will feel that his proper place is behind the counter; and while his master is away enjoying the pleasures of the chase, he can prig as much "pewter" from the till as will take both himself and his lass to Sadler's Wells theatre, or any other place she may choose to appoint.
But to return to the Surrey. The town of Croydon, nine miles from the standard in Cornhill, is the general rendezvous of the gallant sportsmen. It is the principal market town in the eastern division of the county of Surrey; and the chaw-bacons who carry the produce of their acres to it, instead of to the neighbouring village of London, retain much of their pristine barbarity. The town furnishes an interesting scene on a hunting morning, particularly on a Saturday. At an early hour, groups of grinning cits may be seen pouring in from the London side, some on the top of Cloud's coaches,[1] some in taxed carts, but the greater number mounted on good serviceable-looking nags, of the invaluable species, calculated for sport or business, "warranted free from vice, and quiet both to ride and in harness"; some few there are, who, with that kindness and considerate attention which peculiarly mark this class of sportsmen, have tacked a buggy to their hunter, and given a seat to a friend, who leaning over the back of the gig, his jocund phiz turned towards his fidus Achates, leads his own horse behind, listening to the discourse of "his ancient," or regaling him "with sweet converse"; and thus they onward jog, until the sign of the "Greyhound," stretching quite across the main street, greets their expectant optics, and seems to forbid their passing the open portal below. In they wend then, and having seen their horses "sorted," and the collar marks (as much as may be) carefully effaced by the shrewd application of a due quantity of grease and lamp-black, speed in to "mine host" and order a sound repast of the good things of this world; the which to discuss, they presently apply themselves with a vigour that indicates as much a determination to recruit fatigue endured, as to lay in stock against the effects of future exertion. Meanwhile the bustle increases; sportsmen arrive by the score, fresh tables are laid out, covered with "no end" of vivers; and towards the hour of nine, may be heard to perfection, that pleasing assemblage of sounds issuing from the masticatory organs of a number of men steadfastly and studiously employed in the delightful occupation of preparing their mouthfuls for deglutition. "O noctes coenæque Deûm," said friend Flaccus. Oh, hunting breakfasts! say we. Where are now the jocund laugh, the repartee, the oft-repeated tale, the last debate? As our sporting contemporary, the _Quarterly_, said, when describing the noiseless pursuit of old reynard by the Quorn: "Reader, there is no crash now, and not much music." It is the tinker that makes a great noise over a little work, but, at the pace these men are eating, there is no time for babbling. So, gentle lector, there is now no leisure for bandying compliments, 'tis your small eater alone who chatters o'er his meals; your true-born sportsman is ever a silent and, consequently, an assiduous grubber. True it is that occasionally space is found between mouthfuls to vociferate "WAITER!" in a tone that requires not repetition; and most sonorously do the throats of the assembled eaters re-echo the sound; but this is all--no useless exuberance of speech--no, the knife or fork is directed towards what is wanted, nor needs there any more expressive intimation of the applicant's wants.
[Footnote 1: The date of this description, it must be remembered, is put many years back.]
At length the hour of ten approaches; bills are paid, pocket-pistols filled, sandwiches stowed away, horses accoutred, and our bevy straddle forth into the town, to the infinite gratification of troops of dirty-nosed urchins, who, for the last hour, have been peeping in at the windows, impatiently watching for the _exeunt_ of our worthies. --They mount, and away--trot, trot--bump, bump--trot, trot--bump, bump--over Addington Heath, through the village, and up the hill to Hayes Common, which having gained, spurs are applied, and any slight degree of pursiness that the good steeds may have acquired by standing at livery in Cripplegate, or elsewhere, is speedily pumped out of them by a smart brush over the turf, to the "Fox," at Keston, where a numerous assemblage of true sportsmen patiently await the usual hour for throwing off. At length time being called, say twenty minutes to eleven, and Mr. Jorrocks, Nodding Homer, and the principal subscribers having cast up, the hounds approach the cover. "Yooi in there!" shouts Tom Hills, who has long hunted this crack pack; and crack! crack! crack! go the whips of some scores of sportsmen. "Yelp, yelp, yelp," howl the hounds; and in about a quarter of an hour Tom has not above four or five couple at his heels. This number being a trifle, Tom runs his prad at a gap in the fence by the wood-side; the old nag goes well at it, but stops short at the critical moment, and, instead of taking the ditch, bolts and wheels round. Tom, however, who is "large in the boiling pieces," as they say at Whitechapel, is prevented by his weight from being shaken out of his saddle; and, being resolved to take no denial, he lays the crop of his hunting-whip about the head of his beast, and runs him at the same spot a second time, with an _obligato_ accompaniment of his spur-rowels, backed by a "curm along then!" issued in such a tone as plainly informs his quadruped he is in no joking humour. These incentives succeed in landing Tom and his nag in the wished-for spot, when, immediately, the wood begins to resound with shouts of "Yoicks True-bo-y, yoicks True-bo-y, yoicks push him up, yoicks wind him!" and the whole pack begin to work like good 'uns. Occasionally may be heard the howl of some unfortunate hound that has been caught in a fox trap, or taken in a hare snare; and not unfrequently the discordant growls of some three or four more, vociferously quarrelling over the venerable remains of some defunct rabbit. "Oh, you rogues!" cries Mr. Jorrocks, a cit rapturously fond of the sport. After the lapse of half an hour the noise in the wood for a time increases audibly. 'Tis Tom chastising the gourmands. Another quarter of an hour, and a hound that has finished his coney bone slips out of the wood, and takes a roll upon the greensward, opining, no doubt, that such pastime is preferable to scratching his hide among brambles in the covers. "Hounds have no right to opine," opines the head whipper-in; so clapping spurs into his prad, he begins to pursue the delinquent round the common, with "Markis, Markis! what are you at, Markis? get into cover, Markis!" But "it's no go"; Marquis creeps through a hedge, and "grins horribly a ghastly smile" at his ruthless tormentor, who wends back, well pleased at having had an excuse for taking "a bit gallop"! Half an hour more slips away, and some of the least hasty of our cits begin to wax impatient, in spite of the oft-repeated admonition, "don't be in a hurry!" At length a yokel pops out of the cover, and as soon as he has recovered breath, informs the field that he has been "a-hollorin' to 'em for half an hour," and that the fox had "gone away for Tatsfield, 'most as soon as ever the 'oounds went into 'ood."
All is now hurry-scurry--girths are tightened--reins gathered up--half-munched sandwiches thrust into the mouth--pocket-pistols applied to--coats comfortably buttoned up to the throat; and, these preparations made, away goes the whole field, "coolly and fairly," along the road to Leaves Green and Crown Ash Hill--from which latter spot, the operations of the pack in the bottom may be comfortably and securely viewed--leaving the whips to flog as many hounds out of cover as they can, and Tom to entice as many more as are willing to follow the "twang, twang, twang" of his horn.
And now, a sufficient number of hounds having been seduced from the wood, forth sallies "Tummas," and making straight for the spot where our yokel's "mate" stands leaning on his plough-stilts, obtains from him the exact latitude and longitude of the spot where reynard broke through the hedge. To this identical place is the pack forthwith led; and, no sooner have they reached it, than the wagging of their sterns clearly shows how genuine is their breed. Old Strumpet, at length, first looking up in Tom's face for applause, ventures to send forth a long-drawn howl, which, coupled with Tom's screech, setting the rest agog, away they all go, like beans; and the wind, fortunately setting towards Westerham, bears the melodious sound to the delighted ears of our "roadsters," who, forthwith catching the infection, respond with deafening shouts and joyous yells, set to every key, and disdaining the laws of harmony. Thus, what with Tom's horn, the holloaing of the whips, and the shouts of the riders, a very pretty notion may be formed of what Virgil calls: "Clamorque virûm, clangorque tubarum."
A terrible noise is the result!
At the end of nine minutes or so, the hounds come to fault in the bottom, below the blacksmith's, at Crown Ash Hill, and the fox has a capital chance; in fact, they have changed for the blacksmith's tom cat, which rushed out before them, and finding their mistake, return at their leisure. This gives the most daring of the field, on the eminence, an opportunity of descending to view the sport more closely; and being assembled in the bottom, each congratulates his neighbour on the excellent condition and stanchness of the hounds, and the admirable view that has been afforded them of their peculiar style of hunting. At this interesting period, a "regular swell" from Melton Mowbray, unknown to everyone except his tailor, to whom he owes a long tick, makes his appearance and affords abundance of merriment for our sportsmen. He is just turned out of the hands of his valet, and presents the very beau-ideal of his caste--"quite the lady," in fact. His hat is stuck on one side, displaying a profusion of well-waxed ringlets; a corresponding infinity of whisker, terminating at the chin, there joins an enormous pair of moustaches, which give him the appearance of having caught the fox himself and stuck its brush below his nose. His neck is very stiff; and the exact Jackson-like fit of his coat, which almost nips him in two at the waist, and his superlatively well-cleaned leather Andersons,[2] together with the perfume and the general puppyism of his appearance, proclaim that he is a "swell" of the very first water, and one that a Surrey sportsman would like to buy at his own price and sell at the other's. In addition to this, his boots, which his "fellow" has just denuded from a pair of wash-leather covers, are of the finest, brightest, blackest patent leather imaginable; the left one being the identical boot by which Warren's monkey shaved himself, while the right is the one at which the game-cock pecked, mistaking its own shadow for an opponent, the mark of its bill being still visible above the instep; and the tops--whose pampered appetites have been fed on champagne--are of the most delicate cream-colour, the whole devoid of mud or speck. The animal he bestrides is no less calculated than himself to excite the risible faculties of the field, being a sort of mouse colour, with dun mane and tail, got by Nicolo, out of a flibbertigibbet mare, and he stands seventeen hands and an inch. His head is small and blood-like, his girth a mere trifle, and his legs, very long and spidery, of course without any hair at the pasterns to protect them from the flints; his whole appearance bespeaking him fitter to run for half-mile hunters' stakes at Croxton Park or Leicester, than contend for foxes' brushes in such a splendid country as the Surrey. There he stands, with his tail stuck tight between his legs, shivering and shaking for all the world as if troubled with a fit of ague. And well he may, poor beast, for--oh, men of Surrey, London, Kent, and Middlesex, hearken to my word--on closer inspection he proves to have been shaved!!! [3] [Footnote 2: Anderson, of South Audley Street, is, or was, a famous breeches-maker.]
[Footnote 3: Shaving was in great vogue at Melton some seasons back. It was succeeded by clipping, and clipping by singeing.]
After a considerable time spent in casting to the right, the left, and the rear, "True-bouy" chances to take a fling in advance, and hitting upon the scent, proclaims it with his wonted energy, which drawing all his brethren to the spot, they pick it slowly over some brick-fields and flint-beds, to an old lady's flower-garden, through which they carry it with a surprising head into the fields beyond, when they begin to fall into line, and the sportsmen doing the same--"one at a time and it will last the longer"--"Tummas" tootles his horn, the hunt is up, and away they all rattle at "Parliament pace," as the hackney-coachmen say.
Our swell, who flatters himself he can "ride a few," according to the fashion of his country, takes up a line of his own, abreast of the leading hounds, notwithstanding the oft vociferated cry of "Hold hard, sir!" "Pray, hold hard, sir!" "For God's sake, hold hard, sir!" "G--d d--n you, hold hard, sir!" "Where the h--ll are you going to, sir?" and other familiar inquiries and benedictions, with which a stranger is sometimes greeted, who ventures to take a look at a strange pack of hounds.
In the meantime the fox, who has often had a game at romps with his pursuers, being resolved this time to give them a tickler, bears straight away for Westerham, to the infinite satisfaction of the "hill folks," who thus have an excellent opportunity of seeing the run without putting their horses to the trouble of "rejoicing in their strength, or pawing in the valley." But who is so fortunate as to be near the scene of action in this second scurry, almost as fast as the first? Our fancy supplies us, and there not being many, we will just initialise them all, and let he whom the cap fits put it on.
If we look to the left, nearly abreast of the three couple of hounds that are leading by some half mile or so, we shall see "Swell"--like a monkey on a giraffe--striding away in the true Leicestershire style; the animal contracting its stride after every exertion in pulling its long legs out of the deep and clayey soil, until the Bromley barber, who has been quilting his mule along at a fearful rate, and in high dudgeon at anyone presuming to exercise his profession upon a dumb brute, overtakes him, and in the endeavour to pass, lays it into his mule in a style that would insure him rotatory occupation at Brixton for his spindles, should any member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals witness his proceedings; while his friend and neighbour old B----, the tinker, plies his little mare with the Brummagems, to be ready to ride over "Swell" the instant the barber gets him down. On the right of the leading hounds are three crack members of the Surrey, Messrs. B--e, S--bs, and B--l, all lads who can go; while a long way in the rear of the body of the pack are some dozen, who, while they sat on the hills, thought they could also, but who now find out their mistake. Down Windy Lane, a glimpse of a few red coats may be caught passing the gaps and weak parts of the fence, among whom we distinctly recognise the worthy master of the pack, followed by Jorrocks, with his long coat-laps floating in the breeze, who thinking that "catching-time" must be near at hand, and being dearly fond of blood, has descended from his high station to witness the close of the scene. "Vot a pace! and vot a country!" cries the grocer, standing high in his stirrups, and bending over the neck of his chestnut as though he were meditating a plunge over his head; "how they stick to him! vot a pack! by Jove they are at fault again. Yooi, Pilgrim! Yooi, Warbler, ma load! (lad). Tom, try down the hedge-row." "Hold your jaw, Mr. J----," cries Tom, "you are always throwing that red rag of yours. I wish you would keep your potato-trap shut. See! you've made every hound throw up, and it's ten to one that ne'er a one among 'em will stoop again." "Yonder he goes," cries a cock of the old school, who used to hunt with Colonel Jolliffe's hounds, and still sports the long blue surtout lined with orange, yellow-ochre unmentionables, and mahogany-coloured knee-caps, with mother-of-pearl buttons. "Yonder he goes among the ship (sheep), for a thousand! see how the skulking waggabone makes them scamper." At this particular moment a shrill scream is heard at the far end of a long shaw, and every man pushes on to the best of his endeavour. "Holloo o-o-u, h'loo o-o-u, h'loo--o-o-u, gone away! gone away! forward! forrard! hark back! hark forrard! hark forrard! hark back!" resounds from every mouth. "He's making for the 'oods beyond Addington, and we shall have a rare teaser up these hills," cries Jorrocks, throwing his arms round his horse's neck as he reaches the foot of them. --"D--n your hills," cries "Swell," as he suddenly finds himself sitting on the hindquarters of his horse, his saddle having slipped back for want of a breastplate,--"I wish the hills had been piled on your back, and the flints thrust down your confounded throat, before I came into such a cursed provincial." "Haw, haw, haw!" roars a Croydon butcher. "What don't 'e like it, sir, eh? too sharp to be pleasant, eh? --Your nag should have put on his boots before he showed among us."
"He's making straight for Fuller's farm," exclaims a thirsty veteran on reaching the top, "and I'll pull up and have a nip of ale, please God." "Hang your ale," cries a certain sporting cheesemonger, "you had better come out with a barrel of it tacked to your horse's tail." --"Or 'unt on a steam-engine," adds his friend the omnibus proprietor, "and then you can brew as you go." "We shall have the Croydon Canal," cries Mr. H----n, of Tottenham, who knows every flint in the country, "and how will you like that, my hearties?" "Curse the Croydon Canal," bawls the little Bromley barber, "my mule can swim like a soap-bladder, and my toggery can't spoil, thank God!"
The prophecy turns up. Having skirted Fuller's farm, the villain finds no place to hide; and in two minutes, or less, the canal appears in view. It is full of craft, and the locks are open, but there is a bridge about half a mile to the right. "If my horse can do nothing else he can jump this," cries "Swell," as he gathers him together, and prepares for the effort. He hardens his heart and goes at it full tilt, and the leggy animal lands him three yards on the other side. "Curse this fellow," cries Jorrocks, grinning with rage as he sees "Swell" skimming through the air like a swallow on a summer's eve, "he'll have a laugh at the Surrey, for ever and ever, Amen. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish I durst leap it. What shall I do? Here bargee," cries he to a bargeman, "lend us a help over and I'll give you ninepence." The bargeman takes him at his word, and getting the vessel close to the water's edge, Jorrocks has nothing to do but ride in, and, the opposite bank being accommodating, he lands without difficulty. Ramming his spurs into his nag, he now starts after "Swell," who is sailing away with a few couple of hounds that took the canal; the body of the pack and all the rest of the field--except the Bromley barber, who is now floundering in the water--having gone round to the bridge.
The country is open, the line being across commons and along roads, so that Jorrocks, who is not afraid of "the pace" so long as there is no leaping, has a pretty good chance with "Swell." The scene now shifts. On turning out of a lane, along which they have just rattled, a fence of this description appears: The bottom part is made of flints, and the upper part of mud, with gorse stuck along the top, and there is a gutter on each side. Jorrocks, seeing that a leap is likely, hangs astern, and "Swell," thinking to shake off his only opponent, and to have a rare laugh at the Surrey when he gets back to Melton, puts his nag at it most manfully, who, though somewhat blown, manages to get his long carcass over, but, unfortunately alighting on a bed of flints on the far side, cuts a back sinew, and "Swell" measures his length on the headland. Jorrocks then pulls up.
The tragedy of George Barnwell ends with a death, and we are happy in being able to gratify our readers with a similar entertainment. Already have the best-mounted men in the field attained the summit of one of the Mont Blancs of the country, when on looking down the other side of the "mountain's brow," they, to their infinite astonishment, espy at some distance our "Swell" dismounted and playing at "pull devil, pull baker" with the hounds, whose discordant bickerings rend the skies. "Whoo-hoop!" cries one; "whoo-hoop!" responds another; "whoo-hoop!" screams a third; and the contagion spreading, and each man dismounting, they descend the hill with due caution, whoo-hooping, hallooing, and congratulating each other on the splendour of the run, interspersed with divers surmises as to what mighty magic had aided the hounds in getting on such good terms with the warmint, and exclamations at the good fortune of the stranger, in being able (by nicking,[4] and the fox changing his line) to get in at the finish.
[Footnote 4: A stranger never rides straight if he beats the members of the hunt.]
And now some dozens of sportsmen quietly ambling up to the scene of action, view with delight (alone equalled by their wonder at so unusual and unexpected an event) the quarrels of the hounds, as they dispute with each other the possession of their victim's remains, when suddenly a gentleman, clad in a bright green silk-velvet shooting-coat, with white leathers, and Hessian boots with large tassels, carrying his Joe Manton on his shoulder, issues from an adjoining coppice, and commences a loud complaint of the "unhandsome conduct of the gentlemen's 'ounds in devouring the 'are (hare) which he had taken so much pains to shoot." Scarcely are these words out of his mouth than the whole hunt, from Jorrocks downwards, let drive such a rich torrent of abuse at our unfortunate _chasseur_, that he is fain to betake himself to his heels, leaving them undisputed masters of the field.
The visages of our sportsmen become dismally lengthened on finding that their fox has been "gathered unto his fathers" by means of hot lead and that villainous saltpetre "digged out of the bowels of the harmless earth"; some few, indeed, there are who are bold enough to declare that the pack has actually made a meal of a hare, and that their fox is snugly earthed in the neighbouring cover. However, as there are no "reliquias Danaum," to prove or disprove this assertion, Tom Hills, having an eye to the cap-money, ventures to give it as his opinion, that pug has fairly yielded to his invincible pursuers, without having "dropped to shot." This appearing to give very general satisfaction, the first whip makes no scruple of swearing that he saw the hounds pull him down fairly; and Peckham, drawing his mouth up on one side, with his usual intellectual grin, takes a similar affidavit. The Bromley barber too, anxious to have it to say that he has for once been in at the death of a fox, vows by his beard that he saw the "varmint" lathered in style; and these protestations being received with clamorous applause, and everyone being pleased to have so unusual an event to record to his admiring spouse, agrees that a fox has not only been killed, but killed in a most sportsmanlike, workmanlike, businesslike manner; and long and loud are the congratulations, great is the increased importance of each man's physiognomy, and thereupon they all lug out their half-crowns for Tom Hills.
In the meantime our "Swell" lays hold of his nag--who is sorely damaged with the flints, and whose wind has been pretty well pumped out of him by the hills--and proceeds to lead him back to Croydon, inwardly promising himself for the future most studiously to avoid the renowned county of Surrey, its woods, its barbers, its mountains, and its flints, and to leave more daring spirits to overcome the difficulties it presents; most religiously resolving, at the same time, to return as speedily as possible to his dear Leicestershire, there to amble o'er the turf, and fancy himself an "angel on horseback." The story of the country mouse, who must needs see the town, occurs forcibly to his recollection, and he exclaims aloud: "me sylva, cavusque Tutus ab insidiis tenui solabitur ervo."
On overhearing which, Mr. Jorrocks hurries back to his brother subscribers, and informs them, very gravely, that the stranger is no less a personage than "Prince Matuchevitz, the Russian ambassador and minister plenipotentiary extraordinary," whereupon the whole field join in wishing him safe back in Russia--or anywhere else--and wonder at his incredible assurance in supposing that he could cope with THE SURREY HUNT.
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THE YORKSHIREMAN AND THE SURREY
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It is an axiom among fox-hunters that the hounds they individually hunt with are the best--compared with them all others are "slow."
Of this species of pardonable egotism, Mr. Jorrocks--who in addition to the conspicuous place he holds in the Surrey Hunt, as shown in the preceding chapter, we should introduce to our readers as a substantial grocer in St. Botolph's Lane, with an elegant residence in Great Coram Street, Russell Square--has his full, if not rather more than his fair share. Vanity, however, is never satisfied without display, and Mr. Jorrocks longed for a customer before whom he could exhibit the prowess of his[5] pack.
[Footnote 5: Subscribers, speaking to strangers, always talk of the hounds as their own.]
Chance threw in his way a young Yorkshireman, who frequently appearing in subsequent pages, we may introduce as a loosish sort of hand, up to anything in the way of a lark, but rather deficient in cash--a character so common in London, as to render further description needless.
Now it is well known that a Yorkshireman, like a dragoon, is nothing without his horse, and if he does understand anything better than racing--it is hunting. Our readers will therefore readily conceive that a Yorkshireman is more likely to be astonished at the possibility of fox-hunting from London, than captivated by the country, or style of turn-out; and in truth, looking at it calmly and dispassionately, in our easy-chair drawn to a window which overlooks the cream of the grazing grounds in the Vale of White Horse, it does strike us with astonishment, that such a thing as a fox should be found within a day's ride of the suburbs. The very idea seems preposterous, for one cannot but associate the charms of a "find" with the horrors of "going to ground" in an omnibus, or the fox being headed by a great Dr. Eady placard, or some such monstrosity. Mr. Mayne,[6] to be sure, has brought racing home to every man's door, but fox-hunting is not quite so tractable a sport. But to our story.
[Footnote 6: The promoter of the Hippodrome, near Bayswater--a speculation that soon came to grief.]
It was on a nasty, cold, foggy, dark, drizzling morning in the month of February, that the Yorkshireman, having been offered a "mount" by Mr. Jorrocks, found himself shivering under the Piazza in Covent Garden about seven o'clock, surrounded by cabs, cabbages, carrots, ducks, dollys, and drabs of all sorts, waiting for his horse and the appearance of the friend who had seduced him into the extraordinary predicament of attiring himself in top-boots and breeches in London. After pacing up and down some minutes, the sound of a horse's hoofs were heard turning down from Long Acre, and reaching the lamp-post at the corner of James Street, his astonished eyes were struck with the sight of a man in a capacious, long, full-tailed, red frock coat reaching nearly to his spurs, with mother-of-pearl buttons, with sporting devices--which afterwards proved to be foxes, done in black--brown shag breeches, that would have been spurned by the late worthy master of the Hurworth,[7] and boots, that looked for all the world as if they were made to tear up the very land and soil, tied round the knees with pieces of white tape, the flowing ends of which dangled over the mahogany-coloured tops. Mr. Jorrocks--whose dark collar, green to his coat, and _tout ensemble_, might have caused him to be mistaken for a mounted general postman--was on a most becoming steed--a great raking, raw-boned chestnut, with a twisted snaffle in his mouth, decorated with a faded yellow silk front, a nose-band, and an ivory ring under his jaws, for the double purpose of keeping the reins together and Jorrocks's teeth in his head--the nag having flattened the noses and otherwise damaged the countenances of his two previous owners, who had not the knack of preventing him tossing his head in their faces. The saddle--large and capacious--made on the principle of the impossibility of putting a round of beef upon a pudding plate--was "spick and span new," as was an enormous hunting-whip, whose iron-headed hammer he clenched in a way that would make the blood curdle in one's veins, to see such an instrument in the hands of a misguided man.
[Footnote 7: The late Mr. Wilkinson, commonly called "Matty Wilkinson," master of the Hurworth foxhounds, was a rigid adherent of the "d----n-all-dandy" school of sportsmen.]
"Punctuality is the politeness of princes," said Mr. Jorrocks, raising a broad-brimmed, lowish-crowned hat, as high as a green hunting-cord which tackled it to his yellow waistcoat by a fox's tooth would allow, as he came upon the Yorkshireman at the corner. "My soul's on fire and eager for the chase! By heavens, I declare I've dreamt of nothing else all night, and the worst of it is, that in a par-ox-ism of delight, when I thought I saw the darlings running into the warmint, I brought Mrs. J---- such a dig in the side as knocked her out of bed, and she swears she'll go to Jenner, and the court for the protection of injured ribs! But come--jump up--where's your nag? Binjimin, you blackguard, where are you? The fog is blinding me, I declare! Binjimin, I say! Binjimin! you willain, where are you?"
"Here, sir! coming!" responded a voice from the bottom of one of the long mugs at a street breakfast stall, which the fog almost concealed from their view, and presently an urchin in a drab coat and blue collar came towing a wretched, ewe-necked, hungry-looking, roan rosinante along from where he had been regaling himself with a mug of undeniable bohea, sweetened with a composition of brown sugar and sand.
"Now be after getting up," said Jorrocks, "for time and the Surrey 'ounds wait for no man. That's not a werry elegant tit, but still it'll carry you to Croydon well enough, where I'll put you on a most undeniable bit of 'orse-flesh--a reg'lar clipper. That's a hack--what they calls three-and-sixpence a side, but I only pays half a crown. Now, Binjimin, cut away home, and tell Batsay to have dinner ready at half-past five to a minute, and to be most particular in doing the lamb to a turn."
The Yorkshireman having adjusted himself in the old flat-flapped hack saddle, and got his stirrups let out from "Binjimin's" length to his own, gathered up the stiff, weather-beaten reins, gave the animal a touch with his spurs, and fell into the rear of Mr. Jorrocks. The morning appeared to be getting worse. Instead of the grey day-dawn of the country, when the thin transparent mist gradually rises from the hills, revealing an unclouded landscape, a dense, thick, yellow fog came rolling in masses along the streets, obscuring the gas lights, and rendering every step one of peril. It could be both eat and felt, and the damp struck through their clothes in the most summary manner. "This is bad," said Mr. Jorrocks, coughing as he turned the corner by Drury Lane, making for Catherine Street, and upset an early breakfast and periwinkle stall, by catching one corner of the fragile fabric with his toe, having ridden too near to the pavement. "Where are you for now? and bad luck to ye, ye boiled lobster!" roared a stout Irish wench, emerging from a neighbouring gin-palace on seeing the dainty viands rolling in the street. "Cut away!" cried Jorrocks to his friend, running his horse between one of George Stapleton's dust-carts and a hackney-coach, "or the Philistines will be upon us." The fog and crowd concealed them, but "Holloa! mind where you're going, you great haw-buck!" from a buy-a-hearth-stone boy, whose stock-in-trade Jorrocks nearly demolished, as he crossed the corner of Catherine Street before him, again roused his vigilance. "The deuce be in the fog," said he, "I declare I can't see across the Strand. It's as dark as a wolf's mouth. --Now where are you going to with that meazly-looking cab of yours? --you've nearly run your shafts into my 'oss's ribs!" cried he to a cabman who nearly upset him. The Strand was kept alive by a few slip-shod housemaids, on their marrow-bones, washing the doorsteps, or ogling the neighbouring pot-boy on his morning errand for the pewters. Now and then a crazy jarvey passed slowly by, while a hurrying mail, with a drowsy driver and sleeping guard, rattled by to deliver their cargo at the post office. Here and there appeared one of those beings, who like the owl hide themselves by day, and are visible only in the dusk. Many of them appeared to belong to the other world. Poor, puny, ragged, sickly-looking creatures, that seemed as though they had been suckled and reared with gin. "How different," thought the Yorkshireman to himself, "to the fine, stout, active labourer one meets at an early hour on a hunting morning in the country!" His reverie was interrupted on arriving opposite the _Morning Chronicle_ office, by the most discordant yells that ever issued from human beings, and on examining the quarter from whence they proceeded, a group of fifty or a hundred boys, or rather little old men, were seen with newspapers in their hands and under their arms, in all the activity of speculation and exchange. "A clean _Post_ for Tuesday's _Times_!" bellowed one. "I want the _Hurl_! (Herald) for the _Satirist_!" shouted another. "Bell's _Life_ for the _Bull_! _The Spectator_ for the _Sunday Times_!"
The approach of our sportsmen was the signal for a change of the chorus, and immediately Jorrocks was assailed with "A hunter! a hunter! crikey, a hunter! My eyes! there's a gamecock for you! Vot a beauty! Vere do you turn out to-day? Vere's the stag? Don't tumble off, old boy! 'Ave you got ever a rope in your pocket? Take Bell's _Life in London_, vot contains all the sporting news of the country! Vot a vip the gemman's got! Vot a precious basternadering he could give us--my eyes, vot a swell! --vot a shocking bad hat! _[8]--vot shocking bad breeches!"
[Footnote 8: "Vot a shocking bad hat!" --a slang cockney phrase of 1831.]
The fog, which became denser at every step, by the time they reached St. Clement's Danes rendered their further progress almost impossible. --"Oh, dear! oh, dear! how unlucky," exclaimed Jorrocks, "I would have given twenty pounds of best Twankay for a fine day--and see what a thing we've got! Hold my 'oss," said he to the Yorkshireman, "while I run into the 'Angel,' and borrow an argand burner, or we shall be endorsed[9] to a dead certainty." Off he got, and ran to the inn. Presently he emerged from the yard--followed by horse-keepers, coach-washers, porters, cads, waiters and others, amid loud cries of "Flare up, flare up, old cock! talliho fox-hunter!" --with a bright mail-coach footboard lamp, strapped to his middle, which, lighting up the whole of his broad back now cased in scarlet, gave him the appearance of a gigantic red-and-gold insurance office badge, or an elderly cherub without wings.
[Footnote 9: City--for having a pole run into one's rear.]
The hackney-coach-and cab-men, along whose lines they passed, could not make him out at all. Some thought he was a mail-coach guard riding post with the bags; but as the light was pretty strong he trotted on regardless of observation. The fog, however, abated none of its denseness even on the "Surrey side," and before they reached the "Elephant and Castle," Jorrocks had run against two trucks, three watercress women, one pies-all-ot! -all-ot! man, dispersed a whole covey of Welsh milkmaids, and rode slap over one end of a buy 'at (hat) box! bonnet-box! man's pole, damaging a dozen paste-boards, and finally upsetting Balham Hill Joe's Barcelona "come crack 'em and try 'em" stall at the door of the inn, for all whose benedictions, the Yorkshireman, as this great fox-hunting knight-errant's "Esquire," came in.
Here the Yorkshireman would fain have persuaded Mr. Jorrocks to desist from his quixotic undertaking, but he turned a deaf ear to his entreaties. "We are getting fast into the country, and I hold it to be utterly impossible for this fog to extend beyond Kennington Common--'twill ewaporate, you'll see, as we approach the open. Indeed, if I mistake not, I begin to sniff the morning air already, and hark! there's a lark a-carrolling before us!" "Now, spooney! where are you for?" bellowed a carter, breaking off in the middle of his whistle, as Jorrocks rode slap against his leader, the concussion at once dispelling the pleasing pastoral delusion, and nearly knocking Jorrocks off his horse.
As they approached Brixton Hill, a large red ball of lurid light appeared in the firmament, and just at the moment up rode another member of the Surrey Hunt in uniform, whom Jorrocks hailed as Mr. Crane. "By Jove, 'ow beautiful the moon is," said the latter, after the usual salutations. "Moon!" said Mr. Jorrocks, "that's not never no moon--I reckon it's Mrs. Graham's balloon." "Come, that's a good 'un," said Crane, "perhaps you'll lay me an 'at about it". "Done!" said Mr. Jorrocks, "a guinea one--and we'll ax my friend here. --Now, what's that?" "Why, judging from its position and the hour, I should say it is the sun!" was the reply.
We have omitted to mention that this memorable day was a Saturday, one on which civic sportsmen exhibit. We may also premise, that the particular hunt we are about to describe, took place when there were very many packs of hounds within reach of the metropolis, all of which boasted their respective admiring subscribers. As our party proceeded they overtook a gentleman perusing a long bill of the meets for the next week, of at least half a dozen packs, the top of the list being decorated with a cut of a stag-hunt, and the bottom containing a notification that hunters were "carefully attended to by Charles Morton,[10] at the 'Derby Arms,' Croydon," a snug rural _auberge_ near the barrack. On the hunting bill-of-fare, were Mr. Jolliffe's foxhounds, Mr. Meager's harriers, the Derby staghounds, the Sanderstead harriers, the Union foxhounds, the Surrey foxhounds, rabbit beagles on Epsom Downs, and dwarf foxhounds on Woolwich Common. What a list to bewilder a stranger! The Yorkshireman left it all to Mr. Jorrocks.
[Footnote 10: Where the carrion is, there will be the crow, and on the demise of the "Surrey staggers," Charley brushed off to the west, to valet the gentlemen's hunters that attend the Royal Stag Hunt. --_Vide_ Sir F. Grant's picture of the meet of the Royal Staghounds.]
"You're for Jolliffe, I suppose," said the gentleman with the bill, to another with a blue coat and buff lining. "He's at Chipstead Church--only six miles from Croydon, a sure find and good country." "What are you for, Mr. Jorrocks?" inquired another in green, with black velvet breeches, Hessian boots, and a red waistcoat, who just rode up. "My own, to be sure," said Jorrocks, taking hold of the green collar of his coat, as much as to say, "How can you ask such a question?" "Oh, no," said the gentleman in green, "Come to the stag--much better sport--sure of a gallop--open country--get it over soon--back in town before the post goes out." Before Mr. Jorrocks had time to make a reply to this last interrogatory, they were overtaken by another horseman, who came hopping along at a sort of a butcher's shuffle, on a worn-out, three-legged, four-cornered hack, with one eye, a rat-tail, and a head as large as a fiddle-case. --"Who's for the blue mottles?" said he, casting a glance at their respective coats, and at length fixing it on the Yorkshireman. "Why, Dickens, you're not going thistle-whipping with that nice 'orse of yours," said the gentleman in the velvets; "come and see the stag turned out--sure of a gallop--no hedges--soft country--plenty of publics--far better sport, man, than pottering about looking for your foxes and hares, and wasting your time; take my advice, and come with me." "But," says Dickens, "my 'orse won't stand it; I had him in the shay till eleven last night, and he came forty-three mile with our traveller the day before, else he's a 'good 'un to go,' as you know. Do you remember the owdacious leap he took over the tinker's tent, at Epping 'Unt, last Easter? How he astonished the natives within!" "Yes; but then, you know, you fell head-foremost through the canvas, and no wonder your ugly mug frightened them," replied he of the velvets. "Ay; but that was in consequence of my riding by balance instead of gripping with my legs," replied Dickens; "you see, I had taken seven lessons in riding at the school in Bidborough Street, Burton Crescent, and they always told me to balance myself equally on the saddle, and harden my heart, and ride at whatever came in the way; and the tinker's tent coming first, why, naturally enough, I went at it. But I have had some practice since then, and, of course, can stick on better. I have 'unted regularly ever since, and can 'do the trick' now." "What, summer and winter?" said Jorrocks. "No," replied he, "but I have 'unted regularly every fifth Saturday since the 'unting began."
After numerous discourses similar to the foregoing, they arrived at the end of the first stage on the road to the hunt, namely, the small town of Croydon, the rendezvous of London sportsmen. The whole place was alive with red coats, green coats, blue coats, black coats, brown coats, in short, coats of all the colours of the rainbow. Horsemen were mounting, horsemen were dismounting, one-horse "shays" and two-horse chaises were discharging their burdens, grooms were buckling on their masters' spurs, and others were pulling off their overalls. Eschewing the "Greyhound," they turn short to the right, and make for the "Derby Arms" hunting stables.
Charley Morton, a fine old boy of his age, was buckling on his armour for the fight, for his soul, too, was "on fire, and eager for the chase." He was for the "venison"; and having mounted his "deer-stalker," was speedily joined by divers perfect "swells," in beautiful leathers, beautiful coats, beautiful tops, beautiful everything, except horses, and off they rode to cut in for the first course--a stag-hunt on a Saturday being usually divided into three.
The ride down had somewhat sharpened Jorrocks's appetite; and feeling, as he said, quite ready for his dinner, he repaired to Mr. Morton's house--a kind of sporting snuggery, everything in apple-pie order, and very good--where he baited himself on sausages and salt herrings, a basin of new milk, with some "sticking powder" as he called it, _alias_ rum, infused into it; and having deposited a half-quartern loaf in one pocket, as a sort of balance against a huge bunch of keys which rattled in the other, he pulled out his watch, and finding they had a quarter of an hour to spare, proposed to chaperon the Yorkshireman on a tour of the hunting stables. Jorrocks summoned the ostler, and with great dignity led the way. "Humph," said he, evidently disappointed at seeing half the stalls empty, "no great show this morning--pity--gentleman come from a distance--should like to have shown him some good nags. --What sort of a devil's this?" "Oh, sir, he's a good 'un, and nothing but a good 'un! --Leap! Lord love ye, he'll leap anything. A railway cut, a windmill with the sails going, a navigable river with ships--anything in short. This is the 'orse wot took the line of houses down at Beddington the day they had the tremendious run from Reigate Hill." "And wot's the grey in the far stall?" "Oh, that's Mr. Pepper's old nag--Pepper-Caster as we call him, since he threw the old gemman, the morning they met at the 'Leg-of-Mutton' at Ashtead. But he's good for nothing. Bless ye! his tail shakes for all the world like a pepper-box afore he's gone half a mile. Those be yours in the far stalls, and since they were turned round I've won a bob of a gemman who I bet I'd show him two 'osses with their heads vere their tails should be. [11] I always says," added he with a leer, "that you rides the best 'osses of any gemman vot comes to our governor's." This flattered Jorrocks, and sidling up, he slipped a shilling into his hand, saying, "Well--bring them out, and let's see how they look this morning." The stall reins are slipped, and out they step with their hoods on their quarters. One was a large, fat, full-sized chestnut, with a white ratch down the full extent of his face, a long square tail, bushy mane, with untrimmed heels. The other was a brown, about fifteen two, coarse-headed, with a rat-tail, and collar-marked. The tackle was the same as they came down with. "You'll do the trick on that, I reckon," said Jorrocks, throwing his leg over the chestnut, and looking askew at the Yorkshireman as he mounted. "Tatt., and old Tatt., and Tatt. sen. before him, all agree that they never knew a bad 'oss with a rat-tail."
[Footnote 11: A favourite joke among grooms when a horse is turned round in his stall.]
"But, let me tell you, you must be werry lively, if you mean to live with our 'ounds. They go like the wind. But come! touch him with the spur, and let's do a trot." The Yorkshireman obeyed, and getting into the main street, onwards they jogged, right through Croydon, and struck into a line of villas of all sorts, shapes, and sizes, which extend for several miles along the road, exhibiting all sorts of architecture, Gothic, Corinthian, Doric, Ionic, Dutch, and Chinese. These gradually diminished in number, and at length they found themselves on an open heath, within a few miles of the meet of the "Surrey foxhounds". "Now", says Mr. Jorrocks, clawing up his smalls, "you will see the werry finest pack of hounds in all England; I don't care where the next best are; and you will see as good a turn-out as ever you saw in your life, and as nice a country to ride over as ever you were in".
They reach the meet--a wayside public-house on a common, before which the hounds with their attendants and some fifty or sixty horsemen, many of them in scarlet, were assembled. Jorrocks was received with the greatest cordiality, amid whoops and holloas, and cries of "now Twankay! --now Sugar! --now Figs!" Waving his hand in token of recognition, he passed on and made straight for Tom Hill, with a face full of importance, and nearly rode over a hound in his hurry. "Now, Tom," said he, with the greatest energy, "do, my good fellow, strain every nerve to show sport to-day. --A gentleman has come all the way from the north-east side of the town of Boroughbridge, in the county of York, to see our excellent 'ounds, and I would fain have him galvanised. --Do show us a run, and let it end with blood, so that he may have something to tell the natives when he gets back to his own parts. That's him, see, sitting under the yew-tree, in a bottle-green coat with basket buttons, just striking a light on the pommel of his saddle to indulge in a fumigation. --Keep your eye on him all day, and if you can lead him over an awkward place, and get him a purl, so much the better. --If he'll risk his neck I'll risk my 'oss's."
The Yorkshireman, having lighted his cigar and tightened his girths, rode leisurely among the horsemen, many of whom were in eager council, and a gentle breeze wafted divers scraps of conversation to his ear.
What is that hound got by? No. How is that horse bred? No. What sport had you on Wednesday? No. Is it a likely find to-day? No, no, no; it was not where the hounds, but what the Consols, left off at; what the four per cents, and not the four horses, were up to; what the condition of the money, not the horse, market. "Anything doing in Danish bonds, sir?" said one. "You must do it by lease and release, and levy a fine," replied another. Scott _v._ Brown, crim. con. to be heard on or before Wednesday next. --Barley thirty-two to forty-two. --Fine upland meadow and rye grass hay, seventy to eighty. --The last pocket of hops I sold brought seven pounds fifteen shillings. Sussex bags six pounds ten shillings. --There were only twenty-eight and a quarter ships at market, "and coals are coals." "Glad to hear it, sir, for half the last you sent me were slates." --"Best qualities of beef four shillings and eightpence a stone--mutton three shillings and eightpence, to four shillings and sixpence. --He was exceedingly ill when I paid my last visit--I gave him nearly a stone of Epsom-salts, and bled him twice. --This horse would suit you to a T, sir, but my skip-jack is coming out on one at two o'clock that can carry a house. --See what a bosom this one's got. --Well, Gunter, old boy, have you iced your horse to-day? --Have you heard that Brown and Co. are in the _Gazette_? No, which Brown--not John Brown? No, William Brown. What, Brown of Goodman's Fields? No, Brown of---- Street--Brown_e_ with an _e_; you know the man I mean. --Oh, Lord, ay, the man wot used to be called Nosey Browne." A general move ensued, and they left "the meet."
"Vere be you going to turn out pray, sir, may I inquire?" said a gentleman in green to the huntsman, as he turned into a field. "Turn out," said he, "why, ye don't suppose we be come calf-hunting, do ye? We throws off some two stones'-throw from here, if so be you mean what cover we are going to draw." "No," said green-coat, "I mean where do you turn out the stag?" --"D--n the stag, we know nothing about such matters," replied the huntsman. "Ware wheat! ware wheat! ware wheat!" was now the general cry, as a gentleman in nankeen pantaloons and Hessian boots with long brass spurs, commenced a navigation across a sprouting crop. "Ware wheat, ware wheat!" replied he, considering it part of the ceremony of hunting, and continued his forward course. "Come to my side," said Mr.----, to the whipper-in, "and meet that gentleman as he arrives at yonder gate; and keep by him while I scold you." --"Now, sir, most particularly d--n you, for riding slap-dash over the young wheat, you most confounded insensible ignorant tinker, isn't the headland wide enough both for you and your horse, even if your spurs were as long again as they are?" Shouts of "Yooi over, over, over hounds--try for him--yoicks--wind him! good dogs--yoicks! stir him up--have at him there!" --here interrupted the jawbation, and the whip rode off shaking his sides with laughter. "Your horse has got a stone in each forefoot, and a thorn in his near hock," observed a dentist to a wholesale haberdasher from Ludgate Hill, "allow me to extract them for you--no pain, I assure--over before you know it." "Come away, hounds! come away!" was heard, and presently the huntsman, with some of the pack at his horse's heels, issued from the wood playing _Rule, Britannia! _ on a key-bugle, while the cracks of heavy-thonged whips warned the stragglers and loiterers to follow. "Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast," observed Jorrocks, as he tucked the laps of his frock over his thighs, "and I hope we shall find before long, else that quarter of house-lamb will be utterly ruined. Oh, dear, they are going below hill I do believe! why we shall never get home to-day, and I told Mrs. Jorrocks half-past five to a minute, and I invited old Fleecy, who is a most punctual man."
Jorrocks was right in his surmise. They arrived on the summit of a range of steep hills commanding an extensive view over the neighbouring country--almost, he said, as far as the sea-coast. The huntsman and hounds went down, but many of the field held a council of war on the top. "Well! who's going down?" said one. "I shall wait for the next turn," said Jorrocks, "for my horse does not like collar work." "I shall go this time," said another, "and the rest next." "And so will I," said a third, "for mayhap there will be no second turn." "Ay," added a fourth, "and he may go the other way, and then where-shall we all be?" "Poh!" said Jorrocks, "did you ever know a Surrey fox not take to the hills? --If he does not, I'll eat him without mint sauce," again harping on the quarter of lamb. Facilis descensus Averni--two-thirds of the field went down, leaving Jorrocks, two horse-dealers in scarlet, three chicken-butchers, half a dozen swells in leathers, a whip, and the Yorkshireman on the summit. "Why don't you go with the hounds?" inquired the latter of the whip. "Oh, I wait here, sir," said he, "to meet Tom Hills as he comes up, and to give him a fresh horse." "And who is Tom Hills?" inquired the Yorkshireman. "Oh, he's our huntsman," replied he; "you know Tom, don't you?" "Why, I can't say I do, exactly," said he; "but tell me, is he called Hills because he rides up and down these hills, or is that his real name?" "Hought! you know as well as I do," said he, quite indignantly, "that Tom Hills is his name."
The hounds, with the majority of the field, having effected the descent of the hills, were now trotting on in the valley below, sufficiently near, however, to allow our hill party full view of their proceedings. After drawing a couple of osier-beds blank, they assumed a line parallel to the hills, and moved on to a wood of about ten acres, the west end of which terminated in a natural gorse. "They'll find there to a certainty," said Mr. Jorrocks, pulling a telescope out of his breeches' pocket, and adjusting the sight. "Never saw it blank but once, and that was the werry day the commercial panic of twenty-five commenced. --I remember making an entry in my ledger when I got home to that effect. Humph!" continued he, looking through the glass, "they are through the wood, though, without a challenge. --Now, my booys, push him out of the gorse! Let's see vot you're made of. --There goes the first 'ound in. --It's Galloper, I believe. --I can almost see the bag of shot round his neck. --Now they all follow. --One--two--three--four--five--all together, my beauties! Oh, vot a sight! Peckham's cap's in the air, and it's a find, by heavens!" Mr. Jorrocks is right. --The southerly wind wafts up the fading notes of the "Huntsman's Chorus" in _Der Frieschutz_ and confirms the fact. --Jorrocks is in ecstasies. --"Now," said he, clawing up his breeches (for he dispenses with the article of braces when out hunting), "that's what I calls fine. Oh, beautiful! beautiful! --Now, follow me if you please, and if yon gentleman in drab does not shoot the fox, he will be on the hills before long." Away they scampered along the top of the ridge, with a complete view of the operations below. At length Jorrocks stopped, and pulling the telescope out, began making an observation. "There he is, at last," cried he, "just crossed the corner of yon green field--now he creeps through the hedge by the fir-tree, and is in the fallow one. Yet, stay--that's no fox--it's a hare: and yet Tom Hills makes straight for the spot--and did you hear that loud tally-ho? Oh! gentlemen, gentlemen, we shall be laughed to scorn--what can they be doing--see, they take up the scent, and the whole pack have joined in chorus. Great heavens, it's no more a fox than I am! --No more brush than a badger! Oh, dear! oh, dear! that I should live to see my old friends, the Surrey fox'ounds, 'unt hare, and that too in the presence of a stranger." The animal made direct for the hills--whatever it was, the hounds were on good terms with it, and got away in good form. The sight was splendid--all the field got well off, nor between the cover and the hills was there sufficient space for tailing. A little elderly gentleman, in a pepper-and-salt coat, led the way gallantly--then came the scarlets--then the darks--and then the fustian-clad countrymen. Jorrocks was in a shocking state, and rolled along the hill-tops, almost frantic. The field reached the bottom, and the foremost commenced the steep ascent.
"Oh, Tom Hills! --Tom Hills! --'what are you at? what are you after?'" demanded Jorrocks, as he landed on the top. "Here's a gentleman come all the way from the north-east side of the town of Boroughbridge, in the county of York, to see our excellent 'ounds, and here you are running a hare. Oh, Tom Hills! Tom Hills! ride forward, ride forward, and whip them off, ere we eternally disgrace ourselves." "Oh," says Tom, laughing, "he's a fox! but he's so tarnation frightened of our hounds, that his brush dropped off through very fear, as soon as ever he heard us go into the wood; if you go back, you'll find it somewhere, Mr. Jorrocks; haw, haw, haw! No fox indeed!" said he. --"Forrard, hounds, forrard!" And away he went--caught the old whipper-in, dismounted him in a twinkling, and was on a fresh horse with his hounds in full cry. The line of flight was still along the hill-tops, and all eagerly pressed on, making a goodly rattle over the beds of flints. A check ensued. "The guard on yonder nasty Brighton coach has frightened him with his horn," said Tom; "now we must make a cast up to yonder garden, and see if he's taken shelter among the geraniums in the green-house. As little damage as possible, gentlemen, if you please, in riding through the nursery grounds. Now, hold hard, sir--pray do--there's no occasion for you to break the kale pots; he can't be under them. Ah, yonder he goes, the tailless beggar; did you see him as he stole past the corner out of the early-cabbage bed? Now bring on the hounds, and let us press him towards London."
"See the conquering hero comes", sounded through the avenue of elms as Tom dashed forward with the merry, merry pack. "I shall stay on the hills", said one, "and be ready for him as he comes back; I took a good deal of the shine out of my horse in coming up this time". "I think I will do the same", said two or three more. "Let's be doing", said Jorrocks, ramming his spurs into his nag to seduce him into a gallop, who after sending his heels in the air a few times in token of his disapprobation of such treatment, at last put himself into a round-rolling sort of canter, which Jorrocks kept up by dint of spurring and dropping his great bastinaderer of a whip every now and then across his shoulders. Away they go pounding together!
The line lies over flint fallows occasionally diversified with a turnip-field or market-garden, and every now and then a "willa" appears, from which emerge footmen in jackets, and in yellow, red and green plush breeches, with no end of admiring housemaids, governesses, and nurses with children in their arms.
Great was the emulation when any of these were approached, and the rasping sportsmen rushed eagerly to the "fore." At last they approach "Miss Birchwell's finishing and polishing seminary for young ladies," whose great flaring blue-and-gold sign, reflecting the noonday rays of the sun, had frightened the fox and caused him to alter his line and take away to the west. A momentary check ensued, but all the amateur huntsmen being blown, Tom, who is well up with his hounds, makes a quick cast round the house, and hits off the scent like a workman. A private road and a line of gates through fields now greet the eyes of our M'Adamisers. A young gentleman on a hired hunter very nattily attired, here singles himself out and takes place next to Tom, throwing the pebbles and dirt back in the eyes of the field. Tom crams away, throwing the gates open as he goes, and our young gentleman very coolly passes through, without a touch, letting them bang-to behind him. The Yorkshireman, who had been gradually creeping up, until he has got the third place, having opened two or three, and seeing another likely to close for want of a push, cries out to our friend as he approaches, "Put out your hand, sir!" The gentleman obediently extends his limb like the arm of a telegraph, and rides over half the next field with his hand in the air! The gate, of course, falls to.
A stopper appears--a gate locked and spiked, with a downward hinge to prevent its being lifted. To the right is a rail, and a ha-ha beyond it--to the left a quick fence. Tom glances at both, but turns short, and backing his horse, rides at the rail. The Yorkshireman follows, but Jorrocks, who espies a weak place in the fence a few yards from the gate, turns short, and jumping off, prepares to lead over. It is an old gap, and the farmer has placed a sheep hurdle on the far side. Just as Jorrocks has pulled that out, his horse, who is a bit of a rusher, and has got his "monkey" completely up, pushes forward while his master is yet stooping--and hitting him in the rear, knocks him clean through the fence, head foremost into a squire-trap beyond! --"Non redolet sed olet!" exclaims the Yorkshireman, who dismounts in a twinkling, lending his friend a hand out of the unsavoury cesspool. --"That's what comes of hunting in a new[12] saddle, you see," added he, holding his nose. Jorrocks scrambles upon "terra firma" and exhibits such a spectacle as provokes the shouts of the field. He has lost his wig, his hat hangs to his back, and one side of his person and face is completely japanned with black odoriferous mixture. "My vig!" exclaims he, spitting and spluttering, "but that's the nastiest hole I ever was in--Fleet Ditch is lavender-water compared to it! Hooi yonder!" hailing a lad, "Catch my 'oss, boouy!" Tom Hills has him; and Jorrocks, pocketing his wig, remounts, rams his spurs into the nag, and again tackles with the pack, which had come to a momentary check on the Eden Bridge road. The fox has been headed by a party of gipsies, and, changing his point, bends southward and again reaches the hills, along which some score of horsemen have planted themselves in the likeliest places to head him. Reynard, however, is too deep for them, and has stolen down unperceived. Poor Jorrocks, what with the violent exertion of riding, his fall, and the souvenir of the cesspool that he still bears about him, pulls up fairly exhausted. "Oh, dear," says he, scraping the thick of the filth off his coat with his whip, "I'm reglarly blown, I earn't go down with the 'ounds this turn; but, my good fellow," turning to the Yorkshireman, who was helping to purify him, "don't let me stop you, go down by all means, but mind, bear in mind the quarter of house-lamb--at half-past five to a minute."
[Footnote 12: There is a superstition among sportsmen that they are sure to get a fall the first day they appear in anything new.]
Many of the cits now gladly avail themselves of the excuse of assisting Mr. Jorrocks to clean himself for pulling up, but as soon as ever those that are going below hill are out of sight and they have given him two or three wipes, they advise him to let it "dry on," and immediately commence a different sort of amusement--each man dives into his pocket and produces the eatables.
Part of Jorrocks's half-quartern loaf was bartered with the captain of an East Indiaman for a slice of buffalo-beef. The dentist exchanged some veal sandwiches with a Jew for ham ones; a lawyer from the Borough offered two slices of toast for a hard-boiled egg; in fact there was a petty market "ouvert" held. "Now, Tomkins, where's the bottle?" demanded Jenkins. "Vy, I thought you would bring it out to-day," replied he; "I brought it last time, you know." "Take a little of mine, sir," said a gentleman, presenting a leather-covered flask--"real Thomson and Fearon, I assure you." "I wish someone would fetch an ocean of porter from the nearest public," said another. "Take a cigar, sir?" "No; I feel werry much obliged, but they always make me womit." "Is there any gentleman here going to Halifax, who would like to make a third in a new yellow barouche, with lavender-coloured wheels, and pink lining?" inquired Mr.----, the coach-maker. "Look at the hounds, gentlemen sportsmen, my noble sportsmen!" bellowed out an Epsom Dorling's correct--cardseller--and turning their eyes in the direction in which he was looking, our sportsmen saw them again making for the hills. Pepper-and-salt first, and oh, what a goodly tail was there! --three quarters of a mile in length, at the least. Now up they come--the "corps de reserve" again join, and again a party halt upon the hills. Again Tom Hills exchanges horses; and again the hounds go on in full cry. "I must be off," said a gentleman in balloon-like leathers to another tiger; "we have just time to get back to town, and ride round by the park before it is dark--much better than seeing the end of this brute. Let us go"; and away they went to canter through Hyde Park in their red coats. "I must go and all," said another gentleman; "my dinner will be ready at five, and it is now three." Jorrocks was game; and forgetting the quarter of house-lamb, again tackled with the pack. A smaller sweep sufficed this time, and the hills were once more descended, Jorrocks the first to lead the way. He well knew the fox was sinking, and was determined to be in at the death. Short running ensued--a check--the fox had lain down, and they had overrun the scent. Now they were on him, and Tom Hills's who-whoop confirmed the whole.
"Ah! Tom Hills, Tom Hills!" exclaimed Jorrocks, as the former took up the fox, "'ow splendid, 'ow truly brilliant--by Jove, you deserve to be Lord Hill--oh, had he but a brush that we might present it to this gentleman from the north-east side of the town of Boroughbridge, in the county of York, to show the gallant doings of the men of Surrey!" "Ay," said Tom, "but Squire----'s keeper has been before us for it."
"Now," said a gentleman in a cap, to another in a hat, "if you will ride up the hill and collect the money there, I will do so below--half-a-crown, if you please, sir--half-a-crown, if you please, sir. --Have I got your half-a-crown, sir?" --"Here's three shillings if you will give me sixpence." "Certainly, sir--certainly." "We have no time to spare," said Jorrocks, looking at his watch. "Good afternoon, gentlemen, good afternoon," muttering as he went, "a quarter of house-lamb at half-past five--Mrs. Jorrocks werry punctual--old Fleecy werry particular." They cut across country to Croydon, and as they approached the town, innumerable sportsmen came flocking in from all quarters. "What sport have you had?" inquired Jorrocks of a gentleman in scarlet; "have you been with Jolliffe?" "No, with the staghounds; three beautiful runs; took him once in a millpond, once in a barn, and once in a brickfield--altogether the finest day's sport I ever saw in my life." "What have you done, Mr. J----?" "Oh, we have had a most gallant thing; a brilliant run indeed--three hours and twenty minutes without a check--over the finest country imaginable." "And who got the brush?" inquired the stag-man. "Oh, it was a gallant run," said Jorrocks, "by far the finest I ever remember." "But did you kill?" demanded his friend. "Kill! to be sure we did. When don't the Surrey kill, I should like to know?" "And who got his brush, did you say?" "I can't tell," said he--"didn't hear the gentleman's name." "What sport has Mr. Meager had to-day?" inquired he of a gentleman in trousers, who issued from a side lane into the high road. "I have been with the Sanderstead, sir--a very capital day's sport--run five hares and killed three. We should have killed four--only--we didn't." "I don't think Mr. Meager has done anything to-day." "Yes, he has," said a gentleman, who just joined with a hare buckled on in front of his saddle, and his white cords all stained with blood; "we killed this chap after an hour and forty-five minutes' gallop; and accounted for another by losing her after running upwards of-three-quarters of an hour." "Well, then, we have all had sport," said Jorrocks, as he spurred his horse into a trot, and made for Morton's stables--"and if the quarter of house-lamb is but right, then indeed am I a happy man."
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SURREY SHOOTING: MR. JORROCKS IN TROUBLE
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Our readers are now becoming pretty familiar with our principal hero, Mr. Jorrocks, and we hope he improves on acquaintance. Our fox-hunting friends, we are sure, will allow him to be an enthusiastic member of the brotherhood, and though we do not profess to put him in competition with Musters, Osbaldeston, or any of those sort of men, we yet mean to say that had his lot been cast in the country instead of behind a counter, his keenness would have rendered him as conspicuous--if not as scientific--as the best of them.
For a cockney sportsman, however, he is a very excellent fellow--frank, hearty, open, generous, and hospitable, and with the exception of riding up Fleet Street one Saturday afternoon, with a cock-pheasant's tail sticking out of his red coat pocket, no one ever saw him do a cock tail action in his life.
The circumstances attending that exhibition are rather curious. --He had gone out as usual on a Saturday to have a day with the Surrey, but on mounting his hunter at Croydon, he felt the nag rather queer under him, and thinking he might have been pricked in the shoeing, he pulled up at the smith's at Addington to have his feet examined. This lost him five minutes, and unfortunately when he got to the meet, he found that a "travelling[13] fox" had been tallied at the precise moment of throwing off, with which the hounds had gone away in their usual brilliant style, to the tune of "Blue bonnets are over the border." As may be supposed, he was in a deuce of a rage; and his first impulse prompted him to withdraw his subscription and be done with the hunt altogether, and he trotted forward "on the line," in the hopes of catching them up to tell them so. In this he was foiled, for after riding some distance, he overtook a string of Smithfield horses journeying "foreign for Evans," whose imprints he had been taking for the hoof-marks of the hunters. About noon he found himself dull, melancholy, and disconsolate, before the sign of the "Pig and Whistle," on the Westerham road, where, after wetting his own whistle with a pint of half-and-half, he again journeyed onward, ruminating on the uncertainty and mutability of all earthly affairs, the comparative merits of stag-, fox-, and hare-hunting, and the necessity of getting rid of the day somehow or other in the country.
[Footnote 13: He might well be called a "travelling fox," for it was said he had just travelled down from Herring's, in the New Road, by the Bromley stage.]
Suddenly his reverie was interrupted by the discharge of a gun in the field adjoining the hedge along which he was passing, and the boisterous whirring of a great cock-pheasant over his head, which caused his horse to start and stop short, and to nearly pitch Jorrocks over his head. The bird was missed, but the sportsman's dog dashed after it, with all the eagerness of expectation, regardless of the cracks of the whip--the "comes to heel," and "downs to charge" of the master. Jorrocks pulled out his hunting telescope, and having marked the bird down with the precision of a billiard-table keeper, rode to the gate to acquaint the shooter with the fact, when to his infinite amazement he discovered his friend, Nosey Browne (late of "The Surrey"), who, since his affairs had taken the unfortunate turn mentioned in the last paper, had given up hunting and determined to confine himself to shooting only. Nosey, however, was no great performer, as may be inferred, when we state that he had been in pursuit of the above-mentioned cock-pheasant ever since daybreak, and after firing thirteen shots at him had not yet touched a feather.
His dog was of the right sort--for Nosey at least--and hope deferred had not made his heart sick; on the contrary, he dashed after his bird for the thirteenth time with all the eagerness he displayed on the first. "Let me have a crack at him," said Jorrocks to Nosey, after their mutual salutations were over. "I know where he is, and I think I can floor him." Browne handed the gun to Jorrocks, who, giving up his hunter in exchange, strode off, and having marked his bird accurately, he kicked him up out of a bit of furze, and knocked him down as "dead as a door-nail." By that pheasant's tail hangs the present one.
Now Nosey Browne and Jorrocks were old friends, and Nosey's affairs having gone crooked, why of course, like most men in a similar situation, he was all the better for it; and while his creditors were taking twopence-halfpenny in the pound, he was taking his diversion on his wife's property, which a sagacious old father-in-law had secured to the family in the event of such a contingency as a failure happening; so knowing Jorrock's propensity for sports, and being desirous of chatting over all his gallant doings with "The Surrey," shortly after the above-mentioned day he dispatched a "twopenny," offering him a day's shooting on his property in Surrey, adding, that he hoped he would dine with him after. Jorrocks being invited himself, with a freedom peculiar to fox-hunters, invited his friend the Yorkshireman, and visiting his armoury, selected him a regular shot-scatterer of a gun, capable of carrying ten yards on every side.
At the appointed hour on the appointed morning, the Yorkshireman appeared in Great Coram Street, where he found Mr. Jorrocks in the parlour in the act of settling himself into a new spruce green cut-away gambroon butler's pantry-jacket, with pockets equal to holding a powder-flask each, his lower man being attired in tight drab stocking-net pantaloons, and Hessian boots with large tassels--a striking contrast to the fustian pocket-and-all-pocket jackets marked with game-bag strap, and shot-belt, and the weather-beaten many-coloured breeches and gaiters, and hob-nail shoes, that compose the equipment of a shooter in Yorkshire. Mr. Jorrocks not keeping any "sporting dogs," as the tax-papers call them, had borrowed a fat house-dog--a cross between a setter and a Dalmatian--of his friend Mr. Evergreen the greengrocer, which he had seen make a most undeniable point one morning in the Copenhagen Fields at a flock of pigeons in a beetroot garden. This valuable animal was now attached by a trash-cord through a ring in his brass collar to a leg of the sideboard, while a clean licked dish at his side, showed that Jorrocks had been trying to attach him to himself, by feeding him before starting.
"We'll take a coach to the Castle", said Jorrocks, "and then get a go-cart or a cast somehow or other to Streatham, for we shall have walking enough when we get there. Browne is an excellent fellow, and will make us range every acre of his estate over half a dozen times before we give in". A coach was speedily summoned, into which Jorrocks, the dog Pompey, the Yorkshireman, and the guns were speedily placed, and away they drove to the "Elephant and Castle."
There were short stages about for every possible place except Streatham. Greenwich, Deptford, Blackheath, Eltham, Bromley, Footscray, Beckenham, Lewisham--all places but the right. However, there were abundance of "go-carts," a species of vehicle that ply in the outskirts of the metropolis, and which, like the watering-place "fly," take their name from the contrary--in fact, a sort of _lucus a non lucendo_. They are carts on springs, drawn by one horse (with curtains to protect the company from the weather), the drivers of which, partly by cheating, and partly by picking pockets, eke out a comfortable existence, and are the most lawless set of rascals under the sun. Their arrival at the "Elephant and Castle" was a signal for a general muster of the fraternity, who, seeing the guns, were convinced that their journey was only what they call "a few miles down the road," and they were speedily surrounded by twenty or thirty of them, all with "excellent 'osses, vot vould take their honours fourteen miles an hour." All men of business are aware of the advantages of competition, and no one more so than Jorrocks, who stood listening to their offers with the utmost sang-froid, until he closed with one to take them to Streatham Church for two shillings, and deliver them within the half-hour, which was a signal for all the rest to set-to and abuse them, their coachman, and his horse, which they swore had been carrying "stiff-uns" [14] all night, and "could not go not none at all". Nor were they far wrong; for the horse, after scrambling a hundred yards or two, gradually relaxed into something between a walk and a trot, while the driver kept soliciting every passer-by to "ride," much to our sportsmen's chagrin, who conceived they were to have the "go" all to themselves. Remonstrance was vain, and he crammed in a master chimney-sweep, Major Ballenger the licensed dealer in tea, coffee, tobacco, and snuff, of Streatham (a customer of Jorrocks), and a wet-nurse; and took up an Italian organ-grinder to ride beside himself on the front, before they had accomplished Brixton Hill. Jorrocks swore most lustily that he would fine him, and at every fresh assurance, the driver offered a passer-by a seat; but having enlisted Major Ballenger into their cause, they at length made a stand, which, unfortunately for them, was more than the horse could do, for just as he was showing off, as he thought, with a bit of a trot, down they all soused in the mud. Great was the scramble; guns, barrel-organ, Pompey, Jorrocks, driver, master chimney-sweep, Major Ballenger, were all down together, while the wet-nurse, who sat at the end nearest the door, was chucked clean over the hedge into a dry ditch. This was a signal to quit the vessel, and having extricated themselves the best way they could, they all set off on foot, and left the driver to right himself at his leisure.
[Footnote 14: Doing a bit of resurrection work.]
Ballenger looked rather queer when he heard they were going to Nosey Browne's, for it so happened that Nosey had managed to walk into his books for groceries and kitchen-stuff to the tune of fourteen pounds, a large sum to a man in a small way of business; and to be entertaining friends so soon after his composition, seemed curious to Ballenger's uninitiated suburban mind.
Crossing Streatham Common, a short turn to the left by some yew-trees leads, by a near cut across the fields, to Browne's house; a fiery-red brick castellated cottage, standing on the slope of a gentle eminence, and combining almost every absurdity a cockney imagination can be capable of. Nosey, who was his own "Nash," set out with the intention of making it a castle and nothing but a castle, and accordingly the windows were made in the loophole fashion, and the door occupied a third of the whole frontage. The inconveniences of the arrangements were soon felt, for while the light was almost excluded from the rooms, "rude Boreas" had the complete run of the castle whenever the door was opened. To remedy this, Nosey increased the one and curtailed the other, and the Gothic oak-painted windows and door flew from their positions to make way for modern plate-glass in rich pea-green casements, and a door of similar hue. The battlements, however, remained, and two wooden guns guarded a brace of chimney-pots and commanded the wings of the castle, one whereof was formed into a green-, the other into a gig-house.
The peals of a bright brass-handled bell at a garden-gate, surmounted by a holly-bush with the top cut into the shape of a fox, announced their arrival to the inhabitants of "Rosalinda Castle," and on entering they discovered young Nosey in the act of bobbing for goldfish, in a pond about the size of a soup-basin; while Nosey senior, a fat, stupid-looking fellow, with a large corporation and a bottle nose, attired in a single-breasted green cloth coat, buff waistcoat, with drab shorts and continuations, was reposing, _sub tegmine fagi_, in a sort of tea-garden arbour, overlooking a dung-heap, waiting their arrival to commence an attack upon the sparrows which were regaling thereon. At one end of the garden was a sort of temple, composed of oyster-shells, containing a couple of carrier-pigeons, with which Nosey had intended making his fortune, by the early information to be acquired by them: but "there is many a slip," as Jorrocks would say.
Greetings being over, and Jorrocks having paid a visit to the larder, and made up a stock of provisions equal to a journey through the Wilderness, they adjourned to the yard to get the other dog, and the man to carry the game--or rather, the prog, for the former was but problematical. He was a character, a sort of chap of all work, one, in short, "who has no objection to make himself generally useful"; but if his genius had any decided bent, it was, perhaps, an inclination towards sporting.
Having to act the part of groom and gamekeeper during the morning, and butler and footman in the afternoon, he was attired in a sort of composition dress, savouring of the different characters performed. He had on an old white hat, a groom's fustian stable-coat cut down into a shooting-jacket, with a whistle at the button-hole, red plush smalls, and top-boots.
There is nothing a cockney delights in more than aping a country gentleman, and Browne fancied himself no bad hand at it; indeed, since his London occupation was gone, he looked upon himself as a country gentleman in fact. "Vell, Joe," said he, striddling and sticking his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, to this invaluable man of all work, "we must show the gemmem some sport to-day; vich do you think the best line to start upon--shall we go to the ten hacre field, or the plantation, or Thompson's stubble, or Timms's turnips, or my meadow, or vere?" "Vy, I doesn't know," said Joe; "there's that old hen-pheasant as we calls Drab Bess, vot has haunted the plantin' these two seasons, and none of us ever could 'it (hit), and I hears that Jack, and Tom, and Bob, are still left out of Thompson's covey; but, my eyes! they're 'special vild!" "Vot, only three left? where is old Tom, and the old ramping hen?" inquired Browne. "Oh, Mr. Smith, and a party of them 'ere Bankside chaps, com'd down last Saturday's gone a week, and rattled nine-and-twenty shots at the covey, and got the two old 'uns; at least it's supposed they were both killed, though the seven on 'em only bagged one bird; but I heard they got a goose or two as they vent home. They had a shot at old Tom, the hare, too, but he is still alive; at least I pricked him yesterday morn across the path into the turnip-field. Suppose we goes at him first?"
The estate, like the game, was rather deficient in quantity, but Browne was a wise man and made the most of what he had, and when he used to talk about his "manor" on 'Change, people thought he had at least a thousand acres--the extent a cockney generally advertises for, when he wants to take a shooting-place. The following is a sketch of what he had: The east, as far as the eye could reach, was bounded by Norwood, a name dear to cockneys, and the scene of many a furtive kiss; the hereditaments and premises belonging to Isaac Cheatum, Esq. ran parallel with it on the west, containing sixty-three acres, "be the same more or less," separated from which, by a small brook or runner of water, came the estate of Mr. Timms, consisting of sixty acres, three roods, and twenty-four perches, commonly called or known by the name of Fordham; next to it were two allotments in right of common, for all manner of cattle, except cows, upon Streatham Common, from whence up to Rosalinda Castle, on the west, lay the estate of Mr. Browne, consisting of fifty acres and two perches. Now it so happened that Browne had formerly the permission to sport all the way up to Norwood, a distance of a mile and a half, and consequently he might have been said to have the right of shooting in Norwood itself, for the keepers only direct their attention to the preservation of the timber and the morals of the visitors; but since his composition with his creditors, Mr. Cheatum, who had "gone to the wall" himself in former years, was so scandalised at Browne doing the same, that no sooner did his name appear in the _Gazette_, than Cheatum withdrew his permission, thereby cutting him off from Norwood and stopping him in pursuit of his game.
Joe's proposition being duly seconded, Mr. Jorrocks, in the most orthodox manner, flushed off his old flint and steel fire-engine, and proceeded to give it an uncommon good loading. The Yorkshireman, with a look of disgust, mingled with despair, and a glance at Joe's plush breeches and top-boots, did the same, while Nosey, in the most considerate sportsmanlike manner, merely shouldered a stick, in order that there might be no delicacy with his visitors, as to who should shoot first--a piece of etiquette that aids the escape of many a bird in the neighbourhood of London.
Old Tom--a most unfortunate old hare, that what with the harriers, the shooters, the snarers, and one thing and another, never knew a moment's peace, and who must have started in the world with as many lives as a cat--being doomed to receive the first crack on this occasion, our sportsmen stole gently down the fallow, at the bottom of which were the turnips, wherein he was said to repose; but scarcely had they reached the hurdles which divided the field, before he was seen legging it away clean out of shot. Jorrocks, who had brought his gun to bear upon him, could scarcely refrain from letting drive, but thinking to come upon him again by stealth, as he made his circuit for Norwood, he strode away across the allotments and Fordham estate, and took up a position behind a shed which stood on the confines of Mr. Timms's and Mr. Cheatum's properties. Here, having procured a rest for his gun, he waited until old Tom, who had tarried to nip a few blades of green grass that came in his way, made his appearance. Presently he came cantering along the outside of the wood, at a careless, easy sort of pace, betokening either perfect indifference for the world's mischief, or utter contempt of cockney sportsmen altogether.
He was a melancholy, woe-begone-looking animal, long and lean, with a slight inclination to grey on his dingy old coat, one that looked as though he had survived his kindred and had already lived beyond his day. Jorrocks, however, saw him differently, and his eyes glistened as he came within range of his gun. A well-timed shot ends poor Tom's miseries! He springs into the air, and with a melancholy scream rolls neck over heels. Knowing that Pompey would infallibly spoil him if he got up first, Jorrocks, without waiting to load, was in the act of starting off to pick him up, when, at the first step, he found himself in the grasp of a Herculean monster, something between a coal-heaver and a gamekeeper, who had been secreted behind the shed. Nosey Browne, who had been watching his movements, holloaed out to Jorrocks to "hold hard," who stood motionless, on the spot from whence he fired, and Browne was speedily alongside of him. "You are on Squire Cheatum's estate," said the man; "and I have authority to take up all poachers and persons found unlawfully trespassing; what's your name?" "He's not on Cheatum's estate," said Browne. "He is," said the man. "You're a liar," said Browne. "You're another," said the man. And so they went on; for when such gentlemen meet, compliments pass current. At length the keeper pulled out a foot-rule, and keeping Jorrocks in the same position he caught him, he set-to to measure the distance of his foot from the boundary, taking off in a line from the shed; when it certainly did appear that the length of a big toe was across the mark, and putting up his measure again, he insisted upon taking Jorrocks before a magistrate for the trespass. Of course, no objection could be made, and they all adjourned to Mr. Boreem's, when the whole case was laid before him. To cut a long matter short--after hearing the pros and cons, and referring to the Act of Parliament, his worship decided that a trespass had been committed; and though, he said, it went against the grain to do so, he fined Jorrocks in the mitigated penalty of one pound one.
This was a sad damper to our heroes, who returned to the castle with their prog untouched and no great appetite for dinner. Being only a family party, when Mrs. B---- retired, the subject naturally turned upon the morning's mishap, and at every glass of port Jorrocks waxed more valiant, until he swore he would appeal against the "conwiction"; and remaining in the same mind when he awoke the next morning, he took the Temple in his way to St. Botolph Lane and had six-and-eightpence worth with Mr. Capias the attorney, who very judiciously argued each side of the question without venturing an opinion, and proposed stating a case for counsel to advise upon.
As usual, he gave one that would cut either way, though if it had any tendency whatever it was to induce Jorrocks to go on; and he not wanting much persuasion, it will not surprise our readers to hear that Jorrocks, Capias, and the Yorkshireman were seen a few days after crossing Waterloo Bridge in a yellow post-chaise, on their way to Croydon sessions.
After a "guinea" consultation at the "Greyhound," they adjourned to the court, which was excessively crowded, Jorrocks being as popular with the farmers and people as Cheatum was the reverse. Party feeling, too, running rather high at the time, there had been a strong "whip" among the magistrates to get a full attendance to reverse Boreem's conviction, who had made himself rather obnoxious on the blue interest at the election. Of course they all came in new hats,[15] and sat on the bench looking as wise as gentlemen judges generally do.
[Footnote 15: Magistrates always buy their hats about session times, as they have the privilege of keeping their hats on their blocks in court.]
One hundred and twenty-two affiliation cases (for this was in the old Poor Law time) having been disposed of, about one o'clock in the afternoon, the chairman, Mr. Tomkins of Tomkins, moved the order of the day. He was a perfect prototype of a county magistrate--with a bald powdered head covered by a low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, hair terminating behind in a _queue_, resting on the ample collar of a snuff-brown coat, with a large bay-window of a corporation, with difficulty retained by the joint efforts of a buff waistcoat, and the waistband of a pair of yellow leather breeches. His countenance, which was solemn and grave in the extreme, might either be indicative of sense or what often serves in the place of wisdom--when parties can only hold their tongues--great natural stupidity. From the judge's seat, which he occupied in the centre of the bench, he observed, with immense dignity, "There is an appeal of Jorrocks against Cheatum, which we, the bench of magistrates of our lord the king, will take if the parties are ready," and immediately the court rang with "Jorrocks and Cheatum! Jorrocks and Cheatum! Mr. Capias, attorney-at-law! Mr. Capias answer to his name! Mr. Sharp attorney-at-law! Mr. Sharp's in the jury-room. --Then go fetch him directly," from the ushers and bailiffs of the court; for though Tomkins of Tomkins was slow himself, he insisted upon others being quick, and was a great hand at prating about saving the time of the suitors. At length the bustle of counsel crossing the table, parties coming in and others leaving court, bailiffs shouting, and ushers responding, gradually subsided into a whisper of, "That's Jorrocks! That's Cheatum!" as the belligerent parties took their places by their respective counsel. Silence having been called and procured, Mr. Smirk, a goodish-looking man for a lawyer, having deliberately unfolded his brief, which his clerk had scored plentifully in the margin, to make the attorney believe he had read it very attentively, rose to address the court--a signal for half the magistrates to pull their newspapers out of their pockets, and the other half to settle themselves down for a nap, all the sport being considered over when the affiliation cases closed.
"I have the honour to appear on behalf of Mr. Jorrocks," said Mr. Smirk, "a gentleman of the very highest consideration--a fox-hunter--a shooter--and a grocer. In ordinary cases it might be necessary to prove the party's claim to respectability, but, in this instance, I feel myself relieved from any such obligation, knowing, as I do, that there is no one in this court, no one in these realms--I might almost add, no one in this world--to whom the fame of my most respectable, my most distinguished, and much injured client is unknown. Not to know JORROCKS is indeed to argue oneself unknown."
"This is a case of no ordinary interest, and I approach it with a deep sense of its importance, conscious of my inability to do justice to the subject, and lamenting that it has not been entrusted to abler hands. It is a case involving the commercial and the sporting character of a gentleman against whom the breath of calumny has never yet been drawn--of a gentleman who in all the relations of life, whether as a husband, a fox-hunter, a shooter, or a grocer, has invariably preserved that character and reputation, so valuable in commercial life, so necessary in the sporting world, and so indispensable to a man moving in general society. Were I to look round London town in search of a bright specimen of a man combining the upright, sterling integrity of the honourable British merchant of former days with the ardour of the English fox-hunter of modern times, I would select my most respectable client, Mr. Jorrocks. He is a man for youth to imitate and revere! Conceive, then, the horror of a man of his delicate sensibility--of his nervous dread of depreciation--being compelled to appear here this day to vindicate his character, nay more, his honour, from one of the foulest attempts at conspiracy that was ever directed against any individual. I say that a grosser attack was never made upon the character of any grocer, and I look confidently to the reversion of this unjust, unprecedented conviction, and to the triumphant victory of my most respectable and public-spirited client. It is not for the sake of the few paltry shillings that he appeals to this court--it is not for the sake of calling in question the power of the constituted authorities of this county--but it is for the vindication and preservation of a character dear to all men, but doubly dear to a grocer, and which once lost can never be regained. Look, I say, upon my client as he sits below the witness-box, and say, if in that countenance there appears any indication of a lawless or rebellious spirit; look, I say, if the milk of human kindness is not strikingly portrayed in every feature, and truly may I exclaim in the words of the poet:" If to his share some trifling errors fall, Look in his face, and you'll forget them all.'
"I regret to be compelled to trespass upon the valuable time of the court; but, sir, this appeal is based on a trespass, and one good trespass deserves another."
The learned gentleman then proceeded to detail the proceedings of the day's shooting, and afterwards to analyse the enactments of the new Game Bill, which he denounced as arbitrary, oppressive, and ridiculous, and concluded a long and energetic speech, by calling upon the court to reverse the decision of the magistrate, and not support the preposterous position of fining a man for a trespass committed by his toe.
After a few minutes had elapsed, Mr. Sergeant Bumptious, a stiff, bull-headed little man, desperately pitted with the smallpox, rose to reply, and looking round the court, thus commenced: "Five-and-thirty years have I passed in courts of justice, but never, during a long and extensive practice, have I witnessed so gross a perversion of that sublimest gift, called eloquence, as within the last hour"--here he banged his brief against the table, and looked at Mr. Smirk, who smiled. --"I lament, sir, that it has not been employed in a better cause--(bang again--and another look). My learned friend has, indeed, laboured to make the worse appear the better cause--to convert into a trifle one of the most outrageous acts that ever disgraced a human being or a civilised country. Well did he describe the importance of this case! --important as regards his client's character--important as regards this great and populous county--important as regards those social ties by which society is held together--important as regards a legislative enactment, and important as regards the well-being and prosperity of the whole nation--(bang, bang, bang). I admire the bombastic eloquence with which my learned friend introduced his most distinguished client--his most delicate minded--sensitive client! --Truly, to hear him speaking I should have thought he had been describing a lovely, blushing young lady, but when he comes to exhibit his paragon of perfection, and points out that great, red-faced, coarse, vulgar-looking, lubberly lump of humanity--(here Bumptious looked at Jorrocks as he would eat him)--sitting below the witness-box, and seeks to enlist the sympathies of your worships on the Bench--of you, gentlemen, the high-minded, shrewd, penetrating judges of this important cause--(and Bumptious smiled and bowed along the Bench upon all whose eyes he could catch)--on behalf of such a monster of iniquity, it does make one blush for the degradation of the British Bar--(bang--bang--bang--Jorrocks here looked unutterable things). Does my learned friend think by displaying his hero as a fox-hunter, and extolling his prowess in the field, to gain over the sporting magistrates on the Bench? He knows little of the upright integrity--the uncompromising honesty--the undeviating, inflexible impartiality that pervades the breast of every member of this tribunal, if he thinks for the sake of gain, fear, favour, hope, or reward, to influence the opinion, much less turn the judgment, of any one of them." (Here Bumptious bowed very low to them all and laid his hand upon his heart. Tomkins nodded approbation.) "Far, far be it from me to dwell with unbecoming asperity on the conduct of anyone--we are all mortals--and alike liable to err; but when I see a man who has been guilty of an act which has brought him all but within the verge of the prisoners' dock; I say, when I see a man who has been guilty of such an outrage on society as this ruffian Jorrocks, come forward with the daring effrontery that he has this day done, and claim redress where he himself is the offender, it does create a feeling in my mind divided between disgust and amazement"--(bang).
Here Jorrock's cauldron boiled over, and rising from his seat with an outstretched shoulder-of-mutton fist, he bawled out, "D--n you, sir, what do you mean?"
The court was thrown into amazement, and even Bumptious quailed before the fist of the mighty Jorrocks. "I claim the protection of the court," he exclaimed. Mr. Tomkins interposed, and said he should certainly order Mr. Jorrocks into custody if he repeated his conduct, adding that it was "most disrespectful to the justices of our lord the king."
Bumptious paused a little to gather breath and a fresh volume of venom wherewith to annihilate Jorrocks, and catching his eye, he transfixed him like a rattlesnake, and again resumed.
"How stands the case?" said he. "This cockney grocer--for after all he is nothing else--who I dare say scarcely knows a hawk from a hand-saw--leaves his figs and raisins, and sets out on a marauding excursion into the county of Surrey, and regardless of property--of boundaries--of laws--of liberties--of life itself--strides over every man's land, letting drive at whatever comes in his way! The hare he shot on this occasion was a pet hare! --For three successive summers had Miss Cheatum watched and fed it with all the interest and anxiety of a parent. I leave it to you, gentlemen, who have daughters of your own, with pets also, to picture to yourselves the agony of her mind in finding that her favourite had found its way down the throat of that great guzzling, gormandising, cockney cormorant; and then, forsooth, because he is fined for the outrageous trespass, he comes here as the injured party, and instructs his counsel to indulge in Billingsgate abuse that would disgrace the mouth of an Old Bailey practitioner! I regret that instead of the insignificant fine imposed upon him, the law did not empower the worthy magistrate to send him to the treadmill, there to recreate himself for six or eight months, as a warning to the whole fraternity of lawless vagabonds." Here he nodded his head at Jorrocks as much as to say, "I'll trounce you, my boy!" He then produced maps and plans of the different estates, and a model of the shed, to show how it had all happened, and after going through the case in such a strain as would induce one to believe it was a trial for murder or high treason, concluded as follows: "The eyes of England are upon us--reverse this conviction, and you let loose a rebel band upon the country, ripe for treason, stratagem, or spoil--you overturn the finest order of society in the world; henceforth no man's property will be safe, the laws will be disregarded, and even the upright, talented, and independent magistracy of England brought into contempt. But I feel convinced that your decision will be far otherwise--that by it you will teach these hot-headed--rebellious--radical grocers that they cannot offend with impunity, and show them that there is a law which reaches even the lowest and meanest inhabitant of these realms, that amid these days of anarchy and innovation you will support the laws and aristocracy of this country, that you will preserve to our children, and our children's children, those rights and blessings which a great and enlightened administration have conferred upon ourselves, and raise for Tomkins of Tomkins and the magistracy of the proud county of Surrey, a name resplendent in modern times and venerated to all eternity."
Here Bumptious cast a parting frown at Jorrocks, and banging down his brief, tucked his gown under his arm, turned on his heel and left the court, to indulge in a glass of pale sherry and a sandwich, regardless which way the verdict went, so long as he had given him a good quilting. The silence that followed had the effect of rousing some of the dozing justices, who nudging those who had fallen asleep, they all began to stir themselves, and having laid their heads together, during which time they settled the dinner-hour for that day, and the meets of the staghounds for the next fortnight, they began to talk of the matter before the court.
"I vote for reversing," said Squire Jolthead; "Jorrocks is such a capital fellow." "I must support Boreem," said Squire Hicks: "he gave me a turn when I made the mistaken commitment of Gipsy Jack." "What do you say, Mr. Giles?" inquired Mr. Tomkins. "Oh, anything you like, Mr. Tomkins." "And you, Mr. Hopper?" who had been asleep all the time. "Oh! guilty, I should say--three months at the treadmill--privately whipped, if you like," was the reply. Mr. Petty always voted on whichever side Bumptious was counsel--the learned serjeant having married his sister--and four others always followed the chair.
Tomkins then turned round, the magistrates resumed their seats along the bench, and coming forward he stood before the judge's chair, and taking off his hat with solemn dignity and precision, laid it down exactly in the centre of the desk, amid cries from the bailiffs and ushers for "Silence, while the justices of the peace of our sovereign lord the king, deliver the judgment of the court."
"The appellant in this case," said Mr. Tomkins, very slowly, "seeks to set aside a conviction for trespass, on the ground, as I understand, of his not having committed one. The principal points of the case are admitted, as also the fact of Mr. Jorrocks's toe, or a part of his toe, having intruded upon the respondent's estate. Now, so far as that point is concerned, it seems clear to myself and to my brother magistrates, that it mattereth not how much or how little of the toe was upon the land, so long as any part thereof was there. 'De minimis non curat lex'--the English of which is 'the law taketh no cognisance of fractions'--is a maxim among the salaried judges of the inferior courts in Westminster Hall, which we the unpaid, the in-cor-rup-ti-ble magistrates of the proud county of Surrey, have adopted in the very deep and mature deliberation that preceded the formation of our most solemn judgment. In the present great and important case, we, the unpaid magistrates of our sovereign lord the king, do not consider it necessary that there should be 'a toe, a whole toe, and nothing but a toe,' to constitute a trespass, any more than it would be necessary in the case of an assault to prove that the kick was given by the foot, the whole foot, and nothing but the foot. If any part of the toe was there, the law considers that it was there _in toto_. Upon this doctrine, it is clear that Mr. Jorrocks was guilty of a trespass, and the conviction must be affirmed. Before I dismiss the case I must say a few words on the statute under which this decision takes place.
"This is the first conviction that has taken place since the passing of the Act, and will serve as a precedent throughout all England. I congratulate the country upon the efficacy of the tribunal to which it has been submitted. The court has listened with great and becoming attention to the arguments of the counsel on both sides: and though one gentleman with a flippant ignorance has denounced this new law as inferior to the pre-existing system, and a curse to the country, we, the magistrates of the proud county of Surrey, must enter our protest against such a doctrine being promulgated. Peradventure, you are all acquainted with my prowess as a shooter; I won two silver tankards at the Red House, Anno Domini 1815. I mention this to show that I am a practical sportsman, and as to the theory of the Game Laws, I derive my information from the same source that you may all derive yours--from the bright refulgent pages of the _New Sporting Magazine_!"
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{
"id": "15387"
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4
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MR. JORROCKS AND THE SURREY STAGHOUNDS
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The Surrey foxhounds had closed their season--a most brilliant one--but ere Mr. Jorrocks consigned his boots and breeches to their summer slumber, he bethought of having a look at the Surrey staghounds, a pack now numbered among the things that were.
Of course he required a companion, were it only to have some one to criticise the hounds with, so the evening before the appointed day, as the Yorkshireman was sitting in his old corner at the far end of the Piazza Coffee-room in Covent Garden, having just finished his second marrowbone and glass of white brandy, George--the only waiter in the room with a name--came smirking up with a card in his hand, saying, that the gentleman was waiting outside to speak with him. It was a printed one, but the large round hand in which the address had been filled up, encroaching upon the letters, had made the name somewhat difficult to decipher. At length he puzzled out "Mr. John Jorrocks--Coram Street"; the name of the city house or shop in the corner (No. --, St. Botolph's Lane) being struck through with a pen. "Oh, ask him to walk in directly," said the Yorkshireman to George, who trotted off, and presently the flapping of the doors in the passage announced his approach, and honest Jorrocks came rolling up the room--not like a fox-hunter, or any other sort of hunter, but like an honest wholesale grocer, fresh from the city.
"My dear fellow, I'm so glad to see you, you can't think," said he, advancing with both hands out, and hugging the Yorkshireman after the manner of a Polar bear. "I have not time to stay one moment; I have to meet Mr. Wiggins at the corner of Bloomsbury Square at a quarter to six, and it wants now only seven minutes to," casting his eye up at the clock over the sideboard. --"I have just called to say that as you are fond of hunting, and all that sort of thing, if you have a mind for a day with the staghounds to-morrow, I will mount you same as before, and all that sort of thing--you understand, eh?" "Thank you, my good friend," said the Yorkshireman; "I have nothing to do to-morrow, and am your man for a stag-hunt." "That's right, my good fellow," said Jorrocks, "then I'll tell you what do--come and breakfast with me in Great Coram Street, at half-past seven to a minute. I've got one of the first 'ams (hams) you ever clapt eyes on in the whole course of your memorable existence. --Saw the hog alive myself--sixteen score within a pound; must come--know you like a fork breakfast--dejeune à la fauchette, as we say in France, eh? Like my Lord Mayor's fool I guess, love what's good; well, all right too--so come without any ceremony--us fox-hunters hates ceremony--where there's ceremony there's no friendship. --Stay--I had almost forgotten," added he, checking himself as he was on the point of departure. "When you come, ring the area bell, and then Mrs. J---- won't hear; know you don't like Mrs. J---- no more than myself."
At the appointed hour the Yorkshireman reached Great Coram Street, just as Old Jorrocks had opened the door to look down the street for him. He was dressed in a fine flowing, olive-green frock (made like a dressing-gown), with a black velvet collar, having a gold embroidered stag on each side, gilt stag-buttons, with rich embossed edges; an acre of buff waistcoat, and a most antediluvian pair of bright yellow-ochre buckskins, made by White, of Tarporley, in the twenty-first year of the reign of George the Third; they were double-lashed, back-stiched, front-stiched, middle-stiched, and patched at both knees, with a slit up behind. The coat he had won in a bet, and the breeches in a raffle, the latter being then second or third hand. His boots were airing before the fire, consequently he displayed an amplitude of calf in grey worsted stockings, while his feet were thrust into green slippers. "So glad to see you"! said he; "here's a charming morning, indeed--regular southerly wind and a cloudy sky--rare scenting it will be--think I could almost run a stag myself. Come in--never mind your hat, hang it anywhere, but don't make a noise. I stole away and left Mrs. J---- snoring, so won't do to wake her, you know. By the way, you should see my hat;--Batsey, fatch my hat out of the back parlour. I've set up a new green silk cord, with a gold frog to fasten it to my button-hole--werry illigant, I think, and werry suitable to the dress--quite my own idea--have a notion all the Surrey chaps will get them; for, between you and me, I set the fashions, and what is more, I sometimes set them at a leap too. But now tell me, have you any objection to breakfasting in the kitchen? --more retired, you know, besides which you get everything hot and hot, which is what I call doing a bit of plisure." "Not at all," said the Yorkshireman, "so lead the way"; and down they walked to the lower regions.
It was a nice comfortable-looking place, with a blazing fire, half the floor covered with an old oil-cloth, and the rest exhibiting the cheerless aspect of the naked flags. About a yard and a half from the fire was placed the breakfast table; in the centre stood a magnificent uncut ham, with a great quartern loaf on one side and a huge Bologna sausage on the other; besides these there were nine eggs, two pyramids of muffins, a great deal of toast, a dozen ship-biscuits, and half a pork-pie, while a dozen kidneys were spluttering on a spit before the fire, and Betsy held a gridiron covered with mutton-chops on the top; altogether there was as much as would have served ten people. "Now, sit down," said Jorrocks, "and let us be doing, for I am as hungry as a hunter. Hope you are peckish too; what shall I give you? tea or coffee? --but take both--coffee first and tea after a bit. If I can't give you them good, don't know who can. You must pay your devours, as we say in France, to the 'am, for it is an especial fine one, and do take a few eggs with it; there, I've not given you above a pound of 'am, but you can come again, you know--waste not want not. Now take some muffins, do, pray. Batsey, bring some more cream, and set the kidneys on the table, the Yorkshireman is getting nothing to eat. Have a chop with your kidney, werry luxterous--I could eat an elephant stuffed with grenadiers, and wash them down with a ocean of tea; but pray lay in to the breakfast, or I shall think you don't like it. There, now take some tea and toast or one of those biscuits, or whatever you like; would a little more 'am be agreeable? Batsey, run into the larder and see if your Missis left any of that cold chine of pork last night--and hear, bring the cold goose, and any cold flesh you can lay hands on, there are really no wittles on the table. I am quite ashamed to set you down to such a scanty fork breakfast; but this is what comes of not being master of your own house. Hope your hat may long cover your family: rely upon it, it is cheaper to buy your bacon than to keep a pig". Just as Jorrocks uttered these last words the side door opened, and without either "with your leave or by your leave", in bounced Mrs. Jorrocks in an elegant dishabille (or "dish-of-veal", as Jorrocks pronounced it), with her hair tucked up in papers, and a pair of worsted slippers on her feet, worked with roses and blue lilies.
"Pray, Mister J----," said she, taking no more notice of the Yorkshireman than if he had been enveloped in Jack the Giant-killer's coat of darkness, "what is the meaning of this card? I found it in your best coat pocket, which you had on last night, and I do desire, sir, that you will tell me how it came there. Good morning, sir (spying the Yorkshireman at last), perhaps you know where Mr. Jorrocks was last night, and perhaps you can tell me who this person is whose card I have found in the corner of Mr. Jorrocks's best coat pocket?" "Indeed, madam", replied the Yorkshireman, "Mr. Jorrocks's movements of yesterday evening are quite a secret to me. It is the night that he usually spends at the Magpie and Stump, but whether he was there or not I cannot pretend to say, not being a member of the free and easy club. As for the card, madam..." "There, then, take it and read it," interrupted Mrs. J----; and he took the card accordingly--a delicate pale pink, with blue borders and gilt edge--and read--we would fain put it all in dashes and asterisks--"Miss Juliana Granville, John Street, Waterloo Road."
This digression giving Mr. Jorrocks a moment or two to recollect himself, he pretended to get into a thundering passion, and seizing the card out of the Yorkshireman's hand, he thrust it into the fire, swearing it was an application for admission into the Deaf and Dumb Institution, where he wished he had Mrs. J----. The Yorkshireman, seeing the probability of a breeze, pretended to have forgotten something at the Piazza, and stole away, begging Jorrocks to pick him up as he passed. Peace had soon been restored; for the Yorkshireman had not taken above three or four turns up and down the coffee-room, ere George the waiter came to say that a gentleman waited outside. Putting on his hat and taking a coat over his arm, he turned out; when just before the door he saw a man muffled up in a great military cloak, and a glazed hat, endeavouring to back a nondescript double-bodied carriage (with lofty mail box-seats and red wheels), close to the pavement. "Who-ay, who-ay," said he, "who-ay, who-ay, horse!" at the same time jerking at his mouth. As the Yorkshireman made his exit, a pair eyes of gleamed through the small aperture between the high cloak collar and the flipe of the glazed hat, which he instantly recognised to belong to Jorrocks. "Why, what the deuce is this you are in?" said he, looking at the vehicle. "Jump up," said Jorrocks, "and I'll tell you all about it," which having done, and the machine being set in motion he proceeded to relate the manner in which he had exchanged his cruelty-van for it--by the way, as arrant a bone-setter as ever unfortunate got into, but which he, with the predilection all men have for their own, pronounced to be a "monstrous nice carriage." On their turning off the rough pavement on to the quiet smooth Macadamised road leading to Waterloo Bridge, his dissertation was interrupted by a loud horse-laugh raised by two or three toll-takers and boys lounging about the gate.
"I say, Tom, twig this 'ere machine," said one. "Dash my buttons, I never seed such a thing in all my life." "What's to pay?" inquired Jorrocks, pulling up with great dignity, their observations not having penetrated the cloak collar which encircled his ears. "To pay!" said the toll-taker--"vy, vot do ye call your consarn?" "Why, a phaeton," said Jorrocks. "My eyes! that's a good 'un," said another. "I say, Jim--he calls this 'ere thing a phe-a-ton!" "A phe-a-ton! --vy, it's more like a fire-engine," said Jim. "Don't be impertinent," said Jorrocks, who had pulled down his collar to hear what he had to pay--"but tell me what's to pay?" "Vy, it's a phe-a-ton drawn by von or more 'orses," said the toll-taker; "and containing von or more asses," said Tom. "Sixpence-halfpenny, sir," "You are a saucy fellow," said Jorrocks. "Thank ye, master, you're another," said the toll-taker; "and now that you have had your say, vot do ye ax for your mouth?" "I say, sir, do you belong to the Phenix? Vy don't you show your badge?" "I say, Tom, that 'ere fire-engine has been painted by some house-painter, it's never been in the hands of no coach-maker. Do you shave by that 'ere glazed castor of yours?" "I'm blowed it I wouldn't get you a shilling a week to shove your face in sand, to make moulds for brass knockers." "Ay, get away! --make haste, or the fire will be out," bawled out another, as Jorrocks whipped on, and rattled out of hearing.
"Now, you see," said he, resuming the thread of his discourse, as if nothing had happened, "this back seat turns down and makes a box, so that when Mrs. J---- goes to her mother's at Tooting, she can take all her things with her, instead of sending half of them by the coach as she used to do; and if we are heavy, there is a pole belonging to it, so that we can have two horses; and then there is a seat draws out here (pulling a stool from between his legs) which anybody can sit on." "Yes, anybody that is small enough," said the Yorkshireman, "but you would cut a queer figure on it, I reckon." The truth was, that the "fire-engine" was one of those useless affairs built by some fool upon a plan of his own, with the idea of combining every possible comfort and advantage, and in reality not possessing one. Friend Jorrocks had seen it at a second-hand shop in Fore Street, and became the happy owner of it, in exchange for the cruelty-van and seventeen pounds. --Their appearance on the road created no small sensation, and many were the jokes passed upon the "fire-engine." One said they were mountebanks; another that it was a horse-break; a third asked if it was one of Gurney's steam-carriages, while a fourth swore it was a new convict-cart going to Brixton. Jorrocks either did not or would not hear their remarks, and kept expatiating upon the different purposes to which the machine might be converted, and the stoutness of the horse that was drawing it.
As they approached the town of Croydon, he turned his cloak over his legs in a very workman-like manner, and was instantly hailed by some brother sportsmen;--one complimented him on his looks, another on his breeches, a third praised his horse, a fourth abused the fire-engine, and a fifth inquired where he got his glazed hat. He had an answer for them all, and a nod or a wink for every pretty maid that showed at the windows; for though past the grand climacteric, he still has a spice of the devil in him--and, as he says, "there is no harm in looking." The "Red Lion" at Smitham Bottom was the rendezvous of the day. It is a small inn on the Brighton road, some three or four miles below Croydon. On the left of the road stands the inn, on the right is a small training-ground, and the country about is open common and down. There was an immense muster about the inn, and also on the training-ground, consisting of horsemen, gig-men, post-chaise-men, footmen,--Jorrocks and the Yorkshireman made the firemen.
"Here's old Jorrocks, I do declare", exclaimed one, as Jorrocks drove the fire-engine up at as quick a pace as his horse would go. "Why, what a concern he's in", said another, "why, the old man's mad, surely". --"He's good for a subscription," added another, addressing him. "I say, Jorrocks, old boy, you'll give us ten pound for our hounds won't you? --that's a good fellow." "Oh yes, Jorrocks promised us a subscription last year," observed another, "and he is a man of his word--arn't you old leather breeches?" "No, gentlemen," said Jorrocks, standing up in the fire-engine, and sticking the whip into its nest, "I really cannot--I wish I could, but I really cannot afford it. Times really are so bad, and I have my own pack to subscribe to, and I must be 'just before I am generous.'" "Oh, but ten pounds is nothing in your way, you know, Jorrocks--adulterate a chest of tea. Old----here will give you all the leaves off his ash-trees." "No," said Jorrocks, "I really cannot--ten pounds is ten pounds, and I must cut my coat according to my cloth." "By Jove, but you must have had plenty of cloth when you cut that coat you've got on, old boy. Why there's as much cloth in the laps as would make a pair of horse-sheets." "Never mind," said Jorrocks, "I wear it, and not you." "Now," said Jorrocks in an undertone to the Yorkshireman, "you see what an unconscionable set of dogs these stag-'unters are. They're at every man for a subscription, and talk about guineas as if they grew upon gooseberry-bushes. Besides, they are such a rubbishing set--all drafts from the fox'ounds. --Now there's a chap on a piebald just by the trees--he goes into the _Gazette_ reglarly once in three years, and yet to see him out, you'd fancy all the country round belonged to him. And there's a buck with his bearing-rein so tight that he can hardly move his neck," pointing to a gentleman in scarlet, with a tremendous stiff blue cravat--"he lives by keeping a mad-house and being werry high, consequential sort of a cock, they calls him the 'Lord High Keeper!' --I'll tell ye a joke about that fellow," said he, pointing to a man alighting from a red-wheeled buggy--"he's a werry shabby screw, and is always trying to save a penny. --Well, he hires a young half-witted hawbuck for a servant, who didn't clean his boots to his liking, so he began reading the Riot Act one day, and concluded by saying, 'I'm blowed if I couldn't clean them better myself with a little pump-water.' --The next day, up came the boots duller than ever. --'Bless my soul,' exclaimed he, 'why, they are worse than before, how's this, sir?' --'Please, sir, you said you could clean them better with a little pump-water, so I tried it, and I do think they are worse!' Haw! haw! haw! --Yon chap in the black plush breeches and Hessians, standing by the ginger-pop tray, is the only man what ever got the better of me in the 'oss-dealing line, and he certainlie did bite me uncommon 'andsomely. I gave him three and twenty pounds, a strong violin case with patent hinges, lined with superfine green baize, and an uncut copy of Middleton's _Cicero_, for an 'oss that the blacksmith really declared wasn't worth shoeing. --Howsomever, I paid him off, for I christened the 'oss Barabbas--who, you knows, was a robber--and the seller has gone by the name of Barabbas ever since."
"Well, but tell me, gentlemen, where do we dine?" inquired Jorrocks, turning to a group who had just approached the fire-engine. "We don't know yet," said a gentleman in scarlet, "the deer has not come yet; but yonder he is," pointing up the road to a covered cart, "and there are the hounds just coming over the hill at the back." The covered cart approached, and several went to meet it. The cry of "Oh, it's old Tunbridge," was soon heard. "Well, we shall have a good dinner," said Jorrocks, "if that is the case. Is it Tunbridge?" inquired he eagerly of one of the party who returned from the deer-cart. "Yes, it's old Tunbridge, and Snooks has ordered dinner at the Wells for sixteen at five o'clock, so the first sixteen that get there had better look out." "Here, bouy," said Jorrocks in an undertone to his servant, who was leading his screws about on the green, "take this 'oss out of the carriage, and give him a feed of corn, and then go on to Tunbridge Wells, and tell Mr. Pegg, at the Sussex Arms, that I shall be there with a friend to the dinner, and bid him write 'Jorrocks' upon two plates and place them together. --Nothing like making sure," said he, chuckling at his own acuteness.
"Now to 'orse--to 'orse!" exclaimed he, suiting the action to the word, and climbing on to his great chestnut, leaving the Yorkshireman to mount the rat-tail brown. "Let's have a look at the 'ounds", turning his horse in the direction in which they were coming. Jonathan Griffin[16] took off his cap to Jorrocks, as he approached, who waved his hand in the most patronising manner possible, adding "How are you, Jonathan?" "Pretty well, thank you, Mister Jorrocks, hope you're the same." "No, not the same, for I'm werry well, which makes all the difference--haw! haw! haw! You seem to have but a shortish pack, I think--ten, twelve, fourteen couple--'ow's that? We always take nine and twenty with the Surrey". "Why, you see, Mister Jorrocks, stag-hunting and fox-hunting are very different. The scent of the deer is very ravishing, and then we have no drawing for our game. Besides, at this season, there are always bitches to put back--but we have plenty of hounds for sport. --I suppose we may be after turning out," added Jonathan, looking at his watch--"it's past eleven."
[Footnote 16: Poor Jonathan, one of the hardest riders and drinkers of his day, exists, like his pack, but in the recollection of mankind. He was long huntsman to the late Lord Derby, who, when he gave up his staghounds, made Jonathan a present of them, and for two or three seasons he scratched on in an indifferent sort of way, until the hounds were sold to go abroad--to Hungary, we believe.]
On hearing this, a gentleman off with his glove and began collecting, or capping, prior to turning out--it being the rule of the hunt to make sure of the money before starting, for fear of accidents. "Half a crown, if you please, sir." "Now I'll take your half a crown." "Mr. Jorrocks, shall I trouble you for half a crown?" "Oh, surely," said Jorrocks, pulling out a handful of great five-shilling pieces; "here's for this gentleman and myself," handing one of them over, "and I shan't even ask you for discount for ready money." The capping went round, and a goodly sum was collected. Meanwhile the deer-cart was drawn to the far side of a thick fence, and the door being opened, a lubberly-looking animal, as big as a donkey, blobbed out, and began feeding very composedly. "That won't do," said Jonathan Griffin, eyeing him--"ride on, Tom, and whip him away." Off went the whip, followed by a score of sportsmen whose shouts, aided by the cracking of their whips, would have frightened the devil himself; and these worthies, knowing the hounds would catch them up in due time, resolved themselves into a hunt for the present, and pursued the animal themselves. Ten minutes having expired and the hounds seeming likely to break away, Jonathan thought it advisable to let them have their wicked will, and accordingly they rushed off in full cry to the spot where the deer had been uncarted. Of course, there was no trouble in casting for the scent; indeed they were very honest, and did not pretend to any mystery; the hounds knew within an inch where it would be, and the start was pretty much like that for a hunter's plate in four-mile heats. A few dashing blades rode before the hounds at starting, but otherwise the field was tolerably quiet, and was considerably diminished after the three first leaps. The scent improved, as did the pace, and presently they got into a lane along which they rattled for five miles as hard as ever they could lay legs to the ground, throwing the mud into each other's faces, until each man looked as if he was roughcast. A Kentish wagon, drawn by six oxen, taking up the whole of the lane, had obliged the dear animal to take to the fields again, where, at the first fence, most of our high-mettled racers stood still. In truth, it was rather a nasty place, a yawning ditch, with a mud bank and a rotten landing. "Now, who's for it? Go it, Jorrocks, you're a fox-hunter," said one, who, erecting himself in his stirrups, was ogling the opposite side. "I don't like it," said Jorrocks; "is never a gate near?" "Oh yes, at the bottom of the field," and away they all tore for it. The hounds now had got out of sight, but were heard running in cover at the bottom of the turnip-field into which they had just passed, and also the clattering of horses' hoofs on the highway. The hounds came out several times on to the road, evidently carrying the scent, but as often threw up and returned into the cover. The huntsman was puzzled at last; and quite convinced that the deer was not in the wood, he called them out, and proceeded to make a cast, followed by the majority of the field. They trotted about at a brisk pace, first to the right, then to the left, afterwards to the north, and then to the south, over grass, fallow, turnips, potatoes, and flints, through three farmyards, round two horse-ponds, and at the back of a small village or hamlet, without a note, save those of a few babblers. Everyone seemed to consider it a desperate job. They were all puzzled; at last they heard a terrible holloaing about a quarter of a mile to the south, and immediately after was espied a group of horsemen, galloping along the road at full speed, in the centre of which was Jorrocks; his green coat wide open, with the tails flying a long way behind that of his horse, his right leg was thrust out, down the side of which he kept applying his ponderous hunting whip, making a most terrible clatter. As they approached, he singled himself out from the group, and was the first to reach the field. He immediately burst out into one of his usual hunting energetic strains. "Oh Jonathan Griffin! Jonathan Griffin!" said he, "here's a lamentable occurrence--a terrible disaster! Oh dear, oh dear--we shall never get to Tunbridge--that unfortunate deer has escaped us, and we shall never see nothing more of him--rely upon it, he's killed before this." "Why, how's that?" inquired Griffin, evidently in a terrible perturbation. "Why," said Jorrocks, slapping the whip down his leg again, "there's a little girl tells me, that as she was getting water at the well just at the end of the wood, where we lost him, she saw what she took to be a donkey jump into a return post-chaise from the 'Bell', at Seven Oaks, that was passing along the road with the door swinging wide open! and you may rely upon it, it was the deer. The landlord of the 'Bell' will have cut his throat before this, for, you know, he vowed wengeance against us last year, because his wife's pony-chaise was upset, and he swore that we did it." "Oh, but that's a bad job", said the huntsman; "what shall we do?" "Here, Tom," calling to the whipper-in, "jump on to the Hastings coach" (which just came up), "and try if you can't overtake him, and bring him back, chaise and all, and I'll follow slowly with the hounds." Tom was soon up, the coach bowled on, and Jonathan and the hounds trotted gently forward till they came to a public-house. Here, as they stopped lamenting over their unhappy fate, and consoling themselves with some cold sherry negus, the post-chaise appeared in sight, with the deer's head sticking out of the side window with all the dignity of a Lord Mayor. "Huzza! huzza! huzza!" exclaimed Jorrocks, taking off his hat, "here's old Tunbridge come back again, huzza! huzza!" "But who's to pay me for the po-chay," said the driver, pulling up; "I must be paid before I let him out." "How much?" says Jonathan. "Why, eighteen-pence a mile, to be sure, and three-pence a mile to the driver." "No," says Jorrocks, "that won't do, yours is a return chay; however, here's five shillings for you, and now, Jonathan, turn him out again--he's quite fresh after his ride--and see, he's got some straw in the bottom."
Old Tunbridge was again turned out, with his head towards the town from whence he took his name, and after a quarter of an hour's law, the pack was again laid on. He was not, however, in very good wind, and it was necessary to divide the second chase into two heats, for which purpose the hounds were whipped off about the middle, while the deer took a cold bath, after which he was again set a-going. By half-past three they had accomplished the run; and Mr. Pegg, of the "Sussex Arms," having mounted his Pegasus, found them at the appointed place by the Medway, where old Tunbridge's carriage was waiting, into which having handed him, they repaired to the inn, and at five o'clock eighteen of them sat down to a dinner consisting of every delicacy of the season, the Lord High Keeper in the chair. Being all "hungry as hunters," little conversation passed until after the removal of the cloth, when after the King and his Majesty's Ministers had been drunk, the President gave "The noble, manly sport of stag-hunting," which he eulogised as the most legitimate and exhilarating of all sports, and sketched its progress from its wild state of infancy when the unhappy sportsmen had to range the fields and forests for their uncertain game, to the present state of luxurious ease and elaborate refinement, when they not only brought their deer to the meet, but by selecting the proper animal, could insure a finish at the place they most wished to dine at--all of which was most enthusiastically applauded; and on the speaker's ending, "Stag-hunting," and the "Surrey staghounds," and "Long life to all stag-hunters," were drank in brimming and overflowing bumpers. Fox-hunting, hare-hunting, rabbit-hunting, cat-hunting, rat-catching, badger-baiting--all wild, seasonable, and legitimate sports followed; and the chairman having run through his list, and thinking Jorrocks was getting rather mellow, resolved to try the soothing system on him for a subscription, the badgering of the morning not having answered. Accordingly, he called on the company to charge their glasses, as he would give them a bumper toast, which he knew they would have great pleasure in drinking. --"He wished to propose the health of his excellent friend on his right--MR. JORROCKS (applause), a gentleman whose name only required mentioning in any society of hunters to insure it a hearty and enthusiastic reception. He did not flatter his excellent friend when he said he was a man for the imitation of all, and he was sure that when the present company recollected the liberal support he gave to the Surrey foxhounds, together with the keenness with which he followed that branch of amusement, they would duly appreciate, not only the honour he had conferred upon them by his presence in the field that morning, and at the table that day, but the disinterested generosity which had prompted him voluntarily to declare his intention of contributing to the future support of the Surrey staghounds (immense cheers). He therefore thought the least they could do was to drink the health of Mr. Jorrocks, and success to the Surrey foxhounds, with three times three," which was immediately responded to with deafening cheers.
Old Jorrocks, after the noise had subsided, got on his legs, and with one hand rattling the five-shilling pieces in his breeches-pocket, and the thumb of the other thrust into the arm-hole of his waistcoat, thus began to address them. --"Gentlemen," said he, "I'm no orator, but I'm an honest man--(hiccup)--I feels werry (hiccup) much obliged to my excellent friend the Lord High Keeper (shouts of laughter), I begs his pardon--my friend Mr. Juggins--for the werry flattering compliment he has paid me in coupling my name (hiccup) with the Surrey fox'ounds--a pack, I may say, without wanity (hiccup), second to none. I'm a werry old member of the 'unt, and when I was a werry poor man (hiccup) I always did my best to support them (hiccup), and now that I'm a werry rich man (cheers) I shan't do no otherwise. About subscribing to the staggers, I doesn't recollect saying nothing whatsomever about it (hiccup), but as I'm werry friendly to sporting in all its ramifications (hiccup), I'll be werry happy to give ten pounds to your 'ounds." --Immense cheers followed this declaration, which lasted for some seconds. When they had subsided, Jorrocks put his finger on his nose and, with a knowing wink of his eye, added: "Prowided my friend the Lord High Keep--I begs his pardon--Juggins--will give ten pounds to ours!"
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{
"id": "15387"
}
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5
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THE TURF: MR. JORROCKS AT NEWMARKET
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"A muffin--and the _Post_, sir," said George to the Yorkshireman,--on one of the fine fresh mornings that gently usher in the returning spring, and draw from the town-pent cits sighs for the verdure of the fields,--as he placed the above mentioned articles on his usual breakfast table in the coffee-room of the "Piazza."
With the calm deliberation of a man whose whole day is unoccupied, the Yorkshireman sweetened his tea, drew the muffin and a select dish of prawns to his elbow, and turning sideways to the table, crossed his legs and prepared to con the contents of the paper. The first page as usual was full of advertisements. --Sales by auction--Favour of your vote and interest--If the next of kin--Reform your tailor's bills--Law--- Articled clerk--An absolute reversion--Pony phaeton--Artificial teeth--Messrs. Tattersall--Brace of pointers--Dog lost--Boy found--Great sacrifice--No advance in coffee--Matrimony--A single gentleman--Board and lodging in an airy situation--To omnibus proprietors--Steam to Leith and Hull--Stationery--Desirable investment for a small capital--The fire reviver or lighter.
Then turning it over, his eye ranged over a whole meadow of type, consisting of the previous night's debate, followed on by City news, Police reports, Fashionable arrivals and departures, Dinners given, Sporting intelligence, Newmarket Craven meeting. "That's more in my way," said the Yorkshireman to himself as he laid down the paper and took a sip of his tea. "I've a great mind to go, for I may just as well be at Newmarket as here, having nothing particular to do in either place. I came to stay a hundred pounds in London it's true, but if I stay ten of it at Newmarket, it'll be all the same, and I can go home from there just as well as from here"; so saying, he took another turn at the tea. The race list was a tempting one, Riddlesworth, Craven Stakes, Column Stakes, Oatlands, Port, Claret, Sherry, Madeira, and all other sorts. A good week's racing in fact, for the saintly sinners who frequent the Heath had not then discovered any greater impropriety in travelling on a Sunday, then in cheating each other on the Monday. The tea was good, as were the prawns and eggs, and George brought a second muffin, at the very moment that the Yorkshireman had finished the last piece of the first, so that by the time he had done his breakfast and drawn on his boots, which were dryer and pleasanter than the recent damp weather had allowed of their being, he felt completely at peace with himself and all the world, and putting on his hat, sallied forth with the self-satisfied air of a man who had eat a good breakfast, and yet not too much.
Newmarket was still uppermost in his mind, and as he sauntered along in the direction of the Strand, it occurred to him that perhaps Mr. Jorrocks might have no objection to accompany him. On entering that great thoroughfare of humanity, he turned to the east, and having examined the contents of all the caricature shops in the line, and paid threepence for a look at the _York Herald_, in the Chapter Coffee-house, St. Paul's Churchyard, about noon he reached the corner of St. Botolph Lane. Before Jorrocks & Co.'s warehouse, great bustle and symptoms of brisk trade were visible. With true city pride, the name on the door-post was in small dirty-white letters, sufficiently obscure to render it apparent that Mr. Jorrocks considered his house required no sign; while, as a sort of contradiction, the covered errand-cart before it, bore "JORROCKS & Co.'s WHOLESALE TEA WAREHOUSE," in great gilt letters on each side of the cover, so large that "he who runs might read," even though the errand-cart were running too. Into this cart, which was drawn by the celebrated rat-tail hunter, they were pitching divers packages for town delivery, and a couple of light porters nearly upset the Yorkshireman, as they bustled out with their loads. The warehouse itself gave evident proof of great antiquity. It was not one of your fine, light, lofty, mahogany-countered, banker-like establishments of modern times, where the stock-in-trade often consists of books and empty canisters, but a large, roomy, gloomy, dirty, dingy sort of cellar above ground, full of hogsheads, casks, flasks, sugar-loaves, jars, bags, bottles, and boxes.
The floor was half an inch thick, at least, with dirt, and was sprinkled with rice, currants, and raisins, as though they had been scattered for the purpose of growing. A small corner seemed to have been cut off, like the fold of a Leicestershire grazing-ground, and made into an office in the centre of which was a square or two of glass that commanded a view of the whole warehouse. "Is Mr. Jorrocks in?" inquired the Yorkshireman of a porter, who was busy digging currants with a wooden spade. "Yes, sir, you'll find him in the counting-house," was the answer; but on looking in, though his hat and gloves were there, no Jorrocks was visible. At the farther end of the warehouse a man in his shirt-sleeves, with a white apron round his waist and a brown paper cap on his head, was seen under a very melancholy-looking skylight, holding his head over something, as if his nose were bleeding. The Yorkshireman groped his way up to him, and asking if Mr. Jorrocks was in, found he was addressing the grocer himself. He had been leaning over a large trayful of little white cups--with teapots to match--trying the strength, flavour, and virtue of a large purchase of tea, and the beverage was all smoking before him. "My vig," exclaimed he, holding out his hand, "who'd have thought of seeing you in the city, this is something unkimmon! However, you're werry welcome in St. Botolph Lane, and as this is your first wisit, why, I'll make you a present of some tea--wot do you drink? --black or green, or perhaps both--four pounds of one and two of t'other. Here, Joe!" summoning his foreman, "put up four pounds of that last lot of black that came in, and two pounds of superior green, and this gentleman will tell you where to leave it. --And when do you think of starting?" again addressing the Yorkshireman--"egad this is fine weather for the country--have half a mind to have a jaunt myself--makes one quite young--feel as if I'd laid full fifty years aside, and were again a boy--when did you say you start?" "Why, I don't know exactly," replied the Yorkshireman, "the weather's so fine that I'm half tempted to go round by Newmarket." "Newmarket!" exclaimed Jorrocks, throwing his arm in the air, while his paper cap fell from his head with the jerk--"by Newmarket! why, what in the name of all that's impure, have you to do at Newmarket?"
"Why, nothing in particular; only, when there's neither hunting nor shooting going on, what is a man to do with himself? --I'm sure you'd despise me if I were to go fishing." "True," observed Mr. Jorrocks somewhat subdued, and jingling the silver in his breeches-pocket. "Fox-'unting is indeed the prince of sports. The image of war, without its guilt, and only half its danger. I confess that I'm a martyr to it--a perfect wictim--no one knows wot I suffer from my ardour. --If ever I'm wisited with the last infirmity of noble minds, it will be caused by my ingovernable passion for the chase. The sight of a saddle makes me sweat. An 'ound makes me perfectly wild. A red coat throws me into a scarlet fever. Never throughout life have I had a good night's rest before an 'unting morning. But werry little racing does for me; Sadler's Wells is well enough of a fine summer evening--especially when they plump the clown over head in the New River cut, and the ponies don't misbehave in the Circus,--but oh! Newmarket's a dreadful place, the werry name's a sickener. I used to hear a vast about it from poor Will Softly of Friday Street. It was the ruin of him--and wot a fine business his father left him, both wholesale and retail, in the tripe and cow-heel line--all went in two years, and he had nothing to show at the end of that time for upwards of twenty thousand golden sovereigns, but a hundredweight of children's lamb's-wool socks, and warrants for thirteen hogsheads of damaged sherry in the docks. No, take my adwice, and have nothing to say to them--stay where you are, or, if you're short of swag, come to Great Coram Street, where you shall have a bed, wear-and-tear for your teeth, and all that sort of thing found you, and, if Saturday's a fine day, I'll treat you with a jaunt to Margate."
"You are a regular old trump," said the Yorkshireman, after listening attentively until Mr. Jorrocks had exhausted himself, "but, you see, you've never been at Newmarket, and the people have been hoaxing you about it. I can assure you from personal experience that the people there are quite as honest as those you meet every day on 'Change, besides which, there is nothing more invigorating to the human frame--nothing more cheering to the spirits, than the sight and air of Newmarket Heath on a fine fresh spring morning like the present. The wind seems to go by you at a racing pace, and the blood canters up and down the veins with the finest and freest action imaginable. A stranger to the race-course would feel, and almost instinctively know, what turf he was treading, and the purpose for which that turf was intended".
"There's a magic in the web of it."
"Oh, I knows you are a most persuasive cock," observed Mr. Jorrocks interrupting the Yorkshireman, "and would conwince the devil himself that black is white, but you'll never make me believe the Newmarket folks are honest, and as to the fine hair (air) you talk of, there's quite as good to get on Hampstead Heath, and if it doesn't make the blood canter up and down your weins, you can always amuse yourself by watching the donkeys cantering up and down with the sweet little children--haw! haw! haw! --But tell me what is there at Newmarket that should take a man there?" "What is there?" rejoined the Yorkshireman, "why, there's everything that makes life desirable and constitutes happiness, in this world, except hunting. First there is the beautiful, neat, clean town, with groups of booted professors, ready for the rapidest march of intellect; then there are the strings of clothed horses--the finest in the world--passing indolently at intervals to their exercise,--the flower of the English aristocracy residing in the place. You leave the town and stroll to the wide open heath, where all is brightness and space; the white rails stand forth against the dear blue sky--the brushing gallop ever and anon startles the ear and eye; crowds of stable urchins, full of silent importance, stud the heath; you feel elated and long to bound over the well groomed turf and to try the speed of the careering wind. All things at Newmarket train the mind to racing. Life seems on the start, and dull indeed were he who could rein in his feelings when such inspiring objects meet together to madden them!"
"Bravo!" exclaimed Jorrocks, throwing his paper cap in the air as the Yorkshireman concluded. --"Bravo! --werry good indeed! You speak like ten Lord Mayors--never heard nothing better. Dash my vig, if I won't go. By Jove, you've done it. Tell me one thing--is there a good place to feed at?"
"Capital!" replied the Yorkshireman, "beef, mutton, cheese, ham, all the delicacies of the season, as the sailor said"; and thereupon the Yorkshireman and Jorrocks shook hands upon the bargain.
Sunday night arrived, and with it arrived, at the "Belle Sauvage," in Ludgate Hill, Mr. Jorrocks's boy "Binjimin," with Mr. Jorrocks's carpet-bag; and shortly after Mr. Jorrocks, on his chestnut hunter, and the Yorkshireman, in a hack cab, entered the yard. Having consigned his horse to Binjimin; after giving him a very instructive lesson relative to the manner in which he would chastise him if he heard of his trotting or playing any tricks with the horse on his way home, Mr. Jorrocks proceeded to pay the remainder of his fare in the coach office. The mail was full inside and out, indeed the book-keeper assured him he could have filled a dozen more, so anxious ware all London to see the Riddlesworth run. "Inside," said he, "are you and your friend, and if it wern't that the night air might give you cold, Mr. Jorrocks" (for all the book-keepers in London know him), "I should have liked to have got you outsides, and I tried to make an exchange with two black-legs, but they would hear of nothing less than two guineas a head, which wouldn't do, you know. Here comes another of your passengers--a great foreign nobleman, they say--Baron something--though he looks as much like a foreign pickpocket as anything else."
"Vich be de voiture?" inquired a tall, gaunt-looking foreigner, with immense moustache, a high conical hat with a bright buckle, long, loose, blueish-blackish frock-coat, very short white waistcoat, baggy brownish striped trousers, and long-footed Wellington boots, with a sort of Chinese turn up at the toe. "Vich be de Newmarket Voiture?" said he, repeating the query, as he entered the office and deposited a silk umbrella, a camlet cloak, and a Swiss knapsack on the counter. The porter, without any attempt at an answer, took his goods and walked off to the mail, followed closely by the Baron, and after depositing the cloak inside, so that the Baron might ride with his "face to the horses," as the saying is, he turned the knapsack into the hind boot, and swung himself into the office till it was time to ask for something for his exertions. Meanwhile the Baron made a tour of the yard, taking a lesson in English from the lettering on the various coaches, when, on the hind boot of one, he deciphered the word Cheapside. --"Ah, Cheapside!" said he, pulling out his dictionary and turning to the letter C. "Chaste, chat, chaw,--cheap, dat be it. Cheap,--to be had at a low price--small value. Ah! I hev (have) it," said he, stamping and knitting his brows, "sacré-e-e-e-e nom de Dieu," and the first word being drawn out to its usual longitude, three strides brought him and the conclusion of the oath into the office together. He then opened out upon the book-keeper, in a tremendous volley of French, English and Hanoverian oaths, for he was a cross between the first and last named countries, the purport of which was "dat he had paid de best price, and he be dem if he vod ride on de Cheapside of de coach." In vain the clerks and book-keepers tried to convince him he was wrong in his interpretation. With the full conviction of a foreigner that he was about to be cheated, he had his cloak shifted to the opposite side of the coach, and the knapsack placed on the roof. The fourth inside having cast up, the outside passengers mounted, the insides took their places, three-pences and sixpences were pulled out for the porters, the guard twanged his horn, the coachman turned out his elbow, flourished his whip, caught the point, cried "All right! sit tight!" and trotted out of the yard.
Jorrocks and the Yorkshireman sat opposite each other, the Baron and old Sam Spring, the betting man, did likewise. Who doesn't know old Sam, with his curious tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, his old drab hat turned up with green, careless neckcloth, flowing robe, and comical cut? He knew Jorrocks--though--tell it not in Coram Street, he didn't know his name; but concluded from the disparity of age between him and his companion, that Jorrocks was either a shark or a shark's jackal, and the Yorkshireman a victim. With due professional delicacy, he contented himself with scrutinising the latter through his specs. The Baron's choler having subsided, he was the first to break the ice of silence. "Foine noight," was the observation, which was thrown out promiscuously to see who would take it up. Now Sam Spring, though he came late, had learned from the porter that there was a Baron in the coach, and being a great admirer of the nobility, for whose use he has a code of signals of his own, consisting of one finger to his hat for a Baron Lord as he calls them, two for a Viscount, three for an Earl, four for a Marquis, and the whole hand for a Duke, he immediately responded with "Yes, my lord," with a fore-finger to his hat. There is something sweet in the word "Lord" which finds its way home to the heart of an Englishman. No sooner did Sam pronounce it, than the Baron became transformed in Jorrocks's eyes into a very superior sort of person, and forthwith he commences ingratiating himself by offering him a share of a large paper of sandwiches, which the Baron accepted with the greatest condescension, eating what he could and stuffing the remainder into his hat. His lordship was a better hand at eating than speaking, and the united efforts of the party could not extract from him the precise purport of his journey. Sam threw out two or three feasible offers in the way of bets, but they fell still-born to the bottom of the coach, and Jorrocks talked to him about hunting and had the conversation all to himself, the Baron merely replying with a bow and a stare, sometimes diversified with, or "I tank you--vare good." The conversation by degrees resolved itself into a snore, in which they were all indulging, when the raw morning air rushed in among them, as a porter with a lanthorn opened the door and announced their arrival at Newmarket. Forthwith they turned into the street, and the outside passengers having descended, they all commenced straddling, yawning, and stretching their limbs while the guard and porters sorted their luggage. The Yorkshireman having an eye to a bed, speedily had Mr. Jorrocks's luggage and his own on the back of a porter on its way to the "Rutland Arms," while that worthy citizen followed in a sort of sleepy astonishment at the smallness of the place, inquiring if they were sure they had not stopped at some village by mistake. Two beds had been ordered for two gentlemen who could not get two seats by the mail, which fell to the lot of those who did, and into these our heroes trundled, having arranged to be called by the early exercising hour.
Whether it was from want of his usual night-cap of brandy and water, or the fatigues of travelling, or what else, remains unknown, but no sooner was Mr. Jorrocks left alone with his candle, than all at once he was seized with a sudden fit of trepidation, on thinking that he should have been inveigled to such a place as Newmarket, and the tremor increasing as he pulled four five-pound bank-notes out of his watch-pocket, besides a vast of silver and his great gold watch, he was resolved, should an attempt be made upon his property, to defend it with his life, and having squeezed the notes into the toe of his boots, and hid the silver in the wash-hand stand, he very deliberately put his watch and the poker under the pillow, and set the heavy chest of drawers with two stout chairs and a table against the door, after all which exertions he got into bed and very soon fell sound asleep.
Most of the inmates of the house were up with the lark to the early exercises, and the Yorkshireman was as early as any of them. Having found Mr. Jorrocks's door, he commenced a loud battery against it without awaking the grocer; he then tried to open it, but only succeeded in getting it an inch or two from the post, and after several holloas of "Jorrocks, my man! Mr. Jorrocks! Jorrocks, old boy! holloa, Jorrocks!" he succeeded in extracting the word "Wot?" from the worthy gentleman as he rolled over in his bed. "Jorrocks!" repeated the Yorkshireman, "it's time to be up." "Wot?" again was the answer. "Time to get up. The morning's breaking." "Let it break," replied he, adding in a mutter, as he turned over again, "it owes me nothing."
Entreaties being useless, and a large party being on the point of setting off, the Yorkshireman joined them, and spent a couple of hours on the dew-bespangled heath, during which time they not only criticised the figure and action of every horse that was out, but got up tremendous appetites for breakfast. In the meantime Mr. Jorrocks had risen, and having attired himself with his usual care, in a smart blue coat with metal buttons, buff waistcoat, blue stocking-netted tights, and Hessian boots, he turned into the main street of Newmarket, where he was lost in astonishment at the insignificance of the place. But wiser men than Mr. Jorrocks have been similarly disappointed, for it enters into the philosophy of few to conceive the fame and grandeur of Newmarket compressed into the limits of the petty, outlandish, Icelandish place that bears the name. "Dash my vig," said Mr. Jorrocks, as he brought himself to bear upon Rogers's shop-window, "this is the werry meanest town I ever did see. Pray, sir," addressing himself to a groomish-looking man in a brown cut-away coat, drab shorts and continuations, who had just emerged from the shop with a race list in his hand, "Pray, sir, be this your principal street?" The man eyed him with a mixed look of incredulity and contempt. At length, putting his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, he replied, "I bet a crown you know as well as I do." "Done," said Mr. Jorrocks holding out his hand. "No--I won't do that," replied the man, "but I'll tell you what I'll do with you,--I'll lay you two to one, in fives or fifties if you like, that you knew before you axed, and that Thunderbolt don't win the Riddlesworth." "Really," said Mr. Jorrocks, "I'm not a betting man." "Then, wot the 'ell business have you at Newmarket?" was all the answer he got. Disgusted with such inhospitable impertinence, Mr. Jorrocks turned on his heel and walked away. Before the "White Hart" Inn was a smartish pony phaeton, in charge of a stunted stable lad. "I say, young chap," inquired Jorrocks, "whose is that?" "How did you know that I was a young chap?" inquired the abortion turning round. "Guessed it," replied Jorrocks, chuckling at his own wit. "Then guess whose it is."
"Pray, are your clocks here by London time?" he asked of a respectable elderly-looking man whom he saw turn out of the entry leading to the Kingston rooms, and take the usual survey first up the town and then down it, and afterwards compose his hands in his breeches-pockets, there to stand to see the "world." [17] "Come now, old 'un--none o' your tricks here--you've got a match on against time, I suppose," was all the answer he could get after the man (old R--n the ex-flagellator) had surveyed him from head to foot.
[Footnote 17: Newmarket or London--it's all the same--"The world" is but composed of one's own acquaintance.]
We need hardly say after all these rebuffs that when Mr. Jorrocks met the Yorkshireman, he was not in the best possible humour; indeed, to say nothing of the extreme sharpness and suspicion of the people, we know of no place where a man, not fond of racing, is so completely out of his element as at Newmarket, for with the exception of a little "elbow shaking" in the evening, there is literally and truly nothing else to do. It is "Heath," "Ditch in," "Abingdon mile," "T.Y.C. Stakes," "Sweepstakes," "Handicaps," "Bet," "Lay," "Take," "Odds," "Evens," morning, noon and night.
Mr. Jorrocks made bitter complaints during the breakfast, and some invidious comparisons between racing men and fox-hunters, which, however, became softer towards the close, as he got deeper in the delicacy of a fine Cambridge brawn. Nature being at length appeased, he again thought of turning out, to have a look, as he said, at the shows on the course, but the appearance of his friend the Baron opposite the window, put it out of his head, and he sallied forth to join him. The Baron was evidently incog.: for he had on the same short dirty-white waistcoat, Chinese boots, and conical hat, that he travelled down in, and being a stranger in the land, of course he was uncommonly glad to pick up Jorrocks, so after he had hugged him a little, called him a "bon garçon," and a few other endearing terms, he run his great long arm through his, and walked him down street, the whole peregrinations of Newmarket being comprised in the words "up street" and "down." He then communicated in most unrepresentable language, that he was on his way to buy "an 'oss," and Jorrocks informing him that he was a perfect connoisseur in the article, the Baron again assured him of his distinguished consideration. They were met by Joe Rogers the trainer with a ring-key in his hand, who led the way to the stable, and having unlocked a box in which was a fine slapping four-year old, according to etiquette he put his hat in a corner, took a switch in one hand, laid hold of the horse's head with the other, while the lad in attendance stripped off its clothes. The Baron then turned up his wrists, and making a curious noise in his throat, proceeded to pass his hand down each leg, and along its back, after which he gave it a thump in the belly and squeezed its throat, when, being as wise as he was at starting, he stuck his thumb in his side, and took a mental survey of the whole. --"Ah," said he at length--"foin 'oss,--foin 'oss; vot ears he has?" "Oh," said Rogers, "they show breeding." "Non, non, I say vot ears he has?" "Well, but he carries them well," was the answer. "Non, non," stamping, "I say vot ears (years) he has?" "Oh, hang it, I twig--four years old." Then the Baron took another long look at him. At length he resumed, "I vill my wet." "What's that?" inquired Rogers of Jorrocks. "His wet--why, a drink to be sure," and thereupon Rogers went to the pump and brought a glass of pure water, which the Baron refused with becoming indignation. "Non, non," said he stamping, "I vill my wet." Rogers looked at Jorrocks, and Jorrocks looked at Rogers, but neither Rogers nor Jorrocks understood him. "I vill my wet," repeated the Baron with vehemence. "He must want some brandy in it," observed Mr. Jorrocks, judging of the Baron by himself, and thereupon the lad was sent for three-penn'orth. When it arrived, the Baron dashed it out of his hand with a prolonged sacré-e-e-e--! adding "I vill von wet-tin-nin-na-ary surgeon." The boy was dispatched for one, and on his arrival the veterinary surgeon went through the process that the Baron had attempted, and not being a man of many words, he just gave the Baron a nod at the end. "How moch?" inquked the Baron of Rogers. "Five hundred," was the answer. "Vot, five hundred livre?" "Oh d----n it, you may take or leave him, just as you like, but you won't get him for less." The "vet" explained that the Baron wished to know whether it was five hundred francs (French ten-pences), or five hundred guineas English money, and being informed that it was the latter, he gave his conical hat a thrust on his brow, and bolted out of the box.
But race hour approaches, and people begin to assemble in groups before the "rooms," while tax-carts, pony-gigs, post-chaises, the usual aristocratical accompaniments of Newmarket, come dribbling at intervals into the town. Here is old Sam Spring in a spring-cart, driven by a ploughboy in fustian, there the Earl of---- on a ten-pound pony, with the girths elegantly parted to prevent the saddle slipping over its head, while Miss----, his jockey's daughter, dashes by him in a phaeton with a powdered footman, and the postilion in scarlet and leathers, with a badge on his arm. Old Crockey puts on his greatcoat, Jem Bland draws the yellow phaeton and greys to the gateway of the "White Hart," to take up his friend Crutch Robinson; Zac, Jack and another, have just driven on in a fly. In short, it's a brilliant meeting! Besides four coronetted carriages with post-horses, there are three phaetons-and-pair; a thing that would have been a phaeton if they'd have let it; General Grosvenor's dog-carriage, that is to say, his carriage with a dog upon it; Lady Chesterfield and the Hon. Mrs. Anson in a pony phaeton with an out-rider (Miss---- will have one next meeting instead of the powdered footman); Tattersall in his double carriage driving without bearing-reins; Old Theobald in leather breeches and a buggy; five Bury butchers in a tax-cart; Young Dutch Sam on a pony; "Short-odds Richards" on a long-backed crocodile-looking rosinante; and no end of pedestrians.
But where is Mr. Jorrocks all this time? Why eating brawn in the "Rutland Arms" with his friend the Baron, perfectly unconscious that all these passers-by were not the daily visables of the place. "Dash my vig," said he, as he bolted another half of the round, "I see no symptoms of a stir. Come, my lord, do me the honour to take another glass of sherry." His lordship was nothing loath, so by mutual entreaties they finished the bottle, besides a considerable quantity of porter. A fine, fat, chestnut, long-tailed Suffolk punch cart mare--fresh from the plough--having been considerately provided by the Yorkshireman for Mr. Jorrocks, with a cob for himself, they proceeded to mount in the yard, when Mr. Jorrocks was concerned to find that the Baron had nothing to carry him. His lordship, too, seemed disconcerted, but it was only momentary; for walking up to the punch mare, and resting his elbow on her hind quarter to try if she kicked, he very coolly vaulted up behind Mr. Jorrocks. Now Jorrocks, though proud of the patronage of a lord, did not exactly comprehend whether he was in earnest or not, but the Baron soon let him know; for thrusting his conical hat on his brow, he put his arm round Jorrocks's waist, and gave the old mare a touch in the flank with the Chinese boot, crying out--"Along me, brave _garçon_, along _ma cher_," and the owner of the mare living at Kentford, she went off at a brisk trot in that direction, while the Yorkshireman slipped down the town unperceived. The sherry had done its business on them both; the Baron, and who, perhaps was the most "cut" of the two, chaunted the _Marsellaise_ hymn of liberty with as much freedom as though he were sitting in the saddle. Thus they proceeded laughing and singing until the Bury pay-gate arrested their progress, when it occurred to the steersman to ask if they were going right. "Be this the vay to Newmarket races?" inquired Jorrocks of the pike-keeper. The man dived into the small pocket of his white apron for a ticket and very coolly replied, "Shell out, old 'un." "How much?" said Jorrocks. "Tuppence," which having got, he said, "Now, then, you may turn, for the heath be over yonder," pointing back, "at least it was there this morning, I know." After a volley of abuse for his impudence, Mr. Jorrocks, with some difficulty got the old mare pulled round, for she had a deuced hard mouth of her own, and only a plain snaffle in it; at last, however, with the aid of a boy to beat her with a furze-bush, they got her set a-going again, and, retracing their steps, they trotted "down street," rose the hill, and entered the spacious wide-extending flat of Newmarket Heath. The races were going forward on one of the distant courses, and a slight, insignificant, black streak, swelling into a sort of oblong (for all the world like an overgrown tadpole), was all that denoted the spot, or interrupted the verdant aspect of the quiet extensive plain. Jorrocks was horrified, having through life pictured Epsom as a mere drop in the ocean compared with the countless multitude of Newmarket, while the Baron, who was wholly indifferent to the matter, nearly had old Jorrocks pitched over the mare's head by applying the furze-bush (which he had got from the boy) to her tail while Mr. Jorrocks was sitting loosely, contemplating the barrenness of the prospect. The sherry was still alive, and being all for fun, he shuffled back into the saddle as soon as the old mare gave over kicking; and giving a loud tally-ho, with some minor "hunting noises," which were responded to by the Baron in notes not capable of being set to music, and aided by an equally indescribable accompaniment from the old mare at every application of the bush, she went off at score over the springy turf, and bore them triumphantly to the betting-post just as the ring was in course of formation, a fact which she announced by a loud neigh on viewing her companion of the plough, as well as by unpsetting some half-dozen black-legs as she rushed through the crowd to greet her. Great was the hubbub, shouting, swearing, and laughing,--for though the Newmarketites are familiar with most conveyances, from a pair of horses down to a pair of shoes, it had not then fallen to their lot to see two men ride into the ring on the same horse,--certainly not with such a hat between them as the Baron's.
The gravest and weightiest matters will not long distract the attention of a black-leg, and the laughter having subsided without Jorrocks or the Baron being in the slightest degree disconcerted, the ring was again formed; horses' heads again turn towards the post, while carriages, gigs, and carts form an outer circle. A solemn silence ensues. The legs are scanning the list. At length one gives tongue. "What starts? Does Lord Eldon start?" "No, he don't," replies the owner. "Does Trick, by Catton?" "Yes, and Conolly rides--but mind, three pounds over." "Does John Bull?" "No John's struck out." "Polly Hopkins does, so does Talleyrand, also O, Fy! out of Penitence; Beagle and Paradox also--and perhaps Pickpocket."
Another pause, and the pencils are pulled from the betting-books. The legs and lords look at each other, but no one likes to lead off. At length a voice is heard offering to take nine to one he names the winner. "It's short odds, doing it cautiously. I'll take eight then," he adds--"sivin!" but no one bites. "What will anyone lay about Trick, by Catton?" inquires Jem Bland. "I'll lay three to two again him. I'll take two to one--two ponies to one, and give you a suv. for laying it." "Carn't" is the answer. "I'll do it, Jem," cries a voice. "No, you won't," from Bland, not liking his customer. Now they are all at it, and what a hubbub there is! "I'll back the field--I'll lay--I'll take--I'll bet--ponies--fifties--hundreds--five hundred to two." "What do you want, my lord?" "Three to one against Trick, by Catton." "Carn't afford it--the odds really arn't that in the ring." "Take two--two hundred to one." "No." "Crockford, you'll do it for me?" "Yes, my lord. Twice over if you like. Done, done." "Do it again?" "No, thank you."
"Trick, by Catton, don't start!" cries a voice. "Impossible!" exclaim his backers. "Quite true, I'm just from the weighing-house, and----told me so himself." "Shame! shame!" roar those who have backed him, and "honour--rascals--rogues--thieves--robbery--swindle--turf-ruined"--fly from tongue to tongue, but they are all speakers with never a speaker to cry order. Meanwhile the lads have galloped by on their hacks with the horses' cloths to the rubbing-house, and the horses have actually started, and are now visible in the distance sweeping over the open heath, apparently without guide or beacon.
The majority of the ring rush to the white judge's box, and have just time to range themselves along the rude stakes and ropes that guard the run in, and the course-keeper in a shooting-jacket on a rough pony to crack his whip, and cry to half a dozen stable-lads to "clear the course," before the horses come flying towards home. Now all is tremor; hope and fear vacillating in each breast. Silence stands breathless with expectation--all eyes are riveted--the horses come within descrying distance--"beautiful!" three close together, two behind. "Clear the course! clear the course! pray clear the course!" "Polly Hopkins! Polly Hopkins!" roar a hundred voices as they near. "O, Fy! O, Fy!" respond an equal number. "The horse! the horse!" bellow a hundred more, as though their yells would aid his speed, as Polly Hopkins, O, Fy! and Talleyrand rush neck-and-neck along the cords and pass the judge's box. A cry of "dead heat!" is heard. The bystanders see as suits their books, and immediately rush to the judge's box, betting, bellowing, roaring, and yelling the whole way. "What's won? what's won? what's won?" is vociferated from a hundred voices. "Polly Hopkins! Polly Hopkins! Polly Hopkins!" replies Mr. Clark with judicial dignity. "By how much? by how much?" "Half a head--half a head," [18] replies the same functionary. "What's second?" "O, Fy!" and so, amid the song of "Pretty, pretty Polly Hopkins," from the winners, and curses and execrations long, loud, and deep, from the losers, the scene closes.
The admiring winners follow Polly to the rubbing-house, while the losing horses are left in the care of their trainers and stable-boys, who console themselves with hopes of "better luck next time."
After a storm comes a calm, and the next proceeding is the wheeling of the judge's box, and removal of the old stakes and ropes to another course on a different part of the heath, which is accomplished by a few ragged rascals, as rude and uncouth as the furniture they bear. In less than half an hour the same group of anxious careworn countenances are again turned upon each other at the betting-post, as though they had never separated. But see! the noble owner of Trick, by Catton, is in the crowd, and Jem Bland eyeing him like a hawk. "I say, Waggey," cries he (singling out a friend stationed by his lordship), "had you ought on Trick, by Catton?" "No, Jem," roars Wagstaff, shaking his head, "I knew my man too well." "Why now, Waggey, do you know I wouldn't have done such a thing for the world! no, not even to have been made a Markiss!" a horse-laugh follows this denunciation, at which the newly created marquis bites his livid lips.
[Footnote 18: No judge ever gave a race as won by half a head; but we let the whole passage stand as originally written. --EDITOR.]
The Baron, who appears to have no taste for walking, still sticks to the punch mare, which Mr. Jorrocks steers to the newly formed ring aided by the Baron and the furze-bush. Here they come upon Sam Spring, whose boy has just brought his spring-cart to bear upon the ring formed by the horsemen, and thinking it a pity a nobleman of any county should be reduced to the necessity of riding double, very politely offers to take one into his carriage. Jorrocks accepts the offer, and forthwith proceeds to make himself quite at home in it. The chorus again commences, and Jorrocks interrogates Sam as to the names of the brawlers. "Who be that?" said he, "offering to bet a thousand to a hundred." Spring, after eyeing him through his spectacles, with a grin and a look of suspicion replies, "Come now--come--let's have no nonsense--you know as well as I." "Really," replies Mr. Jorrocks most earnestly, "I don't." "Why, where have you lived all your life?" "First part of it with my grandmother at Lisson Grove, afterwards at Camberwell, but now I resides in Great Coram Street, Russell Square--a werry fashionable neighbourhood." "Oh, I see," replies Sam, "you are one of the reg'lar city coves, then--now, what brings you here?" "Just to say that I have been at Newmarket, for I'm blowed if ever you catch me here again." "That's a pity," replied Sam, "for you look like a promising man--a handsome-bodied chap in the face--don't you sport any?" "O a vast! --'unt regularly--I'm a member of the Surrey 'unt--capital one it is too--best in England by far." "What do you hunt?" inquired Sam. "Foxes, to be sure." "And are they good eating?" "Come," replied Jorrocks, "you know, as well as I do, we don't eat 'em." The dialogue was interrupted by someone calling to Sam to know what he was backing.
"The Bedlamite colt, my lord," with a forefinger to his hat. "Who's that?" inquired Jorrocks. "That's my Lord L----, a baron-lord--and a very nice one--best baron-lord I know--always bets with me--that's another baron-lord next him, and the man next him is a baron-knight, a stage below a baron-lord--something between a nobleman and a gentleman." "And who be that stout, good-looking man in a blue coat and velvet collar next him, just rubbing his chin with the race card--he'll be a lord too, I suppose?" "No,--that's Mr. Gully, as honest a man as ever came here,--that's Crockford before him. The man on the right is Mr. C----, who they call the 'cracksman,' because formerly he was a professional housebreaker, but he has given up that trade, and turned gentleman, bets, and keeps a gaming-table. This little ugly black-faced chap, that looks for all the world like a bilious Scotch terrier, has lately come among us. He was a tramping pedlar--sold worsted stockings--attended country courses, and occasionally bet a pair. Now he bets thousands of pounds, and keeps racehorses. The chaps about him all covered with chains and rings and brooches, were in the duffing line--sold brimstoned sparrows for canary-birds, Norwich shawls for real Cashmere, and dried cabbage-leaves for cigars. Now each has a first-rate house, horses and carriages, and a play-actress among them. Yon chap, with the extravagantly big mouth, is a cabinet-maker at Cambridge. He'll bet you a thousand pounds as soon as look at you."
"The chap on the right of the post with the red tie, is the son of an ostler. He commenced betting thousands with a farthing capital. The man next him, all teeth and hair, like a rat-catcher's dog, is an Honourable by birth, but not very honourable in his nature." "But see," cried Mr. Jorrocks, "Lord---- is talking to the Cracksman." "To be sure," replies Sam, "that's the beauty of the turf. The lord and the leg are reduced to an equality. Take my word for it, if you have a turn for good society, you should come upon the turf. --I say, my Lord Duke!" with all five fingers up to his hat, "I'll lay you three to two on the Bedlamite colt." "Done, Mr. Spring," replies his Grace, "three ponies to two." "There!" cried Mr. Spring, turning to Jorrocks, "didn't I tell you so?" The riot around the post increases. It is near the moment of starting, and the legs again become clamorous for what they want. Their vehemence increases. Each man is _in extremis_. "They are off!" cries one. "No, they are not," replies another. "False start," roars a third. "Now they come!" "No, they don't!" "Back again." They are off at last, however, and away they speed over the flat. The horses come within descrying distance. It's a beautiful race--run at score the whole way, and only two tailed off within the cords. Now they set to--whips and spurs go, legs leap, lords shout, and amid the same scene of confusion, betting, galloping, cursing, swearing, and bellowing, the horses rush past the judge's box.
But we have run our race, and will not fatigue our readers with repetition. Let us, however, spend the evening, and then the "Day at Newmarket" will be done.
Mr. Spring, with his usual attention to strangers, persuades Mr. Jorrocks to make one of a most agreeable dinner-party at the "White Hart" on the assurance of spending a delightful evening. Covers are laid for sixteen in the front room downstairs, and about six o'clock that number are ready to sit down. Mr. Badchild, the accomplished keeper of an oyster-room and minor hell in Pickering Place, is prevailed upon to take the chair, supported on his right by Mr. Jorrocks, and on his left by Mr. Tom Rhodes, of Thames Street, while the stout, jolly, portly Jerry Hawthorn fills--in the fullest sense of the word--the vice-chair. Just as the waiters are removing the covers, in stalks the Baron, in his conical hat, and reconnoitres the viands. Sam, all politeness, invites him to join the party. "I tank you," replies the Baron, "but I have my wet in de next room." "But bring your wet with you," rejoins Sam, "we'll all have our wet together after dinner," thinking the Baron meant his wine.
The usual inn grace--"For what we are going to receive, the host expects to be paid",--having been said with great feeling and earnestness, they all set to at the victuals, and little conversation passed until the removal of the cloth, when Mr. Badchild, calling upon his vice, observed that as in all probability there were gentlemen of different political and other opinions present, perhaps the best way would be to give a comprehensive toast, and so get over any debatable ground,--he therefore proposed to drink in a bumper "The king, the queen, and all the royal family, the ministry, particularly the Master of the Horse, the Army, the Navy, the Church, the State, and after the excellent dinner they had eaten, he would include the name of the landlord of the White Hart" (great applause). Song from Jerry Hawthorn--"The King of the Cannibal Islands". --The chairman then called upon the company to fill their glasses to a toast upon which there could be no difference of opinion. "It was a sport which they all enjoyed, one that was delightful to the old and to the young, to the peer and to the peasant, and open to all. Whatever might be the merits of other amusements, he had never yet met any man with the hardihood to deny that racing was at once the noblest and the most legitimate" (loud cheers, and thumps on the table, that set all the glasses dancing), "not only was it the noblest and most legitimate, but it was the most profitable; and where was the man of high and honourable principle who did not feel when breathing the pure atmosphere of that Heath, a lofty self-satisfaction at the thought, that though he might have left those who were near and dear to him in a less genial atmosphere, still he was not selfishly enjoying himself, without a thought for their welfare; for racing, while it brought health and vigour to the father, also brought what was dearer to the mind of a parent--the means of promoting the happiness and prosperity of his family--(immense cheers). With these few observations he should simply propose 'The Turf,' and may we long be above it"--(applause and, on the motion of Mr. Spring, three cheers for Mrs. Badchild and all the little Badchildren were called for and given). When the noise had subsided. Mr. Jorrocks very deliberately got up, amid whispers and inquiries as to who he was. "Gentlemen," said he, with an indignant stare, and a thump on the table, "Gentlemen, I say, in much of what has fallen from our worthy chairman, I go-in-sides, save in what he says about racing--I insists that 'unting is the sport of sports" (immense laughter, and cries of "wot an old fool!") "Gentlemen may laugh, but I say it's a fact, and though I doesn't wish to create no displeasancy whatsomever, yet I should despise myself most confoundedly--should consider myself unworthy of the great and distinguished 'unt to which I have the honour to belong, if I sat quietly down without sticking up for the chase (laughter). --I say, it's one of the balances of the constitution (laughter). --I say, it's the sport of kings! the image of war without its guilt (hisses and immense laughter). He would fearlessly propose a bumper toast--he would give them 'fox-hunting.'" There was some demur about drinking it, but on the interposition of Sam Spring, who assured the company that Jorrocks was one of the right sort, and with an addition proposed by Jerry Hawthorn, which made the toast more comprehensible, they swallowed it, and the chairman followed it up with "The Sod",--which was drunk with great applause. Mr. Cox of Blue Hammerton returned thanks. "He considered cock-fighting the finest of all fine amusements. Nothing could equal the rush between two prime grey-hackles--that was his colour. The chairman had said a vast for racing, and to cut the matter short, he might observe that cock-fighting combined all the advantages of making money, with the additional benefit of not being interfered with by the weather. He begged to return his best thanks for himself and brother sods, and only regretted he had not been taught speaking in his youth, or he would certainly have convinced them all, that 'cocking' was the sport." "Coursing" was the next toast--for which Arthur Pavis, the jockey, returned thanks. "He was very fond of the 'long dogs,' and thought, after racing, coursing was the true thing. He was no orator, and so he drank off his wine to the health of the company." "Steeplechasing" followed, for which Mr. Coalman of St. Albans returned thanks, assuring the company that it answered his purpose remarkably well. Then the Vice gave the "Chair," and the Chair gave the "Vice"; and by way of a finale, Mr. Badchild proposed the game of "Chicken-hazard," observing in a whisper to Mr. Jorrocks, that perhaps he would like to subscribe to a joint-stock purse for the purpose of going to hell. To which Mr. Jorrocks, with great gravity, replied; "Sir, I'm d----d if I do."
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{
"id": "15387"
}
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6
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A WEEK AT CHELTENHAM: THE CHELTENHAM DANDY
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Mr. Jorrocks had been very poorly indeed of indigestion, as he calls it, produced by tucking in too much roast beef and plum pudding at Christmas, and prolonging the period of his festivities a little beyond the season allowed by Moore's _Almanack_, and having in vain applied the usual remedies prescribed on such occasions, he at length consented to try the Cheltenham waters, though altogether opposed to the element, he not having "astonished his stomach," as he says, for the last fifteen years with a glass of water.
Having established himself and the Yorkshireman in a small private lodging in High Street, consisting of two bedrooms and a sitting-room, he commenced his visits to the royal spa, and after a few good drenches, picked up so rapidly, that to whatever inn they went to dine, the landlords and waiters were astounded at the consumption of prog, and in a very short time he was known from the "Royal Hotel" down to Hurlston's Commercial Inn, as the great London Cormorant. At first, however, he was extremely depressed in spirits, and did nothing the whole day after his arrival, but talk about the arrangement of his temporal affairs; and the first symptom he gave of returning health was one day at dinner at the "Plough," by astonishing two or three scarlet-coated swells, who as usual were disporting themselves in the coffee-room, by bellowing to the waiter for some Talli-ho "sarce" to his fish. Before this he had never once spoken of his favourite diversion, and the sportsmen cantered by the window to cover in the morning, and back in the afternoon, without eliciting a single observation from him. The morning after this change for the better, he addressed his companion at breakfast as follows: "Blow me tight, Mr. York, if I arn't regularly renowated. I'm as fresh as an old hat after a shower of rain. I really thinks I shall get over this terrible illness, for I dreamt of 'unting last night, and, if you've a mind, we'll go and see my Lord Segrave's reynard dog, and then start from this 'ere corrupt place, for, you see, it's nothing but a town, and what's the use of sticking oneself in a little pokey lodging like this 'ere, where there really is not room to swing a cat, and paying the deuce knows how much tin, too, when one has a splendid house in Great Coram Street going on all the time, with a rigler establishment of servants and all that sort of thing. Now, you knows, I doesn't grudge a wisit to Margate, though that's a town too, but then, you see, one has the sea to look at, whereas here, it's nothing but a long street with shops, not so good as those in Red Lion Street, with a few small streets branching off from it, and as to the prommenard, as they calls it, aside the spa, with its trees and garden stuff, why, I'm sure, to my mind, the Clarence Gardens up by the Regent's Park, are quite as fine. It's true the doctor says I must remain another fortnight to perfect the cure, but then them 'ere M.D.'s, or whatever you calls them, are such rum jockeys, and I always thinks they say one word for the patient and two for themselves. Now, my chap said, I must only take half a bottle o' black strap a day at the werry most, whereas I have never had less than a whole one--his half first, as I say, and my own after--and because I tells him I take a pint, he flatters himself his treatment is capital, and that he is a wonderful M.D.; but as a man can't be better than well, I think we'll just see what there's to be seen in the neighbourhood, and then cut our sticks, and, as I said before, I should like werry much to see my Lord Segrave's hounds, in order that I may judge whether there is anything in the wide world to be compared to the Surrey, for if I remember right, Mr. Nimrod described them as werry, werry fine, indeed."
Having formed this resolution, Jorrocks stamped on the floor (for the bell was broken) for the little boy who did the odd jobs of the house, to bring up his Hessian boots, into which having thrust his great calves, and replaced the old brown great-coat which he uses for a dressing-gown by a superfine Saxony blue, with metal buttons and pockets outside, he pulled his wig straight, stuck his white hat with the green flaps knowingly on his head, and sallied forth for execution as stout a man as ever. Knowing that the kennel is near the Winchcourt road, they proceeded in that direction, but after walking about a mile, came upon a groom on a chestnut horse, who, returning from the chase, was wetting his whistle at the appropriate sign of the "Fox and Hounds," and who informed them that they had passed the turning for the kennel, but that the hounds were out, and then in a wood which he pointed out on the hillside about two miles off, into which they had just brought their fox. Looking in that direction, they presently saw the summit of one of the highest of the range of hills that encircle the town of Cheltenham, covered with horsemen and pedestrians, who kept moving backwards and forwards on the "mountain's brow," looking in the distance more like a flock of sheep than anything else. Jorrocks, being all right again and up to anything, proposed a start to the wood, and though he thought they should hardly reach it before the hounds either killed their fox or he broke away again, they agreed to take the chance, and away they went, "best leg first" as the saying is. The cover (Queen Wood by name, and, as Jorrocks found out from somebody, the property of Lord Ellenborough) being much larger than it at first appeared and the fox but a bad one, they were in lots of time, and having toiled to the top of the wood, Jorrocks swaggered in among the horsemen with all the importance of an alderman. For full an hour after they got there the hounds kept running in cover, the fox being repeatedly viewed and the pack continually pressing him. Once or twice he came out, but after skirting the cover's edge a few yards turned in again. Indeed, there were two foxes on foot, one being a three-legged one, and it was extraordinary how he went and stood before hounds, going apparently very cautiously and stopping every now and then to listen. At last a thundering old grey-backed fellow went away before the whole field, making for the steep declivities that lead into the downs, and though the brow of the hill was covered with foot-people who holloa'd and shouted enough to turn a lion, he would make his point, and only altering his course so as to avoid running right among the mob, he gained the summit of the hill and disappeared. This hill, being uncommonly steep, was a breather for hounds that had been running so long as they had, in a thick cover too, and neither they nor the horses went at it with any great dash. The fox was not a fellow to be caught very easily, and nothing but a good start could have given them any chance, but the hounds never got well settled to the scent, and after a fruitless cast his lordship gave it up, and Jorrocks and Co. trudged back to Cheltenham, J---- highly delighted at so favourable an opportunity of seeing the hounds. Indeed, so pleased was he with the turn-out and the whole thing, that finding from Skinner, one of the whippers-in, that they met on the following morning at Purge Down-turnpike, in their best country, forgetting all about his indigestion and the royal spa, he went to Newman and Longridge, the horse dealers and livery stable keepers and engaged a couple of nags "to look at the hounds upon," as he impressed upon their minds, which he ordered to be ready at nine o'clock.
This day he proposed to give the landlord of the "George Inn," in the High Street, the benefit of his rapacious appetite, and about five o'clock (his latest London hour) they sat down to dinner. The "George" is neither exactly a swell house like the "Royal Hotel" or the "Plough," nor yet a commercial one, but something betwixt and between. The coffee-room is very small, consequently all the frequenters are drawn together, and if a conversation is started a man must be deuced unsociable that does not join in the cry.
As three or four were sitting round the fire chatting over their tipple, and Jorrocks was telling some of his best bouncers, the door opened and a waiter bowed a fresh animal into the cage, who, after eyeing the party, took off his hat and forthwith proceeded to pull off divers neckcloths, cloaks, great-coats, muffitees, until he reduced himself to about half the size he was on entering. He was a little square-built old man, with white hair and plenty of it, a long stupid red face with little pig eyes, a very long awkward body, and very short legs. He was dressed in a blue coat, buff waistcoat, a sort of baggy grey or thunder-and-lightning trousers, over which he had buttoned a pair of long black gaiters. Having "peeled," he rubbed his hands and blew upon them, as much as to say, "Now, gentlemen, won't you let me have a smell of the fire?" and, accordingly, by a sort of military revolution, they made a place for him right in the centre.
"Coldish night I reckon, sir," said Jorrocks, looking him over.
"Very cold indeed, very cold indeed," answered he, rubbing his elbows against his ribs, and stamping with his feet. "I've just got off the top of the Liverpool coach, and, I can assure you, it's very cold riding outside a coach all day long--however, I always say that it's better than being inside, though, indeed, it's very little that I trouble coaches at all in the course of the year--generally travel in my own carriage, only my family have it with them in Bristol now, where I'm going to join them; but I'm well used to the elements, hunting, shooting, and fishing, as I do constantly."
This later announcement made Jorrocks rouse up, and finding himself in the company of a sportsman and one, too, who travelled in his own carriage, he assumed a different tone and commenced on a fresh tack--"and pray, may I make bold to inquire what country you hunts in, sir?" said he.
"Oh! I live in Cheshire--Mainwaring's country, but Melton's the place I chiefly hunt at,--know all the fellows there; rare set of dogs, to be sure,--only country worth hunting in, to my mind."
_Jorrocks_. Rigler swells, though, the chaps, arn't they? Recollect one swell of a fellow coming with his upper lip all over fur into our country, thinking to astonish our weak minds, but I reckon we told him out.
_Stranger_. What! you hunt, do you?
_Jorrocks_. A few--you've perhaps heard tell of the Surrey 'unt?
_Stranger_. Cocktail affair, isn't it?
_Jorrocks_. No such thing, I assure you. Cocktail indeed! I likes that.
_Stranger_. Well, but it's not what we calls a fast-coach.
_Jorrocks_. I doesn't know wot you calls a fast-coach, but if you've a mind to make a match, I'll bet you a hat, ay, or half a dozen hats, that I'll find a fellow to take the conceit out o' any your Meltonians.
_Stranger_. Oh! I don't doubt but you have some good men among you; I'm sure I didn't mean anything offensive, by asking if it was a cocktail affair, but we Meltonians certainly have a trick, I must confess, of running every other country down; come, sir, I'll drink the Surrey hunt with all my heart, said he, swigging off the remains of a glass of brandy-and-water which the waiter had brought him shortly after entering.
_Jorrocks_. Thank you, sir, kindly. Waiter, bring me a bottom o' brandy, cold, without--and don't stint for quantity, if you please. Doesn't you think these inns werry expensive places, sir? I doesn't mean this in particular, but inns in general.
_Stranger_. Oh! I don't know, sir. We must expect to pay. "Live and let live," is my motto. I always pay my inn bills without looking them over. Just cast my eyes at the bottom to see the amount, then call for pen and ink, add so much for waiter, so much for chambermaid, so much for boots, and if I'm travelling in my own carriage so much for the ostler for greasing. That's the way I do business, sir.
_Jorrocks_. Well, sir, a werry pleasant plan too, especially for the innkeeper--and all werry right for a gentleman of fortune like you. My motto, however, is "Waste not, want not," and my wife's father's motto was "Wilful waste brings woeful want," and I likes to have my money's worth. --Now, said he, pulling out a handful of bills, at some places that I go to they charges me six shillings a day for my dinner, and when I was ill and couldn't digest nothing but the lightest and plainest of breakfasts, when a fork breakfast in fact would have made a stiff 'un of me, and my muffin mill was almost stopped, they charged me two shillings for one cake, and sixpence for two eggs. --Now I'm in the tea trade myself, you must know, and I contend that as things go, or at least as things went before the Barbarian eye, as they call Napier, kicked up a row with the Hong merchants, it's altogether a shameful imposition, and I wonder people put up with it.
_Stranger_. Oh, sir, I don't know. I think that it is the charge all over the country. Besides, it doesn't do to look too closely at these things, and you must allow something for keeping up the coffee-room, you know--fire, candles, and so on.
_Jorrocks_. But blow me tight, you surely don't want a candle to breakfast by? However, I contends that innkeepers are great fools for making these sort of charges, for it makes people get out of their houses as quick as ever they can, whereas they might be inclined to stay if they could get things moderate. --For my part I likes a coffee-room, but having been used to commercial houses when I travelled, I knows what the charges ought to be. Now, this room is snug enough though small, and won't require no great keeping up.
_Stranger_. No--but this room is smaller than the generality of them, you know. They frequently have two fires in them, besides no end of oil burning. --I know the expense of these things, for I have a very large house in the country, and rely upon it, innkeepers have not such immense profits as many people imagines--but, as I said before, "live and let live."
_Jorrocks_. So says I, "live and let live"--but wot I complains of is, that some innkeepers charge so much that they won't let people live. No man is fonder of eating than myself, but I don't like to pay by the mouthful, or yet to drink tea at so much a thimbleful. By the way, Sar, if you are not previously engaged, I should be werry happy to supply you with red Mocho or best Twankay at a very reasonable figure indeed for cash?
_Stranger. _ Thank you, sir, thank you. Those are things I never interfere with--leave all these things to my people. My housekeeper sends me in her book every quarter day, with an account of what she pays. I just look at the amount--add so much for wages, and write a cheque--"live and let live!" say I. However, added he, pulling out his watch, and ringing the bell for the chambermaid, "I hate to get up very early, so I think it is time to go to bed, and I wish you a very good night, gentlemen all."
Jorrocks gets up, advances half-way to the door, makes him one of his most obsequious bows, and wishes him a werry good night. Having heard him tramp upstairs and safely deposited in his bedroom, they pulled their chairs together again, and making a smaller circle round the fire, proceeded to canvass their departed friend. Jorrocks began--"I say, wot a regular swell the chap is--a Meltonian, too. --I wonders who the deuce he is. Wish Mr. Nimrod was among us, he could tell us all about him, I dare say. I'm blowed if I didn't take him for a commercial gentleman at first, until he spoke about his carriages. I likes to see gentlemen of fortune making themselves sociable by coming into the coffee-room, instead of sticking themselves up in private sitting-rooms, as if nobody was good enough for them. You know Melton, Mr. York; did you ever see the gentleman out?"
"I can't say that I ever did," said his friend, "but people look so different in their red coats to what they do in mufti, that there's no such thing as recognising them unless you had a previous acquaintance with them. The fields in Leicestershire are sometimes so large that it requires a residence to get anything like a general knowledge of the hunt, and, you know, Northamptonshire's the country for my money, after Surrey, of course."
"I don't think he is a gentleman," observed a thin sallow-complexioned young man, who, sitting on one side of the fire, had watched the stranger very narrowly without joining in the conversation. "He gives me more the idea of a gentleman's servant, acting the part of master, than anything else."
_Jorrocks. _ Oh! he is a gentleman, I'm sure--besides, a servant wouldn't travel in a carriage you know, and he talked about greasing the wheels and all that sort of thing, which showed he was familiar with the thing.
"That's very true," replied the youth--"but a servant may travel in the rumble and pay for greasing the wheels all the same, or perhaps have to grease them himself."
"Well, I should say he's a foolish purse-proud sort of fellow," observed another, "who has come into money unexpectedly, and who likes to be the cock of his party, and show off a little."
_Jorrocks. _ I'll be bound to say you're all wrong--you are not fox-hunters, you see, or you would know that that is a way the sportsmen have--we always make ourselves at home and agreeable--have a word for everybody in fact, and no reserve; besides, you see, there was nothing gammonacious, as I calls it, about his toggery, no round-cut coats with sporting buttons, or coaches and four, or foxes for pins in his shirt.
"I don't care for that," replied the sallow youth, "dress him as you will, court suit, bag wig, and sword, you'll make nothing better of him--he's a SNOB."
Jorrocks, getting up, runs to the table on which the hats were standing, saying, "I wonder if he's left his castor behind him? I've always found a man's hat will tell a good deal. This is yours, Mr. York, with the loop to it, and here's mine--I always writes Golgotha in mine, which being interpreted, you know, means the place of a skull. These are yours, I presume, gentlemen?" said he, taking up two others. "Confound him, he's taken his tile with him--however, I'm quite positive he's a gentleman--lay you a hat apiece all round he is, if you like!"
"But how are we to prove it?" inquired the youth.
_Jorrocks. _ Call in the waiter.
_Youth. _ He may know nothing about him, and a waiter's gentleman is always the man who pays him most.
_Jorrocks. _ Trust the waiter for knowing something about him, and if he doesn't, why, it's only to send a purlite message upstairs, saying that two gentlemen in the coffee-room have bet a trifle that he is some nobleman--Lord Maryborough, for instance,--he's a little chap--but we must make haste, or the gentleman will be asleep.
"Well, then, I'll take your bet of a hat," replied the youth, "that he is not what I call a gentleman."
_Jorrocks. _ I don't know what you calls a gentleman. I'll lay you a hat, a guinea one, either white or black, whichever you like, but none o' your dog hairs or gossamers, mind--that he's a man of dibs, and doesn't follow no trade or calling, and if that isn't a gentleman, I don't know wot is. What say you, Mr. York?
"Suppose we put it thus--You bet this gentleman a hat that he's a Meltonian, which will comprise all the rest."
_Jorrocks. _ Werry well put. Do you take me, sir? A guinea hat against a guinea hat.
"I do," said the youth.
_Jorrocks. _ Then DONE--now ring the bell for the waiter--I'll pump him.
_Enter waiter. _ _Jorrocks. _ Snuff them candles, if you please, and bring me another bottom o' brandy-cold, without--and, waiter! here, pray who is that gentleman that came in by the Liverpool coach to-night? The little gentleman in long black gaiters who sat in this chair, you know, and had some brandy-and-water.
_Waiter. _ I know who you mean, sir, quite well, the gentleman who's gone to bed. Let me see, what's his name? He keeps that large Hotel in---- Street, Liverpool--what's the--Here an immense burst of laughter drowned the remainder of the sentence.
Jorrocks rose in a rage. "No! you double-distilled blockhead," said he, "no such thing--you're thinking of someone else. The gentleman hunts at Melton Mowbray, and travels in his own carriage."
_Waiter_. I don't know nothing about Melton Mowbray, sir, but the last time he came through here on his road to Bristol, he was in one of his own rattle-trap yellows, and had such a load--his wife, a nurse, and eight children inside; himself, his son, and an apple-tree on the dickey--that the horses knocked up half-way and... _Jorrocks_. Say no more--say no more--d----n his teeth and toe-nails--and that's swearing--a thing I never do but on the most outrageous occasions. Confounded humbug, I'll be upsides with him, however. Waiter, bring the bill and no more brandy. Never was so done in all my life--a gammonacious fellow! "There, sir, there's your one pound one," said he, handing a sovereign and a shilling to the winner of the hat. "Give me my tile, and let's mizzle. --Waiter, I can't wait; must bring the bill up to my lodgings in the morning if it isn't ready. --Come away, come away--I shall never get over this as long as ever I live. 'Live and let live,' indeed! no wonder he stuck up for the innkeepers--a publican and a sinner as he is. Good night, gentlemen, good night."
_Exit Jorrocks_.
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{
"id": "15387"
}
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7
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AQUATICS: MR. JORROCKS AT MARGATE
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The shady side of Cheapside had become a luxury, and footmen in red plush breeches objects of real commiseration, when Mr. Jorrocks, tired of the heat and "ungrateful hurry of the town," resolved upon undertaking an aquatic excursion. He was sitting, as is "his custom always in the afternoon," in the arbour at the farther end of his gravel walk, which he dignifies by the name of "garden," and had just finished a rough mental calculation, as to whether he could eat more bread spread with jam or honey, when the idea of the jaunt entered his imagination. Being a man of great decision, he speedily winnowed the project over in his mind, and producing a five-pound note from the fob of his small clothes, passed it in review between his fingers, rubbed out the creases, held it up to the light, refolded and restored it to his fob. "Batsay," cried he, "bring my castor--the white one as hangs next the blue cloak;" and forthwith a rough-napped, unshorn-looking, white hat was transferred from the peg to Mr. Jorrocks's head. This done, he proceeded to the "Piazza," where he found the Yorkshireman exercising himself up and down the spacious coffee-room, and, grasping his hand with the firmness of a vice, he forthwith began unburthening himself of the object of his mission. " 'Ow are you?" said he, shaking his arm like the handle of a pump. " 'Ow are you, I say? --I'm so delighted to see you, ye carn't think--isn't this charming weather! It makes me feel like a butterfly--really think the 'air is sprouting under my vig." Here he took off his wig and rubbed his hand over his bald head, as though he were feeling for the shoots.
"Now to business--Mrs. J---- is away at Tooting, as you perhaps knows, and I'm all alone in Great Coram Street, with the key of the cellar, larder, and all that sort of thing, and I've a werry great mind to be off on a jaunt--what say you?" "Not the slightest objection," replied the Yorkshireman, "on the old principle of you finding cash, and me finding company." "Why, now I'll tell you, werry honestly, that I should greatly prefer your paying your own shot; but, however, if you've a mind to do as I do, I'll let you stand in the half of a five-pound note and whatever silver I have in my pocket," pulling out a great handful as he spoke, and counting up thirty-two and sixpence. "Very good," replied the Yorkshireman when he had finished, "I'm your man;--and not to be behindhand in point of liberality, I've got threepence that I received in change at the cigar divan just now, which I will add to the common stock, so that we shall have six pounds twelve and ninepence between us." "Between us!" exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, "now that's so like a Yorkshireman. I declare you Northerns seem to think all the world are asleep except yourselves;--howsomever, I von't quarrel with you--you're a goodish sort of chap in your way, and so long as I keep the swag, we carn't get far wrong. Well, then, to-morrow at two we'll start for Margate--the most delightful place in all the world, where we will have a rare jollification, and can stay just as long as the money holds out. So now good-bye--I'm off home again to see about wittles for the woyage."
It were almost superfluous to mention that the following day was a Saturday--for no discreet citizen would think of leaving town on any other. It dawned with uncommon splendour, and the cocks of Coram Street and adjacent parts seemed to hail the morn with more than their wonted energy. Never, save on a hunting morning, did Mr. Jorrocks tumble about in bed with such restless anxiety as cock after cock took up the crow in every gradation of noise from the shrill note of the free street-scouring chanticleer before the door, to the faint response of the cooped and prisoned victims of the neighbouring poulterer's, their efforts being aided by the flutterings and impertinent chirruping of swarms of town-bred sparrows.
At length the boy, Binjimin, tapped at his master's door, and, depositing his can of shaving-water on his dressing-table, took away his coat and waistcoat, under pretence of brushing them, but in reality to feel if he had left any pence in the pockets. With pleasure Mr. Jorrocks threw aside the bed-clothes, and bounded upon the floor with a bump that shook his own and adjoining houses. On this day a few extra minutes were devoted to his toilet, one or two of which were expended in adjusting a gold foxhead pin in a conspicuous part of his white tie, and in drawing on a pair of new dark blue stocking-net pantaloons, made so excessively tight, that at starting, any of his Newmarket friends would have laid three to two against his ever getting into them at all. When on, however, they fully developed the substantial proportions of his well-rounded limbs, while his large tasselled Hessians showed that the bootmaker had been instructed to make a pair for a "great calf." A blue coat, with metal buttons, ample laps, and pockets outside, with a handsome buff kerseymere waistcoat, formed his costume on this occasion. Breakfast being over, he repaired to St. Botolph Lane, there to see his letters and look after his commercial affairs; in which the reader not being interested, we will allow the Yorkshireman to figure a little.
About half-past one this enterprising young man placed himself in Tommy Sly's wherry at the foot of the Savoy stairs, and not agreeing in opinion with Mr. Jorrocks that it is of "no use keeping a dog and barking oneself," he took an oar and helped to row himself down to London Bridge. At the wharf below the bridge there lay a magnificent steamer, painted pea-green and white, with flags flying from her masts, and the deck swarming with smart bonnets and bodices. Her name was the _Royal Adelaide_, from which the sagacious reader will infer that this excursion was made during the late reign. The Yorkshireman and Tommy Sly having wormed their way among the boats, were at length brought up within one of the vessels, and after lying on their oars a few seconds, they were attracted by, "Now, sir, are you going to sleep there?" addressed to a rival nautical whose boat obstructed the way, and on looking up on deck what a sight burst upon the Yorkshireman's astonished vision! --Mr. Jorrocks, with his coat off, and a fine green velvet cap or turban, with a broad gold band and tassel, on his head, hoisting a great hamper out of the wherry, rejecting all offers of assistance, and treating the laughter and jeers of the porters and bystanders with ineffable contempt. At length he placed the load to his liking, and putting on his coat, adjusted his hunting telescope, and advanced to the side, as the Yorkshireman mounted the step-ladder and came upon deck. "Werry near being over late," said he, pulling out his watch, just at which moment the last bell rang, and a few strokes of the paddles sent the vessel away from the quay. "A miss is as good as a mile," replied the Yorkshireman; "but pray what have you got in the hamper?"
"In the 'amper! Why, wittles to be sure. You seem to forget we are going a woyage, and 'ow keen the sea hair is. I've brought a knuckle of weal, half a ham, beef, sarsingers, chickens, sherry white, and all that sort of thing, and werry acceptable they'll be by the time we get to the Nore, or may be before."
"Ease her! Stop her!" cried the captain through his trumpet, just as the vessel was getting into her stride in mid-stream, and, with true curiosity, the passengers flocked to the side, to see who was coming, though they could not possibly have examined half they had on board. Mr. Jorrocks, of course, was not behindhand in inquisitiveness, and proceeded to adjust his telescope. A wherry was seen rowing among the craft, containing the boatman, and a gentleman in a woolly white hat, with a bright pea-green coat, and a basket on his knee. "By jingo, here's Jemmy Green!" exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, taking his telescope from his eye, and giving his thigh a hearty slap. "How unkimmon lucky! The werry man of all others I should most like to see. You know James Green, don't you?" addressing the Yorkshireman--"young James Green, junior, of Tooley Street--everybody knows him--most agreeable young man in Christendom--fine warbler--beautiful dancer--everything that a young man should be."
"How are you James?" cried Jorrocks, seizing him by the hand as his friend stepped upon deck; but whether it was the nervousness occasioned by the rocking of the wherry, or the shaking of the step-ladder up the side of the steamer, or Mr. Jorrocks's new turban cap, but Mr. Green, with an old-maidish reserve, drew back from the proffered embrace of his friend. "You have the adwantage of me, sir," said he, fidgeting back as he spoke, and eyeing Mr. Jorrocks with unmeasured surprise--"Yet stay--if I'm not deceived it's Mr. Jorrocks--so it is!" and thereupon they joined hands most cordially, amid exclamations of, "'Ow are you, J----?" ' "Ow are you, G----?" " 'Ow are you, J----?" "So glad to see you, J----" "So glad to see you, G----" "So glad to see you, J----" "And pray what may you have in your basket?" inquired Mr. Jorrocks, putting his hand to the bottom of a neat little green-and-white willow woman's basket, apparently for the purpose of ascertaining its weight. "Only my clothes, and a little prowision for the woyage. A baked pigeon, some cold maccaroni, and a few pectoral lozenges. At the bottom are my Margate shoes, with a comb in one, and a razor in t'other; then comes the prog, and at the top, I've a dickey and a clean front for to-morrow. I abominates travelling with much luggage. Where, I ax, is the use of carrying nightcaps, when the innkeepers always prowide them, without extra charge? The same with regard to soap. Shave, I say, with what you find in your tray. A wet towel makes an excellent tooth-brush, and a pen-knife both cuts and cleans your nails. Perhaps you'll present your friend to me," added he in the same breath, with a glance at the Yorkshireman, upon whose arm Mr. Jorrocks was resting his telescope hand. "Much pleasure," replied Mr. Jorrocks, with his usual urbanity. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Stubbs, Mr. Green, Mr. Green, Mr. Stubbs: now pray shake hands," added he, "for I'm sure you'll be werry fond of each other"; and thereupon Jemmy, in the most patronising manner, extended his two forefingers to the Yorkshireman, who presented him with one in return. For the information of such of our readers as may never have seen Mr. James Green, senior junior, either in Tooley Street, Southwark, where the patronymic name abounds, or at Messrs. Tattersall's, where he generally exhibits on a Monday afternoon, we may premise, that though a little man in stature, he is a great man in mind and a great swell in costume. On the present occasion, as already stated, he had on a woolly white hat, his usual pea-green coat, with a fine, false, four-frilled front to his shirt, embroidered, plaited, and puckered, like a lady's habit-shirt. Down the front were three or four different sorts of studs, and a butterfly brooch, made of various coloured glasses, sat in the centre. His cravat was of a yellow silk with a flowered border, confining gills sharp and pointed that looked up his nostrils; his double-breasted waistcoat was of red and yellow tartan with blue glass post-boy buttons; and his trousers, which were very wide and cut out over the foot of rusty-black chamois-leather opera-boots, were of a broad blue stripe upon a white ground. A curly, bushy, sandy-coloured wig protruded from the sides of his woolly white hat, and shaded a vacant countenance, which formed the frontispiece of a great chuckle head. Sky-blue gloves and a stout cane, with large tassels, completed the rigging of this borough dandy. Altogether he was as fine as any peacock, and as vain as the proudest.
"And 'ow is Mrs. J----?" inquired Green with the utmost affability--"I hopes she's uncommon well--pray, is she of your party?" looking round. "Why, no," replied Mr. Jorrocks, "she's off at Tooting at her mother's, and I'm just away, on the sly, to stay a five-pound at Margate this delightful weather. 'Ow long do you remain?" "Oh, only till Monday morning--I goes every Saturday; in fact," added he in an undertone, "I've a season ticket, so I may just as well use it, as stay poking in Tooley Street with the old folks, who really are so uncommon glumpy, that it's quite refreshing to get away from them."
"That's a pity," replied Mr. Jorrocks, with one of his benevolent looks. "But 'ow comes it, James, you are not married? You are not a bouy now, and should be looking out for a home of your own." "True, my dear J----, true," replied Mr. Green; "and I'll tell you wot, our principal book-keeper and I have made many calculations on the subject, and being a man of literature like yourself, he gave it as his opinion the last time we talked the matter over, that it would only be avoiding Silly and running into Crab-beds; which I presume means Quod or the Bench. Unless he can have a wife 'made to order,' he says he'll never wed. Besides, the women are such a bothersome encroaching set. I declare I'm so pestered with them that I don't know vich vay to turn. They are always tormenting of me. Only last week one sent me a specification of what she'd marry me for, and I declare her dress, alone, came to more than I have to find myself in clothes, ball-and concert-tickets, keep an 'oss, go to theatres, buy lozenges, letter-paper, and everything else with. There were bumbazeens, and challies, and merinos, and crape, and gauze, and dimity, and caps, bonnets, stockings, shoes, boots, rigids, stays, ringlets; and, would you believe it, she had the unspeakable audacity to include a bustle! It was the most monstrous specification and proposal I ever read, and I returned it by the twopenny post, axing her if she hadn't forgotten to include a set of false teeth. Still, I confess, I'm tired of Tooley Street. I feel that I have a soul above hemp, and was intended for a brighter sphere; but vot can one do, cooped up at home without men of henergy for companions? No prospect of improvement either; for I left our old gentleman alarmingly well just now, pulling about the flax and tow, as though his dinner depended upon his exertions. I think if the women would let me alone, I might have some chance, but it worries a man of sensibility and refinement to have them always tormenting of one. --I've no objection to be led, but, dash my buttons, I von't be driven." "Certainly not," replied Mr. Jorrocks, with great gravity, jingling the silver in his breeches-pocket. "It's an old saying, James, and times proves it true, that you may take an 'oss to the water but you carn't make him drink--and talking of 'osses, pray, how are you off in that line?" "Oh, werry well--uncommon, I may say--a thoroughbred, bang tail down to the hocks, by Phantom, out of Baron Munchausen's dam--gave a hatful of money for him at Tatts'. --five fives--a deal of tin as times go. But he's a perfect 'oss, I assure you--bright bay with four black legs, and never a white hair upon him. He's touched in the vind, but that's nothing--I'm not a fox-hunter, you know, Mr. Jorrocks; besides, I find the music he makes werry useful in the streets, as a warning to the old happle women to get out of the way. Pray, sir," turning to the Yorkshireman with a jerk, "do you dance?" --as the boat band, consisting of a harp, a flute, a lute, a long horn, and a short horn, struck up a quadrille,--and, without waiting for a reply, our hero sidled past, and glided among the crowd that covered the deck.
"A fine young man, James," observed Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing Jemmy as he elbowed his way down the boat--"fine young man--wants a little of his father's ballast, but there's no putting old heads on young shoulders. He's a beautiful dancer," added Mr. Jorrocks, putting his arm through the Yorkshireman's, "let's go and see him foot it." Having worked their way down, they at length got near the dancers, and mounting a ballast box had a fine view of the quadrille. There were eight or ten couple at work, and Jemmy had chosen a fat, dumpy, red-faced girl, in a bright orange-coloured muslin gown, with black velvet Vandyked flounces, and green boots--a sort of walking sunflower, with whom he was pointing his toe, kicking out behind, and pirouetting with great energy and agility. His male _vis-à-vis_ was a waistcoatless young Daniel Lambert, in white ducks, and a blue dress-coat, with a carnation in his mouth, who with a damsel in ten colours, reel'd to and fro in humble imitation. "Green for ever!" cried Mr. Jorrocks, taking off his velvet cap and waving it encouragingly over his head: "Green for ever! Go it Green!" and, accordingly, Green went it with redoubled vigour. "Wiggins for ever!" responded a female voice opposite, "I say, Wiggins!" which was followed by a loud clapping of hands, as the fat gentleman made an astonishing step. Each had his admiring applauders, though Wiggins "had the call" among the ladies--the opposition voice that put him in nomination proceeding from the mother of his partner, who, like her daughter, was a sort of walking pattern book. The spirit of emulation lasted throughout the quadrille, after which, sunflower in hand, Green traversed the deck to receive the compliments of the company.
"You must be 'ungry," observed Mr. Jorrocks, with great politeness to the lady, "after all your exertions," as the latter stood mopping herself with a coarse linen handkerchief--"pray, James, bring your partner to our 'amper, and let me offer her some refreshment," which was one word for the Sunflower and two for himself, the sea breeze having made Mr. Jorrocks what he called "unkimmon peckish." The hamper was speedily opened, the knuckle of veal, the half ham, the aitch bone of beef, the Dorking sausages (made in Drury Lane), the chickens, and some dozen or two of plovers' eggs were exhibited, while Green, with disinterested generosity, added his baked pigeon and cold maccaroni to the common stock. A vigorous attack was speedily commenced, and was kept up, with occasional interruptions by Green running away to dance, until they hove in sight of Herne Bay, which caused an interruption to a very interesting lecture on wines, that Mr. Jorrocks was in the act of delivering, which went to prove that port and sherry were the parents of all wines, port the father, and sherry the mother; and that Bluecellas, hock, Burgundy, claret, Teneriffe, Madeira, were made by the addition of water, vinegar, and a few chemical ingredients, and that of all "humbugs," pale sherry was the greatest, being neither more nor less than brown sherry watered. Mr. Jorrocks then set to work to pack up the leavings in the hamper, observing as he proceeded, that wilful waste brought woeful want, and that "waste not, want not," had ever been the motto of the Jorrocks family.
It was nearly eight o'clock ere the _Royal Adelaide_ touched the point of the far-famed Margate Jetty, a fact that was announced as well by the usual bump, and scuttle to the side to get out first, as by the band striking up _God save the King_, and the mate demanding the tickets of the passengers. The sun had just dropped beneath the horizon, and the gas-lights of the town had been considerately lighted to show him to bed, for the day was yet in the full vigour of life and light.
Two or three other cargoes of cockneys having arrived before, the whole place was in commotion, and the beach swarmed with spectators as anxious to watch this last disembarkation as they had been to see the first. By a salutary regulation of the sages who watch over the interests of the town, "all manner of persons," are prohibited from walking upon the jetty during this ceremony, but the platform of which it is composed being very low, those who stand on the beach outside the rails, are just about on a right level to shoot their impudence cleverly into the ears of the new-comers who are paraded along two lines of gaping, quizzing, laughing, joking, jeering citizens, who fire volleys of wit and satire upon them as they pass. "There's leetle Jemmy Green again!" exclaimed a nursery-maid with two fat, ruddy children in her arms, "he's a beauty without paint!" "Hallo, Jorrocks, my hearty! lend us your hand," cried a brother member of the Surrey Hunt. Then there was a pointing of fingers and cries of "That's Jorrocks! that's Green!" "That's Green! that's Jorrocks!" and a murmuring titter, and exclamations of "There's Simpkins! how pretty he is!" "But there's Wiggins, who's much nicer." "My eye, what a cauliflower hat Mrs. Thompson's got!" "What a buck young Snooks is!" "What gummy legs that girl in green has!" "Miss Trotter's bustle's on crooked!" from the young ladies at Miss Trimmer's seminary who were drawn up to show the numerical strength of the academy, and act the part of walking advertisements. These observations were speedily drowned by the lusty lungs of a flyman bellowing out, as Green passed, "Hallo! my young brockley-sprout, are you here again? --now then for the tizzy you owe me,--I have been waiting here for it ever since last Monday morning." This salute produced an irate look and a shake of his cane from Green, with a mutter of something about "imperance," and a wish that he had his big fighting foreman there to thrash him. When they got to the gate at the end, the tide of fashion became obstructed by the kissings of husbands and wives, the greetings of fathers and sons, the officiousness of porters, the cries of flymen, the importunities of innkeepers, the cards of bathing-women, the salutations of donkey drivers, the programmes of librarians, and the rush and push of the inquisitive; and the waters of "comers" and "stayers" mingled in one common flood of indescribable confusion.
Mr. Jorrocks, who, hamper in hand, had elbowed his way with persevering resignation, here found himself so beset with friends all anxious to wring his digits, that, fearful of losing either his bed or his friends, he besought Green to step on to the "White Hart" and see about accommodation. Accordingly Green ran his fingers through the bushy sides of his yellow wig, jerked up his gills, and with a _négligé_ air strutted up to that inn, which, as all frequenters of Margate know, stands near the landing-place, and commands a fine view of the harbour. Mr. Creed, the landlord, was airing himself at the door, or, as Shakespeare has it, "taking his ease at his inn," and knowing Green of old to be a most unprofitable customer, he did not trouble to move his position farther than just to draw up one leg so as not wholly to obstruct the passage, and looked at him as much as to say "I prefer your room to your company." "Quite full here, sir," said he, anticipating Green's question. "Full, indeed?" replied Jemmy, pulling up his gills--"that's werry awkward, Mr. Jorrocks has come down with myself and a friend, and we want accommodation." "Mr. Jorrocks, indeed!" replied Mr. Creed, altering his tone and manner; "I'm sure I shall be delighted to receive Mr. Jorrocks--he's one of the oldest customers I have--and one of the best--none of your 'glass of water and toothpick' gentleman--real downright, black-strap man, likes it hot and strong from the wood--always pays like a gentleman--never fights about three-pences, like some people I know," looking at Jemmy. "Pray, what rooms may you require?" "Vy, there's myself, Mr. Jorrocks, and Mr. Jorrocks's other friend--three in all, and we shall want three good, hairy bedrooms." "Well, I don't know," replied Mr. Creed, laughing, "about their hairiness, but I can rub them with bear's grease for you." Jemmy pulled up his gills and was about to reply, when Mr. Jorrocks's appearance interrupted the dialogue. Mr. Creed advanced to receive him, blowing up his porters for not having been down to carry up the hamper, which he took himself and bore to the coffee-room, amid protestations of his delight at seeing his worthy visitor.
Having talked over the changes of Margate, of those that were there, those that were not, and those that were coming, and adverted to the important topic of supper, Mr. Jorrocks took out his yellow and white spotted handkerchief and proceeded to flop his Hessian boots, while Mr. Creed, with his own hands, rubbed him over with a long billiard-table brush. Green, too, put himself in form by the aid of the looking-glass, and these preliminaries being adjusted, the trio sallied forth arm-in-arm, Mr. Jorrocks occupying the centre. It was a fine, balmy summer evening, the beetles and moths still buzzed and flickered in the air, and the sea rippled against the shingly shore, with a low indistinct murmur that scarcely sounded among the busy hum of men. The shades of night were drawing on--a slight mist hung about the hills, and a silvery moon shed a broad brilliant ray upon the quivering waters "of the dark blue sea," and an equal light over the wide expanse of the troubled town. How strange that man should leave the quiet scenes of nature, to mix in myriads of those they profess to quit cities to avoid! One turn to the shore, and the gas-lights of the town drew back the party like moths to the streets, which were literally swarming with the population. "Cheapside, at three o'clock in the afternoon," as Mr. Jorrocks observed, was never fuller than Margate streets that evening. All was lighted up--all brilliant and all gay--care seemed banished from every countenance, and pretty faces and smart gowns reigned in its stead. Mr. Jorrocks met with friends and acquaintances at every turn, most of whom asked "when he came?" and "when he was going away?" Having perambulated the streets, the sound of music attracted Jemmy Green's attention, and our party turned into a long, crowded and brilliantly lighted bazaar, just as the last notes of a barrel-organ at the far end faded away, and a young woman in a hat and feathers, with a swan's-down muff and tippet, was handed by a very smart young man in dirty white Berlin gloves, and an equally soiled white waistcoat, into a sort of orchestra above where, after the plaudits of the company had subsided, she struck-up: "If I had a donkey vot vouldn't go."
At the conclusion of the song, and before the company had time to disperse, the same smart young gentleman,--having rehanded the young lady from the orchestra and pocketed his gloves,--ran his fingers through his hair, and announced from that eminence, that the spirited proprietors of the Bazaar were then going to offer for public competition in the enterprising shape of a raffle, in tickets, at one shilling each, a most magnificently genteel, rosewood, general perfume box fitted up with cedar and lined with red silk velvet, adorned with cut-steel clasps at the sides, and a solid, massive, silver name-plate at the top, with a best patent Bramah lock and six chaste and beautifully rich cut-glass bottles, and a plate-glass mirror at the top--a box so splendidly perfect, so beautifully unique, as alike to defy the powers of praise and the critiques of the envious; and thereupon he produced a flashy sort of thing that might be worth three and sixpence, for which he modestly required ten subscribers, at a shilling each, adding, "that even with that number the proprietors would incur a werry heavy loss, for which nothing but a boundless sense of gratitude for favours past could possibly recompense them." The youth's eloquence and the glitter of the box reflecting, as it did at every turn, the gas-lights both in its steel and glass, had the desired effect--shillings went down, and tickets went off rapidly, until only three remained. "Four, five, and ten, are the only numbers now remaining," observed the youth, running his eye up the list and wetting his pencil in his mouth. "Four, five and ten! ten, four, five! five, four, ten! are the only numbers now vacant for this werry genteel and magnificent rosewood perfume-box, lined with red velvet, cut-steel clasps, a silver plate for the name, best patent Bramah lock, and six beautiful rich cut-glass bottles, with a plate glass mirror in the lid--and only four, five, and ten now vacant!" "I'll take ten," said Green, laying down a shilling. "Thank you, sir--only four and five now wanting, ladies and gentlemen--pray, be in time--pray, be in time! This is without exception the most brilliant prize ever offered for public competition. There were only two of these werry elegant boxes made,--the unfortunate mechanic who executed them being carried off by that terrible malady, the cholera morbus,--and the other is now in the possession of his most Christian Majesty the King of the French. Only four and five wanting to commence throwing for this really perfect specimen of human ingenuity--only four and five!" "I'll take them," cried Green, throwing down two shillings more--and then the table was cleared--the dice box produced, and the crowd drew round. "Number one! --who holds number one?" inquired the keeper, arranging the paper, and sucking the end of his pencil. A young gentleman in a blue jacket and white trousers owned the lot, and, accordingly, led off the game. The lottery-keeper handed the box, and put in the dice--rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, plop, and lift up--"seven and four are eleven"--"now again, if you please, sir," putting the dice into the box--rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, plop, and lift up--a loud laugh--"one and two make three"--the youth bit his lips;--rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, plop--a pause--and lift up--"threes!" --"six, three, and eleven, are twenty." "Now who holds number two? --what lady or gentleman holds number two? Pray, step forward!" The Sunflower drew near--Green looked confused--she fixed her eye upon him, half in fear, half in entreaty--would he offer to throw for her? No, by Jove, Green was not so green as all that came to, and he let her shake herself. She threw twenty-two, thereby putting an extinguisher on the boy, and raising Jemmy's chance considerably. "Three" was held by a youngster in nankeen petticoats, who would throw for himself, and shook the box violently enough to be heard at Broadstairs. He scored nineteen, and, beginning to cry immediately, was taken home. Green was next, and all eyes turned upon him, for he was a noted hand. He advanced to the table with great sangfroid, and, turning back the wrists of his coat, exhibited his beautiful sparkling paste shirt buttons, and the elegant turn of his taper hand, the middle finger of which was covered with massive rings. He took the box in a _négligé_ manner, and without condescending to shake it, slid the dice out upon the table by a gentle sideway motion--"sixes!" cried all, and down the marker put twelve. At the second throw, he adopted another mode. As soon as the dice were in, he just chucked them up in the air like as many halfpence, and down they came five and six--"eleven," said the marker. With a look of triumph Green held the box for the third time, which he just turned upside down, and lo, on uncovering, there stood two--"ones!" A loud laugh burst forth, and Green looked confused. "I'm so glad!" whispered a young lady, who had made an unsuccessful "set" at Jemmy the previous season, in a tone loud enough for him to hear. "I hope he'll lose," rejoined a female friend, rather louder. "That Jemmy Green is my absolute abhorrence," observed a third. " 'Orrible man, with his nasty vig," observed the mamma of the first speaker--"shouldn't have my darter not at no price." Green, however, headed the poll, having beat the Sunflower, and had still two lots in reserve. For number five, he threw twenty-five, and was immediately outstripped, amid much laughter and clapping of hands from the ladies, by number six, who in his turn fell a prey to number seven. Between eight and nine there was a very interesting contest who should be lowest, and hopes and fears were at their altitude, when Jemmy Green again turned back his coat-wrist to throw for number ten. His confidence had forsaken him a little, as indicated by a slight quivering of the under-lip, but he managed to conceal it from all except the ladies, who kept too scrutinising an eye upon him. His first throw brought sixes, which raised his spirits amazingly; but on their appearance a second time, he could scarcely contain himself, backed as he was by the plaudits of his friend Mr. Jorrocks. Then came the deciding throw--every eye was fixed on Jemmy, he shook the box, turned it down, and lo! there came seven.
"Mr. James Green is the fortunate winner of this magnificent prize!" exclaimed the youth, holding up the box in mid-air, and thereupon all the ladies crowded round Green, some to congratulate him, others to compliment him on his looks, while one or two of the least knowing tried to coax him out of his box. Jemmy, however, was too old a stager, and pocketed the box and other compliments at the same time.
Another grind of the organ, and another song followed from the same young lady, during which operation Green sent for the manager, and, after a little beating about the bush, proposed singing a song or two, if he would give him lottery-tickets gratis. He asked three shilling-tickets for each song, and finally closed for five tickets for two songs, on the understanding that he was to be announced as a distinguished amateur, who had come forward by most particular desire.
Accordingly the manager--a roundabout, red-faced, consequential little cockney--mounted the rostrum, and begged to announce to the company that that "celebrated wocalist, Mr. James Green, so well known as a distinguished amateur and conwivialist, both at Bagnigge Wells, and Vite Conduit House, LONDON, had werry kindly consented, in order to promote the hilarity of the evening, to favour the company with a song immediately after the drawing of the next lottery," and after a few high-flown compliments, which elicited a laugh from those who were up to Jemmy's mode of doing business, he concluded by offering a _papier-maché_ tea-caddy for public competition, in shilling lots as before.
As soon as the drawing was over, they gave the organ a grind, and Jemmy popped up with a hop, step, and a jump, with his woolly white hat under his arm, and presented himself with a scrape and a bow to the company. After a few preparatory "hems and haws," he pulled up his gills and spoke as follows: "Ladies and gentlemen! hem"--another pull at his gills--"ladies and gentlemen--my walued friend, Mr. Kitey Graves, has announced that I will entertain the company with a song; though nothing, I assure you--hem--could be farther from my idea--hem--when my excellent friend asked me,"--"Hookey Walker!" exclaimed someone who had heard Jemmy declare the same thing half a dozen times--"and, indeed, ladies and gentlemen--hem--nothing but the werry great regard I have for Mr. Kitey Graves, who I have known and loved ever since he was the height of sixpennorth of coppers" a loud laugh followed this allusion, seeing that eighteenpenny-worth would almost measure out the speaker. On giving another "hem," and again pulling up his gills, an old Kentish farmer, in a brown coat and mahogany-coloured tops, holloaed out, "I say, sir! I'm afear'd you'll be catching cold!" "I 'opes not," replied Jemmy in a fluster, "is it raining? I've no umbrella, and my werry best coat on!" "No! raining, no!" replied the farmer, "only you've pulled at your shirt so long that I think you must be bare behind! Haw! haw! haw!" at which all the males roared with laughter, and the females hid their faces in their handkerchiefs, and tittered and giggled, and tried to be shocked. "ORDER! ORDER!" cried Mr. Jorrocks, in a loud and sonorous voice, which had the effect of quelling the riot and drawing all eyes upon himself. "Ladies and gentlemen," said he, taking off his cap with great gravity, and extending his right arm, Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense; a couplet so apropos, and so well delivered, as to have the immediate effect of restoring order and making the farmer look foolish. Encouraged by the voice of his great patron, Green once more essayed to finish his speech, which he did by a fresh assurance of the surprise by which he had been taken by the request of his friend, Kitey Graves, and an exhortation for the company to make allowance for any deficiency of "woice," inasmuch as how as labouring under "a wiolent 'orseness," for which he had long been taking pectoral lozenges. He then gave his gills another pull, felt if they were even, and struck up: "Bid me discourse," in notes, compared to which the screaming of a peacock would be perfect melody. Mr. Jorrocks having taken a conspicuous position, applauded long, loudly, and warmly, at every pause--approbation the more deserved and disinterested, inasmuch as the worthy gentleman suffers considerably from music, and only knows two tunes, one of which, he says, "is _God save the King_, and the other isn't."
Having seen his protégé fairly under way, Mr. Jorrocks gave him a hint that he would return to the "White Hart," and have supper ready by the time he was done; accordingly the Yorkshireman and he withdrew along an avenue politely formed by the separation of the company, who applauded as they passed.
An imperial quart and a half of Mr. Creed's stoutest draft port, with the orthodox proportion of lemon, cloves, sugar, and cinnamon, had almost boiled itself to perfection under the skilful superintendence of Mr. Jorrocks, on the coffee-room fire, and a table had been handsomely decorated with shrimps, lobsters, broiled bones, fried ham, poached eggs, when just as the clock had finished striking eleven, the coffee-room door opened with a rush, and in tripped Jemmy Green with his hands crammed full of packages, and his trousers' pockets sticking out like a Dutch burgomaster's. "Vell, I've done 'em brown to-night, I think," said he, depositing his hat and half a dozen packages on the sideboard, and running his fingers through his curls to make them stand up. "I've won nine lotteries, and left one undrawn when I came away, because it did not seem likely to fill. Let me see," said he, emptying his pockets,--"there is the beautiful rosewood box that I won, ven you was there; the next was a set of crimping-irons, vich I von also; the third was a jockey-vip, which I did not want and only stood one ticket for and lost; the fourth was this elegant box, with a view of Margate on the lid; then came these six sherry labels with silver rims; a snuff-box with an inwisible mouse; a coral rattle with silver bells; a silk yard measure in a walnut-shell; a couple of West India beetles; a humming-bird in a glass case, which I lost; and then these dozen bodkins with silver eyes--so that altogether I have made a pretty good night's work of it. Kitey Graves wasn't in great force, so after I had sung _Bid me Discourse_, and _I'd be a Butterfly_, I cut my stick and went to the hopposition shop, where they used me much more genteelly; giving me three tickets for a song, and introducing me in more flattering terms to the company--don't like being considered one of the nasty 'reglars,' and they should make a point of explaining that one isn't. Besides, what business had Kitey to say anything about Bagnigge Vells? a hass! --Now, perhaps, you'll favour me with some supper."
"Certainly," replied Mr. Jorrocks, patting Jemmy approvingly on the head--"you deserve some. It's only no song, no supper, and you've been singing like a nightingale;" thereupon they set to with vigorous determination.
A bright Sunday dawned, and the beach at an early hour was crowded with men in dressing-gowns of every shape, hue, and material, with buff slippers--the "regulation Margate shoeing," both for men and women. As the hour of eleven approached, and the church bells began to ring, the town seemed to awaken suddenly from a trance, and bonnets the most superb, and dresses the most extravagant, poured forth from lodgings the most miserable. Having shaved and dressed himself with more than ordinary care and attention, Mr. Jorrocks walked his friends off to church, assuring them that no one need hope to prosper throughout the week who did not attend it on the Sunday, and he marked his own devotion throughout the service by drowning the clerk's voice with his responses. After this spiritual ablution Mr. Jorrocks bethought himself of having a bodily one in the sea; and the day being excessively hot, and the tide about the proper mark, he pocketed a couple of towels out of his bedroom and went away to bathe, leaving Green and the Yorkshireman to amuse themselves at the "White Hart."
This house, as we have already stated, faces the harbour, and is a corner one, running a considerable way up the next street, with a side door communicating, as well as the front one, with the coffee-room. This room differs from the generality of coffee-rooms, inasmuch as the windows range the whole length of the room, and being very low they afford every facility for the children and passers-by to inspect the interior. Whether this is done to show the Turkey carpet, the pea-green cornices, the bright mahogany slips of tables, the gay trellised geranium-papered room, or the aristocratic visitors who frequent it, is immaterial--the description is as accurate as if George Robins had drawn it himself. In this room then, as the Yorkshireman and Green were lying dozing on three chairs apiece, each having fallen asleep to avoid the trouble of talking to the other, they were suddenly roused by loud yells and hootings at the side door, and the bursting into the coffee-room of what at first brush they thought must be a bull. The Yorkshireman jumped up, rubbed his eyes, and lo! before him stood Mr. Jorrocks, puffing like a stranded grampus, with a bunch of sea-weed under his arm and the dress in which he had started, with the exception of the dark blue stocking-net pantaloons, the place of which were supplied by a flowing white linen kilt, commonly called a shirt, in the four corners of which were knotted a few small pebbles--producing, with the Hessian boots and one thing and another, the most laughable figure imaginable. The blood of the Jorrockses was up, however, and throwing his hands in the air, he thus delivered himself. "Oh gentlemen! gentlemen! --here's a lamentable occurrence--a terrible disaster--oh dear! oh dear! --I never thought I should come to this. You know, James Green," appealing to Jemmy, "that I never was the man to raise a blush on the cheek of modesty; I have always said that 'want of decency is want of sense,' and see how I am rewarded! Oh dear! oh dear! that I should ever have trusted my pantaloons out of my sight." While all this, which was the work of a moment, was going forward, the mob, which had been shut out at the side door on Jorrocks's entry, had got round to the coffee-room window, and were all wedging their faces in to have a sight of him. It was principally composed of children, who kept up the most discordant yells, mingled with shouts of "there's old cutty shirt!" --"who's got your breeches, old cock?" --"make a scramble!" --"turn him out for another hunt!" --"turn him again!" --until, fearing for the respectability of his house, the landlord persuaded Mr. Jorrocks to retire into the bar to state his grievances. It then appeared that having travelled along the coast, as far as the first preventive stationhouse on the Ramsgate side of Margate, the grocer had thought it a convenient place for performing his intended ablutions, and, accordingly, proceeded to do what all people of either sex agree upon in such cases--namely to divest himself of his garments; but before he completed the ceremony, observing some females on the cliffs above, and not being (as he said) a man "to raise a blush on the cheek of modesty," he advanced to the water's edge in his aforesaid unmentionables, and forgetting that it was not yet high tide, he left them there, when they were speedily covered, and the pockets being full of silver and copper, of course they were "swamped." After dabbling about in the water and amusing himself with picking up sea-weed for about ten minutes, Mr. Jorrocks was horrified, on returning to the spot where he thought he had left his stocking-net pantaloons, to find that they had disappeared; and after a long fruitless search, the unfortunate gentleman was compelled to abandon the pursuit, and render himself an object of chase to all the little boys and girls who chose to follow him into Margate on his return without them.
Jorrocks, as might be expected, was very bad about his loss, and could not get over it--it stuck in his gizzard, he said--and there it seemed likely to remain. In vain Mr. Creed offered him a pair of trousers--he never had worn a pair. In vain he asked for the loan of a pair of white cords and top-boots, or even drab shorts and continuations. Mr. Creed was no sportsman, and did not keep any. The bellman could not cry the lost unmentionables because it was Sunday, and even if they should be found on the ebbing of the tide, they would take no end of time to dry. Mr. Jorrocks declared his pleasure at an end, and forthwith began making inquiries as to the best mode of getting home. The coaches were all gone, steamboats there were none, save for every place but London, and posting, he said, was "cruelly expensive." In the midst of his dilemma, "Boots," who is always the most intelligent man about an inn, popped in his curly head, and informed Mr. Jorrocks that the Unity hoy, a most commodious vessel, neat, trim, and water-tight, manned by his own maternal uncle, was going to cut away to London at three o'clock, and would land him before he could say "Jack Robinson." Mr. Jorrocks jumped at the offer, and forthwith attiring himself in a pair of Mr. Creed's loose inexpressibles, over which he drew his Hessian boots, he tucked the hamper containing the knuckle of veal and other etceteras under one arm, and the bunch of sea-weed he had been busy collecting, instead of watching his clothes, under the other, and, followed by his friends, made direct for the vessel.
Everybody knows, or ought to know, what a hoy is--it is a large sailing-boat, sometimes with one deck, sometimes with none; and the Unity, trading in bulky goods, was of the latter description, though there was a sort of dog-hole at the stern, which the master dignified by the name of a "state cabin," into which he purposed putting Mr. Jorrocks, if the weather should turn cold before they arrived. The wind, however, he said, was so favourable, and his cargo--"timber and fruit," as he described it, that is to say, broomsticks and potatoes--so light, that he warranted landing him at Blackwall at least by ten o'clock, where he could either sleep, or get a short stage or an omnibus on to Leadenhall Street. The vessel looked anything but tempting, neither was the captain's appearance prepossessing, still Mr. Jorrocks, all things considered, thought he would chance it; and depositing his hamper and sea-weed, and giving special instructions about having his pantaloons cried in the morning--recounting that besides the silver, and eighteen-pence in copper, there was a steel pencil-case with "J.J." on the seal at the top, an anonymous letter, and two keys--he took an affectionate leave of his friends, and stepped on board, the vessel was shoved off and stood out to sea.
Monday morning drew the cockneys from their roosts betimes, to take their farewell splash and dive in the sea. As the day advanced, the bustle and confusion on the shore and in the town increased, and everyone seemed on the move. The ladies paid their last visits to the bazaars and shell shops, and children extracted the last ounce of exertion from the exhausted leg-weary donkeys. Meanwhile the lords of the creation strutted about, some in dressing-gowns, others, "full puff," with bags and boxes under their arms--while sturdy porters were wheeling barrows full of luggage to the jetty. The bell-man went round dressed in a blue and red cloak, with a gold hatband. Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong, went the bell, and the gaping cockneys congregated around. He commenced--"To be sould in the market-place a quantity of fresh ling." Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong: "The _Royal Adelaide_, fast and splendid steam-packet, Capt. Whittingham, will leave the pier this morning at nine o'clock precisely, and land the passengers at London Bridge Steam-packet Wharf--fore cabin fares and children four shillings--saloon five shillings." Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong: "The superb and splendid steam-packet, the _Magnet_, will leave the pier this morning at nine o'clock precisely, and land the passengers at the St. Catherine Docks--fore-cabin fares and children four shillings--saloon five shillings." Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong: "Lost at the back of James Street--a lady's black silk--black lace wale--whoever has found the same, and will bring it to the cryer, shall receive one shilling reward." Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong: "Lost, last night, between the jetty and the York Hotel, a little boy, as answers to the name of Spot, whoever has found the same, and will bring him to the cryer, shall receive a reward of half-a-crown." Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong: "Lost, stolen, or strayed, or otherwise conveyed, a brown-and-white King Charles's setter as answers to the name of Jacob Jones. Whoever has found the same, or will give such information as shall lead to the detection and conversion of the offender or offenders shall be handsomely rewarded." Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong: "Lost below the prewentive sarvice station by a gentleman of great respectability--a pair of blue knit pantaloons, containing eighteen penny-worth of copper--a steel pencil-case--a werry anonymous letter, and two keys. Whoever will bring the same to the cryer shall receive a reward. --_God save the King!" _ Then, as the hour of nine approached, what a concourse appeared! There were fat and lean, and short and tall, and middling, going away, and fat and lean, and short and tall, and middling, waiting to see them off; Green, as usual, making himself conspicuous, and canvassing everyone he could lay hold of for the _Magnet_ steamer. At the end of the jetty, on each side, lay the _Royal Adelaide_ and the _Magnet_, with as fierce a contest for patronage as ever was witnessed. Both decks were crowded with anxious faces--for the Monday's steamboat race is as great an event as a Derby, and a cockney would as lieve lay on an outside horse as patronise a boat that was likely to let another pass her. Nay, so high is the enthusiasm carried, that books are regularly made on the occasion, and there is as much clamour for bets as in the ring at Epsom or Newmarket. "Tomkins, I'll lay you a dinner--for three--_Royal Adelaide_ against the _Magnet_," bawled Jenkins from the former boat. "Done," cries Tomkins. "The _Magnet_ for a bottle of port," bawled out another. "A whitebait dinner for two, the _Magnet_ reaches Greenwich first." "What should you know about the _Magnet_?" inquires the mate of the _Royal Adelaide_. "Vy, I think I should know something about nauticals too, for Lord St. Wincent was my godfather." "I'll bet five shillings on the _Royal Adelaide." _ "I'll take you," says another. "I'll bet a bottom of brandy on the _Magnet_," roars out the mate. "Two goes of Hollands', the _Magnet's_ off Herne Bay before the _Royal Adelaide." _ "I'll lay a pair of crimping-irons against five shillings, the _Magnet_ beats the _Royal Adelaide_," bellowed out Green, who having come on board, had mounted the paddle-box. "I say, Green, I'll lay you an even five if you like." "Well, five pounds," cries Green. "No, shillings," says his friend. "Never bet in shillings," replies Green, pulling up his shirt collar. "I'll bet fifty pounds," he adds,-getting valiant. "I'll bet a hundred ponds--a thousand pounds--a million pounds--half the National Debt, if you like."
Precisely as the jetty clock finishes striking nine, the ropes are slipped, and the rival steamers stand out to sea with beautiful precision, amid the crying, the kissing of hands, the raising of hats, the waving of handkerchiefs, from those who are left for the week, while the passengers are cheered by adverse tunes from the respective bands on board. The _Magnet_, having the outside, gets the breeze first hand, but the _Royal Adelaide_ keeps well alongside, and both firemen being deeply interested in the event, they boil up a tremendous gallop, without either being able to claim the slightest advantage for upwards of an hour and a half, when the _Royal Adelaide_ manages to shoot ahead for a few minutes, amid the cheers and exclamations of her crew. The _Magnet's_ fireman, however, is on the alert, and a few extra pokes of the fire presently bring the boats together again, in which state they continue, nose and nose, until the stiller water of the side of the Thames favours the _Magnet_, and she shoots ahead amid the cheers and vociferations of her party, and is not neared again during the voyage.
This excitement over, the respective crews sink into a sort of melancholy sedateness, and Green in vain endeavours to kick up a quadrille. The men were exhausted and the women dispirited, and altogether they were a very different set of beings to what they were on the Saturday. Dull faces and dirty-white ducks were the order of the day.
The only incident of the voyage was, that on approaching the mouth of the Medway, the _Royal Adelaide_ was hailed by a vessel, and the Yorkshireman, on looking overboard, was shocked to behold Mr. Jorrocks sitting in the stern of his hoy in the identical position he had taken up the previous day, with his bunch of sea-weed under his elbow, and the remains of the knuckle of veal, ham, and chicken, spread on the hamper before him. "Stop her?" cried the Yorkshireman, and then hailing Mr. Jorrocks he holloaed out, "In the name of the prophet, Figs, what are you doing there?" "Oh, gentlemen! gentlemen!" exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, brightening up as he recognised the boat, "take compassion on a most misfortunate indiwidual--here have I been in this 'orrid 'oy, ever since three o'clock yesterday afternoon and here I seem likely to end my days--for blow me tight if I couldn't swim as fast as it goes." "Look sharp, then," cried the mate of the steamer, "and chuck us up your luggage." Up went the sea-weed, the hamper, and Mr. Jorrocks; and before the hoyman awoke out of a nap, into which he had composed himself on resigning the rudder to his lad, our worthy citizen was steaming away a mile before his vessel, bilking him of his fare.
Who does not recognise in this last disaster, the truth of the old adage?
"Most haste, least speed."
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{
"id": "15387"
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8
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THE ROAD: ENGLISH AND FRENCH.
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"Jorrocks's France, in three wolumes, would sound werry well," observed our worthy citizen, one afternoon, to his confidential companion the Yorkshireman, as they sat in the veranda in Coram Street, eating red currants and sipping cold whiskey punch; "and I thinks I could make something of it. They tells me that at the 'west end' the booksellers will give forty pounds for anything that will run into three wolumes, and one might soon pick up as much matter as would stretch into that quantity."
The above observation was introduced in a long conversation between Mr. Jorrocks and his friend, relative to an indignity that had been offered him by the rejection by the editor of a sporting periodical of a long treatise on eels, which, independently of the singularity of diction, had become so attenuated in the handling, as to have every appearance of filling three whole numbers of the work; and Mr. Jorrocks had determined to avenge the insult by turning author on his own account. The Yorkshireman, ever ready for amusement, cordially supported Mr. Jorrocks in his views, and a bargain was soon struck between them, the main stipulations of which were, that Mr. Jorrocks should find cash, and the Yorkshireman should procure information.
Accordingly, on the Saturday after, the nine o'clock Dover heavy drew up at the "Bricklayers' Arms," with Mr. Jorrocks on the box seat, and the Yorkshireman imbedded among the usual heterogeneous assembly--soldiers, sailors, Frenchmen, fishermen, ladies' maids, and footmen--that compose the cargo of these coaches. Here they were assailed with the usual persecution from the tribe of Israel, in the shape of a hundred merchants, proclaiming the virtues of their wares; one with black-lead pencils, twelve a shilling, with an invitation to "cut 'em and try 'em"; another with a good pocket-knife, "twelve blades and saw, sir"; a third, with a tame squirrel and a piping bullfinch, that could whistle _God save the King_ and the _White Cockade_--to be given for an old coat. "Buy a silver guard-chain for your vatch, sir!" cried a dark eyed urchin, mounting the fore-wheel, and holding a bunch of them in Mr. Jorrocks's face; "buy pocket-book, memorandum-book!" whined another. "Keepsake--Forget-me-not--all the last year's annuals at half-price!" "Sponge cheap, sponge! take a piece, sir--take a piece." "Patent leather straps." "Barcelona nuts. Slippers. _Morning Hurl (Herald). _ Rhubarb. 'Andsome dog-collar, sir, cheap! --do to fasten your wife up with!"
"Stand clear, ye warmints!" cries the coachman, elbowing his way among them--and, remounting the box, he takes the whip and reins out of Mr. Jorrocks's hands, cries "All right behind? sit tight!" and off they go.
The day was fine, and the hearts of all seemed light and gay. The coach, though slow, was clean and smart, the harness bright and well-polished, while the sleek brown horses poked their heads about at ease, without the torture of the bearing-rein. The coachman, like his vehicle, was heavy, and had he been set on all fours, a party of six might have eat off his back. Thus they proceeded at a good steady substantial sort of pace; trotting on level ground, walking up hills, and dragging down inclines. Nor among the whole party was there a murmur of discontent at the pace. Most of the passengers seemed careless which way they went, so long as they did but move, and they rolled through the Garden of England with the most stoical indifference. We know not whether it has ever struck the reader, but the travellers by Dover coaches are less captious about pace than those on most others.
And now let us fancy our friends up, and down, Shooter's Hill, through Dartford, Northfleet, and Gravesend--at which latter place, the first foreign symptom appears, in words, "Poste aux Chevaux," on the door-post of the inn; and let us imagine them bowling down Rochester Hill at a somewhat amended pace, with the old castle, by the river Medway, the towns of Chatham, Strood and Rochester full before them, and the finely wooded country extending round in pleasing variety of hill and dale. As they reach the foot of the hill, the guard commences a solo on his bugle, to give notice to the innkeeper to have the coach dinner on the table. All huddled together, inside and out, long passengers and short ones, they cut across the bridge, rattle along the narrow street, sparking the mud from the newly-watered streets on the shop windows and passengers on each side, and pull up at the "Pig and Crossbow," with a jerk and a dash as though they had been travelling at the rate of twelve miles an hour. Two other coaches are "dining," while some few passengers, whose "hour is not yet come," sit patiently on the roof, or pace up and down the street with short and hurried turns, anxious to see the horses brought out that are to forward them on their journey. And what a commotion this new arrival creates! From the arched doorway of the inn issue two chamber-maids, one in curls the other in a cap; Boots, with both curls and a cap, and a ladder in his hand; a knock-kneed waiter, with a dirty duster, to count noses, while the neat landlady, in a spruce black silk gown and clean white apron, stands smirking, smiling, and rubbing her hands down her sides, inveigling the passengers into the house, where she will turn them over to the waiters to take their chance the instant she gets them in. About the door the usual idlers are assembled. --A coachman out of place, a beggar out at the elbows, a sergeant in uniform, and three recruits with ribbons in their hats; a captain with his boots cut for corns, the coachman that is to drive to Dover, a youth in a straw hat and a rowing shirt, the little inquisitive old man of the place--who sees all the midday coaches change horses, speculates on the passengers and sees who the parcels are for--and, though last but not least, Mr. Bangup, the "varmint" man, the height of whose ambition is to be taken for a coachman. As the coach pulled up, he was in the bar taking a glass of cold sherry "without" and a cigar, which latter he brings out lighted in his mouth, with his shaved white hat stuck knowingly on one side, and the thumbs of his brown hands thrust into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, throwing back his single breasted fancy buttoned green coat, and showing a cream coloured cravat, fastened with a gold coach-and-four pin, which, with a buff waistcoat and tight drab trousers buttoning over the boot, complete his "toggery," as he would call it. His whiskers are large and riotous in the extreme, while his hair is clipped as close as a charity schoolboy's. The coachman and he are on the best of terms, as the outward twist of their elbows and jerks of the head on meeting testify. His conversation is short and slangy, accompanied with the correct nasal twang. After standing and blowing a few puffs, during which time the passengers have all alighted, and the coachman has got through the thick of his business, he takes the cigar out of his mouth, and, spitting on the flags, addresses his friend with, "Y've got the old near-side leader back from Joe, I see." "Yes, Mr. Bangup, yes," replies his friend, "but I had some work first--our gov'rnor was all for the change--at last, says I to our 'osskeeper, says I, it arn't no use your harnessing that 'ere roan for me any more, for as how I von't drive him, so it's not to no use harnessing of him, for I von't be gammon'd out of my team not by none on them, therefore it arn't to never no use harnessing of him again for me." "So you did 'em," observes Mr. Bangup. "Lord bless ye, yes! it warn't to no use aggravising about it, for says I, I von't stand it, so it warn't to no manner of use harnessing of him again for me." "Come, Smith, what are you chaffing there about?" inquires the landlord, coming out with the wide-spread way-bill in his hands, "have you two insides?" "No, gov'rnor, I has but von, and that's precious empty, haw! haw! haw!" "Well, but now get Brown to blow his horn early, and you help to hurry the passengers away from my grub, and may be I'll give you your dinner for your trouble," replies the landlord, reckoning he would save both his meat and his horses by the experiment. "Ay, there goes the dinner!" added he, just as Mr. Jorrocks's voice was heard inside the "Pig and Crossbow," giving a most tremendous roar for his food. --"Pork at the top, and pork at the bottom," the host observes to the waiter in passing, "and mind, put the joints before the women--they are slow carvers."
While the foregoing scene was enacting outside, our travellers had been driven through the passage into a little, dark, dingy room at the back of the house, with a dirty, rain-bespattered window, looking against a whitewashed blank wall. The table, which was covered with a thrice-used cloth, was set out with lumps of bread, knives, and two and three pronged forks laid alternately. Altogether it was anything but inviting, but coach passengers are very complacent; and on the Dover road it matters little if they are not. The bustle of preparation was soon over. Coats No. 1, No. 2, and No. 3, are taken off in succession, for some people wear top-coats to keep out the "heat"; chins are released from their silken jeopardy, hats are hid in corners, and fur caps thrust into pockets of the owners. Inside passengers eye outside ones with suspicion, while a deaf gentleman, who has left his trumpet in the coach, meets an acquaintance whom he has not seen for seven years, and can only shake hands and grin to the movements of the lips of the speaker. "You find it very warm inside, I should think, sir?" "Thank ye, thank ye, my good friend; I'm rayther deaf, but I presume you're inquiring after my wife and daughters--they are very well, I thank ye." "Where will you sit at dinner?" rejoins the first speaker, in hopes of a more successful hit. "It is two years since I saw him." "No; where will you sit, sir? I said." "Oh, John? I beg your pardon--I'm rayther deaf--he's in Jamaica with his regiment." "Come, waiter, BRING DINNER!" roared Mr. Jorrocks, at the top of his voice, being the identical shout that was heard outside, and presently the two dishes of pork, a couple of ducks, and a lump of half-raw, sadly mangled, cold roast beef, with waxy potatoes and overgrown cabbages, were scattered along the table. "What a beastly dinner!" exclaims an inside dandy, in a sable-collared frock-coat--"the whole place reeks with onions and vulgarity. Waiter, bring me a silver fork!" "Allow me to duck you, ma'am?" inquires an outside passenger, in a facetious tone, of a female in a green silk cloak, as he turns the duck over in the dish. "Thank you, sir, but I've some pork coming." "Will you take some of this thingumbob?" turning a questionable-looking pig's countenance over in its pewter bed. "You are in considerable danger, my friend--you are in considerable danger," drawls forth the superfine insider to an outsider opposite. "How's that?" inquires the former in alarm. "Why, you are eating with your knife, and you are in considerable danger of cutting your mouth". --What is the matter at the far end of the table? --a lady in russet brown, with a black velvet bonnet and a feather, in convulsions. "She's choking by Jove! hit her on the back--gently, gently--she's swallowed a fish-bone." "I'll lay five to two she dies," cries Mr. Bolus, the sporting doctor of Sittingbourne. She coughs--up comes a couple of tooth-picks, she having drunk off a green glass of them in mistake.
"Now hark'e, waiter! there's the guard blowing his horn, and we have scarcely had a bite apiece," cries Mr. Jorrocks, as that functionary sounded his instrument most energetically in the passage; "blow me tight, if I stir before the full half-hour's up, so he may blow till he's black in the face." "Take some cheese, sir?" inquires the waiter. "No, surely not, some more pork, and then some tarts". "Sorry, sir, we have no tarts we can recommend. Cheese is partiklar good." [Enter coachman, peeled down to a more moderate-sized man.]
"Leaves ye here, if you please, sur." "With all my heart, my good friend." "Please to remember the coachman--driv ye thirty miles." "Yes, but you'll recollect how saucy you were about my wife's bonnet-box there's sixpence between us for you." "Oh, sur! I'm sure I didn't mean no unpurliteness. I 'opes you'll forget it; it was werry aggravising, certainly, but driv ye thirty miles. 'Opes you'll give a trifle more, thirty miles." "No, no, no more; so be off." "Please to remember the coachman, ma'am, thirty miles!" "Leaves ye here, sir, if you please; goes no further, sir; thirty miles, ma'am; all the vay from Lunnun, sir."
A loud flourish on the bugle caused the remainder of the gathering to be made in dumb show, and having exhausted his wind, the guard squeezed through the door, and, with an extremely red face, assured the company that "time was hup" and the "coach quite ready." Then out came the purses, brown, green, and blue, with the usual inquiry, "What's dinner, waiter?" "Two and six, dinner, beer, three,--two and nine yours," replied the knock-kneed caitiff to the first inquirer, pushing a blue-and-white plate under his nose; "yours is three and six, ma'am;--two glasses of brandy-and-water, four shillings, if you please sir--a bottle of real Devonshire cider." --"You must change me a sovereign," handing one out. "Certainly, sir," upon which the waiter, giving it a loud ring upon the table, ran out of the room. "Now, gentlemen and ladies! pray, come, time's hup--carn't wait--must go"--roars the guard, as the passengers shuffle themselves into their coats, cloaks, and cravats, and Joe "Boots" runs up the passage with the ladder for the lady. "Now, my dear Mrs. Sprat, good-bye. --God bless you, and remember me most kindly to your husband and dear little ones --and pray, write soon," says an elderly lady, as she hugs and kisses a youngish one at the door, who has been staying with her for a week, during which time they have quarrelled regularly every night. "Have you all your things, dearest? three boxes, five parcels, an umbrella, a parasol, the cage for Tommy's canary, and the bundle in the red silk handkerchief--then good-bye, my beloved, step up--and now, Mr. Guard, you know where to set her down." "Good-bye, dearest Mrs. Jackson, all right, thank you," replies Mrs. Sprat, stepping up the ladder, and adjusting herself in the gammon board opposite the guard, the seat the last comer generally gets. --"But stay! I've forgot my reticule--it's on the drawers in the bedroom--stop, coachman! I say, guard!" "Carn't wait, ma'am--time's hup"--and just at this moment a two-horse coach is heard stealing up the street, upon which the coachman calls to the horse-keepers to "stand clear with their cloths, and take care no one pays them twice over," gives a whistling hiss to his leaders, the double thong to his wheelers, and starts off at a trot, muttering something about, "cuss'd pair-'oss coach,--convict-looking passengers," observing confidentially to Mr. Jorrocks, as he turned the angle of the street, "that he would rather be hung off a long stage, than die a natural death on a short one," while the guard drowns the voices of the lady who has left her reticule, and of the gentleman who has got no change for his sovereign, in a hearty puff of: Rule Britannia,--Britannia rule the waves. Britons, never, never, never, shall be slaves!
Blithely and merrily, like all coach passengers after feeding, our party rolled steadily along, with occasional gibes at those they met or passed, such as telling waggoners their linch-pins were out; carters' mates, there were nice pocket-knives lying on the road; making urchins follow the coach for miles by holding up shillings and mock parcels; or simple equestrians dismount in a jiffy on telling them their horses' shoes were not all on "before." [19] Towards the decline of the day, Dover heights appeared in view, with the stately castle guarding the Channel, which seen through the clear atmosphere of an autumnal evening, with the French coast conspicuous in the distance, had more the appearance of a wide river than a branch of the sea.
[Footnote 19: This is more of a hunting-field joke than a road one. "Have I all my shoes on?" "They are not all on before."]
The coachman mended his pace a little, as he bowled along the gentle descents or rounded the base of some lofty hill, and pulling up at Lydden took a glass of soda-water and brandy, while four strapping greys, with highly-polished, richly-plated harness, and hollyhocks at their heads, were put to, to trot the last few miles into Dover. Paying-time being near, the guard began to do the amiable--hoped Mrs. Sprat had ridden comfortable; and the coachman turned to the gentleman whose sovereign was left behind to assure him he would bring his change the next day, and was much comforted by the assurance that he was on his way to Italy for the winter. As the coach approached Charlton Gate, the guard flourished his bugle and again struck up _Rule Britannia_, which lasted the whole breadth of the market-place, and length of Snargate Street, drawing from Mr. Muddle's shop the few loiterers who yet remained, and causing Mr. Le Plastrier, the patriotic moth-impaler, to suspend the examination of the bowels of a watch, as they rattled past his window.
At the door of the "Ship Hotel" the canary-coloured coach of Mr. Wright, the landlord, with four piebald horses, was in waiting for him to take his evening drive, and Mrs. Wright's pony phaeton, with a neat tiger in a blue frock-coat and leathers, was also stationed behind to convey her a few miles on the London road. Of course the equipages of such important personages could not be expected to move for a common stage-coach, consequently it pulled up a few yards from the door. It is melancholy to think that so much spirit should have gone unrewarded, or in other words, that Mr. Wright should have gone wrong in his affairs. --Mrs. Ramsbottom said she never understood the meaning of the term, "The Crown, and Bill of Rights (Wright's)," until she went to Rochester. Many people, we doubt not, retain a lively recollection of the "bill of Wright's of Dover." But to our travellers.
"Now, sir! this be Dover, that be the Ship, I be the coachman, and we goes no further," observed the amphibious-looking coachman, in a pea-jacket and top-boots, to Mr. Jorrocks, who still kept his seat on the box, as if he expected, that because they booked people "through to Paris," at the coach office in London, that the vehicle crossed the Channel and conveyed them on the other side. At this intimation, Mr. Jorrocks clambered down, and was speedily surrounded by touts and captains of vessels soliciting his custom. " _Bonjour,_ me Lor'," said a gaunt French sailor in ear-rings, and a blue-and-white jersey shirt, taking off a red nightcap with mock politeness, "you shall be cross." "What's that about?" inquires Mr. Jorrocks--"cross! what does the chap mean?" "Ten shillin', just, me Lor'," replied the man. "Cross for ten shillings," muttered Mr. Jorrocks, "vot does the Mouncheer mean? Hope he hasn't picked my pocket." "I--you--vill," said the sailor slowly, using his fingers to enforce his meaning, "take to France," pointing south, "for ten shillin' in my _bateau_, me Lor," continued the sailor, with a grin of satisfaction as he saw Mr. Jorrocks began to comprehend him. "Ah! I twig--you'll take me across the water." said our citizen chuckling at the idea of understanding French and being called a Lord--"for ten shillings--half-sovereign in fact." "Don't go with him, sir," interrupted a Dutch-built English tar; "he's got nothing but a lousy lugger that will be all to-morrow in getting over, if it ever gets at all; and the _Royal George_, superb steamer, sails with a King's Messenger and dispatches for all the foreign courts at half-past ten, and must be across by twelve, whether it can or not." "Please take a card for the _Brocklebank_--quickest steamer out of Dover--wind's made expressly to suit her, and she can beat the _Royal George_ like winking. Passengers never sick in the most uproarious weather," cried another tout, running the corner of his card into Mr. Jorrocks's eye to engage his attention. Then came the captain of the French mail-packet, who was dressed much like a new policeman, with an embroidered collar to his coat, and a broad red band round a forage cap which he raised with great politeness, as he entreated Mr. Jorrocks's patronage of his high-pressure engine, "vich had beat a balloon, and vod take him for half less than noting." A crowd collected, in the centre of which stood Mr. Jorrocks perfectly unmoved, with his wig awry and his carpet-bag under his arm. "Gentlemen," said he, extending his right hand, "you seem to me to be desperately civil--your purliteness appears to know no bounds--but, to be candid with you, I beg to say that whoever will carry me across the herring pond cheapest shall have my custom, so now begin and bid downwards." "Nine shillings," said an Englishman directly--"eight" replied a Frenchman--"seven and sixpence"--"seven shillings"--"six and sixpence"--"six shillings"--"five and sixpence"; at last it came down to five shillings, at which there were two bidders, the French captain and the tout of the _Royal George_,--and Mr. Jorrocks, like a true born Briton, promised his patronage to the latter, at which the Frenchmen shrugged up their shoulders, and burst out a-laughing, one calling him, "my Lor' Ros-bif," and the other "Monsieur God-dem," as they walked off in search of other victims.
None but the natives of Dover can tell what the weather is, unless the wind comes directly off the sea, and it was not until Mr. Jorrocks proceeded to embark after breakfast the next morning, that he ascertained there was a heavy swell on, so quiet had the heights kept the gambols of Boreas. Three steamers were simmering into action on the London-hotel side of the harbour, in one of which--the _Royal George_--two britzkas and a barouche were lashed ready for sea, while the custom-house porters were trundling barrows full of luggage under the personal superintendence of a little shock-headed French commissionnaire of Mr. Wright's in a gold-laced cap, and the other gentry of the same profession from the different inns. As the _Royal George_ lay nearly level with the quay, Mr. Jorrocks stepped on board without troubling himself to risk his shins among the steps of a ladder that was considerately thrust into the place of embarkation; and as soon as he set foot upon deck, of course he was besieged by the usual myriad of land sharks. First came Monsieur the Commissionnaire with his book, out of which he enumerated two portmanteaus and two carpet-bags, for each of which he made a specific charge leaving his own gratuity optional with his employer; then came Mr. Boots to ask for something for showing them the way; after him the porter of the inn for carrying their cloaks and great-coats, all of which Mr. Jorrocks submitted to, most philosophically, but when the interpreter of the deaf and dumb ladder man demanded something for the use of the ladder, his indignation got the better of him and he exclaimed loud enough to be heard by all on deck, "Surely you wouldn't charge a man for what he has not enjoyed!"
A voyage is to many people like taking an emetic--they look at the medicine and wish it well over, and look at the sea and wish themselves well over. Everything looked bright and gay at Dover--the cliffs seemed whiter than ever--the sailors had on clean trousers, and the few people that appeared in the streets were dressed in their Sunday best. The cart-horses were seen feeding leisurely on the hills, and there was a placid calmness about everything on shore, which the travellers would fain have had extended to the sea. They came slowly and solemnly upon deck, muffled up in cloaks and coats, some with their passage money in their hands, and took their places apparently with the full expectation of being sick.
The French packet-boat first gave symptoms of animation, in the shape of a few vigorous puffs from the boiler, which were responded to by the _Royal George_, whose rope was slipped without the usual tinkle of the bell, and she shot out to sea, closely followed by the Frenchman, who was succeeded by the other English boat. Three or four tremendous long protracted dives, each followed by a majestic rise on the bosom of the waves, denoted the crossing of the bar; and just as the creaking of the cordage, the flapping of the sails, and the nervous quivering of the paddles, as they lost their hold of the water, were in full vigour, the mate crossed the deck with a large white basin in his hand, the sight of which turned the stomachs of half the passengers. Who shall describe the misery that ensued? The groans and moans of the sufferers, increasing every minute, as the vessel heaved and dived, and rolled and creaked, while hand-basins multiplied as half-sick passengers caught the green countenance and fixed eye of some prostrate sufferer and were overcome themselves.
Mr. Jorrocks, what with his Margate trips, and a most substantial breakfast of beef-steaks and porter, tea, eggs, muffins, prawns, and fried ham, held out as long as anybody--indeed, at one time the odds were that he would not be sick at all; and he kept walking up and down deck like a true British tar. In one of his turns he was observed to make a full stop. --Immediately before the boiler his eye caught a cadaverous-looking countenance that rose between the top of a blue camlet cloak, and the bottom of a green travelling-cap, with a large patent-leather peak; he was certain that he knew it, and, somehow or other, he thought, not favourably. The passenger was in that happy mood just debating whether he should hold out against sickness any longer, or resign himself unreservedly to its horrors, when Mr. Jorrocks's eye encountered his, and the meeting did not appear to contribute to his happiness. Mr. Jorrocks paused and looked at him steadily for some seconds, during which time his thoughts made a rapid cast over his memory. "Sergeant Bumptious, by gum!" exclaimed he, giving his thigh a hearty slap, as the deeply indented pock-marks on the learned gentleman's face betrayed his identity. "Sergeant," said he, going up to him, "I'm werry 'appy to see ye--may be in the course of your practice at Croydon you've heard that there are more times than one to catch a thief." "Who are you?" inquired the sergeant with a growl, just at which moment the boat gave a roll, and he wound up the inquiry by a donation to the fishes. "Who am I?" replied Mr. Jorrocks, as soon as he was done, "I'll soon tell ye that--I'm Mr. JORROCKS! Jorrocks wersus Cheatum, in fact--now that you have got your bullying toggery off, I'll be 'appy to fight ye either by land or sea." "Oh-h-h-h!" groaned the sergeant at the mention of the latter word, and thereupon he put his head over the boat and paid his second subscription. Mr. Jorrocks stood eyeing him, and when the sergeant recovered, he observed with apparent mildness and compassion, "Now, my dear sergeant, to show ye that I can return good for evil, allow me to fatch you a nice 'ot mutton chop!" "Oh-h-h-h-h!" groaned the sergeant, as though he would die. "Or perhaps you'd prefer a cut of boiled beef with yellow fat, and a dab of cabbage?" an alternative which was too powerful for the worthy citizen himself--for, like Sterne with his captive, he had drawn a picture that his own imagination could not sustain--and, in attempting to reach the side of the boat, he cascaded over the sergeant, and they rolled over each other, senseless and helpless upon deck.
"Mew, mew," screamed the seagulls;--"creak, creak," went the cordage;--"flop, flop," went the sails; round went the white basins, and the steward with the mop; and few passengers would have cared to have gone overboard, when, at the end of three hours' misery, the captain proclaimed that they were running into still water off Boulogne. This intimation was followed by the collection of the passage money by the mate, and the jingling of a tin box by the steward, under the noses of the party, for perquisites for the crew. Jorrocks and the sergeant lay together like babes in the wood until they were roused by this operation, when, with a parting growl at his companion, Mr. Jorrocks got up; and though he had an idea in his own mind that a man had better live abroad all his life than encounter such misery as he had undergone, for the purpose of returning to England, he recollected his intended work upon France, and began to make his observations upon the town of Boulogne, towards which the vessel was rapidly steaming. "Not half so fine as Margate," said he; "the houses seem all afraid of the sea, and turn their ends to it instead of fronting it, except yon great white place, which I suppose is the baths"; and, taking his hunting telescope out of his pocket, he stuck out his legs and prepared to make an observation. "How the people are swarming down to see us!" he exclaimed. "I see such a load of petticoats--glad Mrs. J---- ain't with us; may have some fun here, I guess. Dear me, wot lovely women! wot ankles! beat the English, hollow--would give something to be a single man!" While he made these remarks, the boat ran up the harbour in good style, to the evident gratification of the multitude who lined the pier from end to end, and followed her in her passage. "Ease her! stop her!" at last cried the captain, as she got opposite a low wooden guard-house, midway down the port. A few strokes of the paddles sent her up to the quay, some ropes were run from each end of the guard-house down to the boat, within which space no one was admitted except about a dozen soldiers or custom-house officers--in green coats, white trousers, black sugar-loaf "caps," and having swords by their sides--and some thick-legged fisherwomen, with long gold ear-rings, to lower the ladder for disembarkation. The idlers, that is to say, all the inhabitants of Boulogne, range themselves outside the ropes on foot, horseback, in carriages, or anyhow, to take the chance of seeing someone they know, to laugh at the melancholy looks of those who have been sick, and to criticise the company, who are turned into the guarded space like a flock of sheep before them.
Mr. Jorrocks, having scaled the ladder, gave himself a hearty and congratulatory shake on again finding himself on terra firma, and sticking his hat jauntily on one side, as though he didn't know what sea-sickness was, proceeded to run his eye along the spectators on one side of the ropes; when presently he was heard to exclaim, "My vig, there's Thompson! He owes us a hundred pounds, and has been doing these three years." And thereupon he bolted up to a fine looking young fellow--with mustachios, in a hussar foraging cap stuck on one side of his head, dressed in a black velvet shooting-jacket, and with half a jeweller's shop about him in the way of chains, brooches, rings and buttons--who had brought a good-looking bay horse to bear with his chest against the cords. "Thompson," said Mr. Jorrocks, in a firm tone of voice, "how are you?" "How do ye do, Mister Jorrocks," drawled out the latter, taking a cigar from his mouth, and puffing a cloud of smoke over the grocer's head. "Well, I'm werry well, but I should like to have a few moments' conversation with you." "Would ye?" said Thompson, blowing another cloud. "Yes, I would; you remember that 'ere little bill you got Simpkins to discount for you one day when I was absent; we have had it by us a long time now, and it is about time you were taking it up." "You think so, do you, Mister Jorrocks; can't you renew it? I'll give you a draft on Aldgate pump for the amount." "Come, none of your funning with me, I've had enough of your nonsense: give me my pewter, or I'll have that horse from under you; for though it has got the hair rubbed off its near knee, it will do werry well to carry me with the Surrey occasionally." "You old fool," said Thompson, "you forget where you are; if I could pay you your little bill, do you suppose I would be here? You can't squeeze blood out of a turnip, can ye? But I'll tell you what, my covey, if I can't give you satisfaction in money, you shall give me the satisfaction of a gentleman, if you don't take care what you are about, you old tinker. By Jove, I'll order pistols and coffee for two to-morrow morning at Napoleon's column, and let the daylight through your carcass if you utter another syllable about the bill. Why, now, you stare as Balaam did at his ass, when he found it capable of holding an argument with him!"
And true enough, Jorrocks was dumbfounded at this sort of reply from a creditor, it not being at all in accordance with the _Lex mercatoria_, or law of merchants, and quite unknown on 'Change. Before, however, he had time to recover his surprise, all the passengers having entered the roped area, one of the green-coated gentry gave him a polite twist by the coat-tail, and with a wave of the hand and bend of his body, beckoned him to proceed with the crowd into the guard-house. After passing an outer room, they entered the bureau by a door in the middle of a wooden partition, where two men were sitting with pens ready to enter the names of the arrivers in ledgers.
"Votre nom et designation?" said one of them to Mr. Jorrocks--who, with a bad start, had managed to squeeze in first--to which Mr. Jorrocks shook his head. "Sare, what's your name, sare?" inquired the same personage. "JORROCKS," was the answer, delivered with great emphasis, and thereupon the secretary wrote "Shorrock." " --Monsieur Shorrock," said he, looking up, "votre profession, Monsieur? Vot you are, sare?" "A grocer," replied Mr. Jorrocks, which caused a titter from those behind who meant to sink the shop. "Marchand-Epicier," wrote the bureau-keeper. "Quel age avez-vous, Monsieur? How old you are, sare?" "Two pound twelve," replied Mr. Jorrocks, surprised at his inquisitiveness. "No, sare, not vot monnay you have, sare, hot old you are, sare." "Well, two pound twelve, fifty-two in fact." Mr. Jorrocks was then passed out, to take his chance among the touts and commissionaires of the various hotels, who are enough to pull passengers to pieces in their solicitations for custom. In Boulogne, however, no man with money is ever short of friends; and Thompson having given the hint to two or three acquaintances as he rode up street, there were no end of broken-down sportsmen, levanters, and gentlemen who live on the interest of what they owe other people, waiting to receive Mr. Jorrocks. The greetings on their parts were most cordial and enthusiastic, and even some who were in his books did not hesitate to hail him; the majority of the party, however, was composed of those with whom he had at various tunes and places enjoyed the sports of the field, but whom he had never missed until they met at Boulogne.
Their inquiries were business-like and familiar:--"are ye, Jorrocks?" cried one, holding out both hands. "How are ye, my lad of wax? Do you still play billiards? --Give you nine, and play you for a Nap." "Come to my house this evening, old boy, and take a hand at whist for old acquaintance sake," urged the friend on his left; "got some rare cogniac, and a box of beautiful Havannahs." "No, Jorrocks,--dine with me," said a third, "and play chicken-hazard." "Don't," said a fourth, confidentially, "he'll fleece ye like fun". "Let me put your name down to our Pigeon Club; only a guinea entrance and a guinea subscription--nothing to a rich man like you." "Have you any coin to lend on unexceptionable personal security, with a power of killing and selling your man if he don't pay?" inquired another. "Are they going to abolish the law of arrest? 'twould be very convenient if they did." "Will you discount me a bill at three months?" "Is B---- out of the Bench yet?" "Who do they call Nodding Homer in your hunt?" "Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen!" cried Mr. Jorrocks, "go it gently, go it gently! Consider the day is 'ot, I'm almost out of breath, and faint for want of food. I've come all the way from Angle-tear, as we say in France, and lost my breakfast on the wogaye. Where is there an inn where I can recruit my famished frame? What's this?" looking up at a sign, "'Done a boar in a manger,' what does this mean? --where's my French dictionary? I've heard that boar is very good to eat." "Yes, but this boar is to drink," said a friend on the right; "but you must not put up at a house of that sort; come to the Hôtel d'Orleans, where all the best fellows and men of consequence go, a celebrated house in the days of the Boulogne Hunt. Ah, that was the time, Mr. Jorrocks! we lived like fighting-cocks then; you should have been among us, such a rollicking set of dogs! could hunt all day, race maggots and drink claret all night, and take an occasional by-day with the hounds on a Sunday. Can't do that with the Surrey, I guess. There's the Hôtel d'Orleans," pointing to it as they turned the corner of the street; "splendid house it is. I've no interest in taking you there, don't suppose so; but the sun of its greatness is fast setting--there's no such shaking of elbows as there used to be--the IOU system knocked that up. Still, you'll be very comfortable; a bit of carpet by your bedside, curtains to your windows, a pie-dish to wash in, a clean towel every third day, and as many friends to dine with you as ever you like--no want of company in Boulogne, I assure you. Here, Mr. W----," addressing the innkeeper who appeared at the door, "this is the very celebrated Mr. Jorrocks, of whom we have all heard so much,--take him and use him as you would your own son; and, hark ye (aside), don't forget I brought him."
"Garsoon," said Jorrocks, after having composed himself a little during which time he was also composing a French speech from his dictionary and Madame de Genlis's[20] _Manuel du Voyageur_, "A che hora [ora] si pranza?" looking at the waiter, who seemed astonished. "Oh, stop!" said he, looking again, "that's Italian--I've got hold of the wrong column. A quelle heure dine--hang me if I know how to call this chap--dine [spelling it], t'on?" "What were you wishing to say, sir?" inquired the waiter, interrupting his display of the language. "Wot, do you speak English?" asked Jorrocks in amazement. "I hope so, sir," replied the man, "for I'm an Englishman." "Then, why the devil did you not say so, you great lout, instead of putting me into a sweat this 'ot day by speaking French to you?" "Beg pardon, sir, thought you were a Frenchman." "Did you, indeed?" said Jorrocks, delighted; "then, by Jove, I do speak French! Somehow or other I thought I could, as I came over. Bring me a thundering beef-steak, and a pint of stout, directly!" The Hôtel d'Orleans being a regular roast-beef and plum-pudding sort of house, Mr. Jorrocks speedily had an immense stripe of tough beef and boiled potatoes placed before him, in the well-windowed _salle à manger_, and the day being fine he regaled himself at a table at an open window, whereby he saw the smart passers-by, and let them view him in return.
[Footnote 20: For the benefit of our "tarry-at-home" readers, we should premise that Madame de Genlis's work is arranged for the convenience of travellers who do not speak any language but their own; and it consists of dialogues on different necessary subjects, with French and Italian translations opposite the English.]
Sunday is a gay day in France, and Boulogne equals the best town in smartness. The shops are better set out, the women are better dressed, and there is a holiday brightness and air of pleasure on every countenance. Then instead of seeing a sulky husband trudging behind a pouting wife with a child in her arms, an infallible sign of a Sunday evening in England, they trip away to the rural _fête champêtre_, where with dancing, lemonade, and love, they pass away the night in temperate if not innocent hilarity. "Happy people! that once a week, at least, lay down their cares, and dance and sing, and sport away the weights of grievance, which bow down the spirit of other nations to the earth."
The voyage, though short, commenced a new era in Mr. Jorrocks's life, and he entirely forget all about Sunday and Dover dullness the moment he set foot on sprightly France, and he no more recollected it was Sunday, than if such a day had ceased to exist in the calendar. Having bolted his steak, he gave his Hessians their usual flop with his handkerchief, combed his whiskers, pulled his wig straight, and sallied forth, dictionary in hand, to translate the signs, admire the clever little children talking French, quiz the horses, and laugh at everything he didn't understand; to spend his first afternoon, in short, as nine-tenths of the English who go "abroad" are in the habit of doing.
Early the next morning. Mr. Jorrocks and the Yorkshireman, accompanied by the commissionnaire of the Hôtel d'Orleans, repaired to the upper town, for the purpose of obtaining passports, and as they ascended the steep street called La grand Rue, which connects the two towns, they held a consultation as to what the former should be described. A "Marchand-Epicier" would obtain Mr. Jorrocks no respect, but, then, he objected to the word "Rentier." "What is the French for fox-'unter?" said he, after a thoughtful pause, turning to his dictionary. There was no such word. "Sportsman, then? Ay, Chasseur! how would that read? John Jorrocks, Esq., Chasseur,--not bad, I think," said he. "That will do," replied the Yorkshireman, "but you must sink the Esquire now, and tack 'Monsieur' before your name, and a very pretty euphonious sound 'Monsieur Jorrocks' will have; and when you hear some of the little Parisian grisettes lisp it out as you turn the garters over on their counters, while they turn their dark flashing eyes over upon you, it will be enough to rejuvenate your old frame. But suppose we add to 'Chasseur'--'Member of the Surrey Hunt?'" "By all means," replied Mr. Jorrocks, delighted at the idea, and ascending the stairs of the Consulate three steps at a time.
The Consul, Mons. De Horter, was in attendance sitting in state, with a gendarme at the door and his secretary at his elbow. " _Bonjour,_ Monsieur," said he, bowing, as Mr. Jorrocks passed through the lofty folding door; to which our traveller replied, "The top of the morning to you, sir," thinking something of that sort would be right. The Consul, having scanned him through his green spectacles, drew a large sheet of thin printed paper from his portfolio, with the arms of France placed under a great petticoat at the top, and proceeded to fill up a request from his most Christian Majesty to all the authorities, both civil and military, of France, and also of all the allied "pays," "de laisser librement passer" Monsieur John Jorrocks, Chasseur and member of the Hont de Surrey, and plusieurs other Honts; and also, Monsieur Stubbs, native of Angleterre, going from Boulogne to Paris, and to give them aid and protection, "en cas de besoin," all of which Mr. Jorrocks --like many travellers before him--construed into a most flattering compliment and mark of respect, from his most Christian Majesty to himself.
Under the word "signalement" in the margin, the Consul also drew the following sketch of our hero, in order, as Mr. Jorrocks supposed, that the King of the Mouncheers might know him when he saw him: "Age de 52 ans Taille d'un mètre 62 centimetres Perruque brun Front large Yeux gris-sanguin Nez moyen Barbe grisâtre Vizage ronde Teint rouge."
He then handed it over to Mr. Jorrocks for his signature, who, observing the words "Signature du Porteur" at the bottom, passed it on to the porter of the inn, until put right by the Consul, who, on receiving his fee, bowed him out with great politeness.
Great as had been the grocer's astonishment at the horses and carts that he had seen stirring about the streets, his amazement knew no bounds when the first Paris diligence came rolling into town with six horses, spreading over the streets as they swung about in all directions--covered with bells, sheep-skins, worsted balls, and foxes' brushes, driven by one solitary postilion on the off wheeler. "My vig," cried he, "here's Wombwell's wild-beast show! What the deuce are they doing in France? I've not heard of them since last Bartlemy-fair, when I took my brother Joe's children to see them feed. But stop--this is full of men! My eyes, so it is! It's what young Dutch Sam would call a male coach, because there are no females about it. Well, I declare, I am almost sorry I did not bring Mrs. J----. Wot would they think to see such a concern in Cheapside? Why, it holds half a township--a perfect willage on wheels. My eyes, wot a curiosity! Well, I never thought to live to see such a sight as this! --wish it was going our way that I might have a ride in it. Hope ours will be as big." Shortly after theirs did arrive, and Mr. Jorrocks was like a perfect child with delight. It was not a male coach, however, for in the different compartments were five or six ladies. "Oh, wot elegant creatures," cried he, eyeing them; "I could ride to Jerusalem with them without being tired; wot a thing it is to be a bachelor!"
The Conducteur--with the usual frogged, tagged, embroidered jacket, and fur-bound cap--having hoisted their luggage on high, the passengers who had turned out of their respective compartments to stretch their legs after their cramping from Calais, proceeded to resume their places. There were only two seats vacant in the interior, or, as Mr. Jorrocks called it, the "middle house," consequently the Yorkshireman and he crossed legs. The other four passengers had corner-seats, things much coveted by French travellers. On Mr. Stubbs's right sat an immense Englishman, enveloped in a dark blue camlet cloak, fastened with bronze lionhead clasps, a red neckcloth, and a shabby, napless, broad-brimmed, brown hat. His face was large, round, and red, without an atom of expression, and his little pig eyes twinkled over a sort of a mark that denoted where his nose should have been; in short, his head was more like a barber's wig block than anything else, and his outline would have formed a model of the dome of St. Paul's. On the Yorkshireman's left was a chattering young red-trousered dragoon, in a frock-coat and flat foraging cap with a flying tassel. Mr. Jorrocks was more fortunate than his friend, and rubbed sides with two women; one was English, either an upper nursery-maid or an under governess, but who might be safely trusted to travel by herself. She was dressed in a black beaver bonnet lined with scarlet silk, a nankeen pelisse with a blue ribbon, and pea-green boots, and she carried a sort of small fish-basket on her knee, with a "plain Christian's prayer book" on the top. The other was French, approaching to middle age, with a nice smart plump figure, good hazel-coloured eyes, a beautiful foot and ankle, and very well dressed. Indeed, her dress very materially reduced the appearance of her age, and she was what the milliners would call remarkably well "got up." Her bonnet was a pink satin, with a white blonde ruche surmounted by a rich blonde veil, with a white rose placed elegantly on one side, and her glossy auburn hair pressed down the sides of a milk-white forehead, in the Madonna style. --Her pelisse was of "violet-des-bois" figured silk, worn with a black velvet pelerine and a handsomely embroidered collar. Her boots were of a colour to match the pelisse; and a massive gold chain round her neck, and a solitary pearl ring on a middle finger, were all the jewellery she displayed. Mr. Jorrocks caught a glimpse of her foot and ankle as she mounted the steps to resume her place in the diligence, and pushing the Yorkshireman aside, he bundled in directly after her, and took up the place we have described.
The vehicle was soon in motion, and its ponderous roll enchanted the heart of the grocer. Independently of the novelty, he was in a humour to be pleased, and everything with him was _couleur de rose_. Not so the Yorkshireman's right-hand neighbour, who lounged in the corner, muffled up in his cloak, muttering and cursing at every jolt of the diligence, as it bumped across the gutters and jolted along the streets of Boulogne. At length having got off the pavement, after crushing along at a trot through the soft road that immediately succeeds, they reached the little hill near Mr. Gooseman's farm, and the horses gradually relaxed into a walk, when he burst forth with a tremendous oath, swearing that he had "travelled three hundred thousand miles, and never saw horses walk up such a bit of a bank before." He looked round the diligence in the expectation of someone joining him, but no one deigned a reply, so, with a growl and a jerk of his shoulders, he again threw himself into his corner. The dragoon and the French lady then began narrating the histories of their lives, as the French people always do, and Mr. Jorrocks and the Yorkshireman sat looking at each other. At length Mr. Jorrocks, pulling his dictionary and _Madame de Genlis_ out of his pocket, observed, "I quite forgot to ask the guard at what time we dine--most important consideration, for I hold it unfair to takes one's stomach by surprise, and a man should have due notice, that he may tune his appetite accordingly. I have always thought, that there's as much dexterity required to bring an appetite to table in the full bloom of perfection, as there is in training an 'oss to run on a particular day. --Let me see," added he, turning over the pages of _de Genlis_--"it will be under the head of eating and drinking, I suppose. --Here it is--(opens and reads)--'I have a good appetite--I am hungry--I am werry hungry--I am almost starved'--that won't do--'I have eaten enough'--that won't do either--'To breakfast'--no. --But here it is, by Jingo--'Dialogue before dinner'--capital book for us travellers, this Mrs. de Genlis--(reads) 'Pray, take dinner with us to-day, I shall give you plain fare.' --That means rough and enough, I suppose," observed Mr. Jorrocks to the Yorkshireman. --"'What time do we dine to-day? French: A quelle heure dinons-nous aujourd'hui? --Italian: A che hora (ora) si prancey (pranza) oggi?'" "Ah, Monsieur, vous parlez Français à merveille," said the French lady, smiling with the greatest good nature upon him. "A marble!" said Mr. Jorrocks, "wot does that mean?" preparing to look it out in the dictionary. "Ah, Monsieur, I shall you explain--you speak French like a natif." "Indeed!" said Mr. Jorrocks, with a bow, "I feel werry proud of your praise; and your English is quite delightful. --By Jove," said he to the Yorkshireman, with a most self-satisfied grin, "you were right in what you told me about the gals calling me Monsieur. --I declare she's driven right home to my 'art--transfixed me at once, in fact."
Everyone who has done a little "voyaging," as they call it in France, knows that a few miles to the south of Samer rises a very steep hill, across which the route lies, and that diligence travellers are generally invited to walk up it. A path which strikes off near the foot of the hill, across the open, cuts off the angle, and--diligences being anything but what the name would imply,--the passengers, by availing themselves of the short cut, have ample time for striking up confabs, and inquiring into the comforts of the occupiers of the various compartments. Our friends of the "interior" were all busy jabbering and talking--some with their tongues, others with their hands and tongues--with the exception of the monster in the cloak, who sat like a sack in the corner, until the horses, having reached the well-known breathing place, made a dead halt, and the conducteur proceeded to invite the party to descend and "promenade" up the hill. "What's happened now?" cried the monster, jumping up as the door opened; "surely, they don't expect us to walk up this mountain! I've travelled three hundred thousand miles, and was never asked to do such a thing in all my life before. I won't do it; I paid for riding, and ride I will. You are all a set of infamous cheats," said he to the conducteur in good plain English; but the conducteur, not understanding the language, shut the door as soon as all the rest were out, and let him roll on by himself. Jorrocks stuck to his woman, who had a negro boy in the rotonde, dressed in baggy slate-coloured trousers, with a green waistcoat and a blue coat, with a coronet on the button, who came to hand her out, and was addressed by the heroic name of "Agamemnon." Jorrocks got a glimpse of the button, but, not understanding foreign coronets, thought it was a crest; nevertheless, he thought he might as well inquire who his friend was, so, slinking back as they reached the foot of the hill he got hold of the nigger, and asked what they called his missis. Massa did not understand, and Mr. Jorrocks, sorely puzzled how to explain, again had recourse to the _Manuel du Voyageur_; but Madame de Genlis had not anticipated such an occurrence, and there was no dialogue adapted to his situation. There was a conversation with a lacquey, however, commencing with--"Are you disposed to enter into my service?" and, in the hopes of hitting upon something that would convey his wishes, he "hark'd forward," and passing by--"Are you married?" arrived at--"What is your wife's occupation?" "Que fait votre femme?" said he, suiting the action to the word, and pointing to Madame. Agamemnon showed his ivories, as he laughed at the idea of Jorrocks calling his mistress his wife, and by signs and words conveyed to him some idea of the importance of the personage to whom he alluded. This he did most completely, for before the diligence came up, Jorrocks pulled the Yorkshireman aside, and asked if he was aware that they were travelling with a real live Countess; "Madame la Countess Benwolio, the nigger informs me," said he; "a werry grande femme, though what that means I don't know." "Oh, Countesses are common enough here," replied the Yorkshireman. "I dare say she's a stay-maker. I remember a paint-maker who had a German Baron for a colour-grinder once." "Oh," said Jorrocks, "you are jealous--you always try to run down my friends; but that won't do, I'm wide awake to your tricks"; so saying, he shuffled off, and getting hold of the Countess, helped Agamemnon to hoist her into the diligence. He was most insinuating for the next two hours, and jabbered about love and fox-hunting, admiring the fine, flat, open country, and the absence of hedges and flints; but as neither youth nor age can subsist on love alone, his confounded appetite began to trouble him, and got quite the better of him before they reached Abbeville. Every mile seemed a league, and he had his head out of the window at least twenty times before they came in sight of the town. At length the diligence got its slow length dragged not only to Abbeville, but to the sign of the "Fidèle Berger"--or "Fiddle Burgur," as Mr. Jorrocks pronounced it--where they were to dine. The door being opened, out he jumped, and with his _Manuel du Voyageur_ in one hand, and the Countess Benvolio in the other, he pushed his way through the crowd of "pauvres misérables" congregated under the gateway, who exhibited every species of disease and infirmity that poor human nature is liable or heir to, and entered the hotel. The "Sally manger," as he called it, was a long brick-floored room on the basement, with a white stove at one end, and the walls plentifully decorated with a panoramic view of the Grand Nation wallopping the Spaniards at the siege of Saragossa. The diligence being a leetle behind time as usual, the soup was on the table when they entered. The passengers quickly ranged themselves round, and, with his mouth watering as the female garçon lifted the cover from the tureen, Mr. Jorrocks sat in the expectation of seeing the rich contents ladled into the plates. His countenance fell fifty per cent as the first spoonful passed before his eyes. --"My vig, why it's water!" exclaimed he--"water, I do declare, with worms[21] in it--I can't eat such stuff as that--it's not man's meat--oh dear, oh dear, I fear I've made a terrible mistake in coming to France! Never saw such stuff as this at Bleaden's or Birch's, or anywhere in the city." "I've travelled three hundred thousand miles," said the fat man, sending his plate from him in disgust, "and never tasted such a mess as this before." "I'll show them up in _The Times_," cried Mr. Jorrocks; "and, look, what stuff is here--beef boiled to rags! --well, I never, no never, saw anything like this before. Oh, I wish I was in Great Coram Street again! --I'm sure I can't live here--I wonder if I could get a return chaise--waiter--garsoon--cuss! Oh dear! I see _Madame de Genlis_ is of no use in a pinch--and yet what a dialogue here is! Oh heavens! grant your poor Jorrocks but one request, and that is the contents of a single sentence. 'I want a roasted or boiled leg of mutton, beef, hung beef, a quarter of mutton, mutton chops, veal cutlets, stuffed tongue, dried tongue, hog's pudding, white sausage, meat sausage, chicken with rice, a nice fat roast fowl, roast chicken with cressy, roast or boiled pigeon, a fricassee of chicken, sweet-bread, goose, lamb, calf's cheek, calf's head, fresh pork, salt pork, cold meat, hash.' --But where's the use of titivating one's appetite with reading of such luxteries? Oh, what a wife Madame de Genlis would have made for me! Oh dear, oh dear, I shall die of hunger, I see --I shall die of absolute famine--my stomach thinks my throat's cut already!" In the height of his distress in came two turkeys and a couple of fowls, and his countenance shone forth like an April sun after a shower. "Come, this is better," said he; "I'll trouble you, sir, for a leg and a wing, and a bit of the breast, for I'm really famished--oh hang! the fellow's a Frenchman, and I shall lose half the day in looking it out in my dictionary. Oh dear, oh dear, where's the dinner dialogue! --well, here's something to that purpose. 'I will send you a bit of this fowl.' 'A little bit of the fowl cannot hurt you.' --No, nor a great bit either. --'Which do you like best, leg or wing?' 'Qu'aimez-vous le mieux, la cuisse ou l'aile?'" Here the Countess Benvolio, who had been playing a good knife and fork herself, pricked up her ears, and guessing at Jorrocks's wants, interceded with her countryman and got him a plateful of fowl. It was soon disposed of, however, and half a dish of hashed hare or cat, that was placed within reach of him shortly after, was quickly transferred into his plate. A French dinner is admirably calculated for leading the appetite on by easy stages to the grand consummation of satiety. It begins meagrely, as we have shown, and proceeds gradually through the various gradations of lights, savories, solids, and substantiate. Presently there was a large dish of stewed eels put on. "What's that?" asked Jorrocks of the man. --"Poisson," was the reply. "Poison! why, you infidel, have you no conscience?" "Fishe," said the Countess. "Oh, ay, I smell--eels--just like what we have at the Eel-pie-house at Twickenham--your ladyship, I am thirsty--'ge soif,' in fact." "Ah, bon!" said the Countess, laughing, and giving him a tumbler of claret. "I've travelled three hundred thousand miles," said the fat man, "and never saw claret drunk in that way before." "It's not werry good, I think," said Mr. Jorrocks, smacking his lips; "if it was not claret I would sooner drink port." Some wild ducks and fricandeau de veau which followed, were cut up and handed round, Jorrocks helping himself plentifully to both, as also to pommes de terre à la maitre d'hôtel, and bread at discretion. "Faith, but this is not a bad dinner, after all's said and done, when one gets fairly into it." "Fear it will be very expensive," observed the fat man. Just when Jorrocks began to think he had satisfied nature, in came a roast leg of mutton, a beef-steak, "à la G--d-dam", [22] and a dish of larks and snipes.
[Footnote 21: Macaroni soup.]
[Footnote 22: When the giraffe mania prevailed in Paris, and gloves, handkerchiefs, gowns, reticules, etc. were "à la Giraffe," an Englishman asked a waiter if they had any beef-steaks "à la Giraffe." "No, monsieur, but we have them à la G--d-dem," was the answer.]
"Must have another tumbler of wine before I can grapple with these chaps," said he, eyeing them, and looking into Madame de Genlis's book: "'Garsoon, donnez-moi un verre de vin,'" holding up the book and pointing to the sentence. He again set to and "went a good one" at both mutton and snipes, but on pulling up he appeared somewhat exhausted. He had not got through it all yet, however. Just as he was taking breath, a _garçon_ entered with some custards and an enormous omelette soufflée, whose puffy brown sides bagged over the tin dish that contained it. "There's a tart!" cried Mr. Jorrocks; "Oh, my eyes, what a swell! --Well, I suppose I must have a shy at it. --'In for a penny in for a pound!' as we say at the Lord Mayor's feed. Know I shall be sick, but, however, here goes," sending his plate across the table to the _garçon_, who was going to help it. The first dive of the spoon undeceived him as he heard it sound at the bottom of the dish. "Oh lauk, what a go! All puff, by Jove! --a regular humbug--a balloon pudding, in short! I won't eat such stuff--give it to Mouncheer there," rejecting the offer of a piece. "I like the solids;--will trouble you for some of that cheese, sir, and don't let it taste of the knive. But what do they mean by setting the dessert on before the cloth is removed? And here comes tea and coffee--may as well have some, I suppose it will be all the same price. And what's this?" eyeing a lot of liqueur glasses full of eau de vie. "Chasse-café, Monsieur," said the _garçon_. "Chasse calf--chasse calf--what's that? Oh, I twig--what we call 'shove in the mouth' at the Free-and-Easy. Yes, certainly, give me a glass." "You shall take some dessert," said the Countess, handing him over some peaches and biscuits. "Well, I'll try my hand at it, if it will oblege your ladyship, but I really have had almost enough." "And some abricot," said she, helping him to a couple of fine juicy ones. "Oh, thank you, my lady, thank you, my lady, I'm nearly satisfied." "Vous ne mangez pas," said she, giving him half a plate of grapes. "Oh, my lady, you don't understand me--I can't eat any more--I am regularly high and dry--chock full--bursting, in fact." Here she handed him a plate of sponge-cakes mixed with bon-bons and macaroons, saying, "Vous êtes un pauvre mangeur--vous ne mangez rien, Monsieur." "Oh dear, she does not understand me, I see. --Indeed, my lady, I cannot eat any more. --Ge woudera, se ge could-era, mais ge can-ne-ra pas!" "Well, now, I've travelled three hundred thousand miles, and never heard such a bit of French as that before," said the fat man, chuckling.
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{
"id": "15387"
}
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9
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MR. JORROCKS IN PARIS
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As the grey morning mist gradually dispersed, and daylight began to penetrate the cloud that dimmed the four squares of glass composing the windows of the diligence, the Yorkshireman, half-asleep and half-awake, took a mental survey of his fellow-travellers. --Before him sat his worthy friend, snoring away with his mouth open, and his head, which kept bobbing over on to the shoulder of the Countess, enveloped in the ample folds of a white cotton nightcap. --She, too, was asleep and, disarmed of all her daylight arts, dozed away in tranquil security. Her mouth also was open, exhibiting rather a moderate set of teeth, and her Madonna front having got a-twist, exposed a mixture of brown and iron-grey hairs at the parting place. Her bonnet swung from the roof of the diligence, and its place was supplied by a handsome lace cap, fastened under her chin by a broad-hemmed cambric handkerchief. Presently the sun rose, and a bright ray shooting into the Countess's corner, awoke her with a start, and after a hurried glance at the passengers, who appeared to be all asleep, she drew a small ivory-cased looking-glass from her bag, and proceeded to examine her features. Mr. Jorrocks awoke shortly after, and with an awful groan exclaimed that his backbone was fairly worn out with sitting. "Oh dear!" said he, "my behind aches as if I had been kicked all the way from Hockleyhole to Marylebone. Are we near Paris? for I'm sure I can't find seat any longer, indeed I can't. I'd rather ride two hundred miles in nine hours, like H'osbaldeston, than be shut up in this woiture another hour. It really is past bearing, and that's the long and short of the matter." This exclamation roused all the party, who began yawning and rubbing their eyes and looking at their watches. The windows also were lowered to take in fresh air, and on looking out they found themselves rolling along a sandy road, lined on each side with apple-trees, whose branches were "groaning" with fruit. They breakfasted at Beaumont, and had a regular spread of fish, beef-steak, mutton-chops, a large joint of hot roast veal, roast chickens, several yards of sour bread, grapes, peaches, pears, and plums, with vin ordinaire, and coffee au lait; but Mr. Jorrocks was off his feed, and stood all the time to ease his haunches.
Towards three in the afternoon they caught the first glimpse of the gilded dome of the Hospital of Invalids, which was a signal for all the party to brush up and make themselves agreeable. Even the three-hundred-thousand miler opened out, and began telling some wonderful anecdotes, while the Countess and Mr. Jorrocks carried on a fierce flirtation, or whatever else they pleased to call it. At last, after a deal of jargon, he broke off by appealing to the Yorkshireman to know what "inn" they should "put up at" in Paris. "I don't know, I'm sure," said he; "it depends a good deal upon how you mean to live. As you pay my shot it does not do for beggars to be choosers; but suppose we try Meurice's" "Oh no," replied Mr. Jorrocks, "her ladyship tells me it is werry expensive, for the English always pay through the nose if they go to English houses in Paris; and, as we talk French, we can put up at a French one, you know." "Well, then, we can try one of the French ones in the Rue de la Paix." "Rue de la Pay! no, by Jove, that won't do for me--the werry name is enough--no Rue de la Pay for me, at least if I have to pay the shot." "Well, then, you must get your friend there to tell you of some place, for I don't care twopence, as long as I have a bed, where it is." The Countess and he then laid their heads together again, and when the diligence stopped to change horses at St. Denis, Mr. Jorrocks asked the Yorkshireman to alight, and taking him aside, announced with great glee that her ladyship, finding they were strangers in the land, had most kindly invited them to stay with her, and that she had a most splendid house in the Rue des Mauvais-Garçons, ornamented with mirrors, musical clocks, and he didn't know what, and kept the best company in all France, marquesses, barons, viscounts, authors, etc. Before the Yorkshireman had time to reply, the conducteur came and hurried them back into the diligence, and closed the door with a bang, to be sure of having his passengers there while he and the postilion shuffled the cards and cut for a glass of _eau-de-vie_ apiece.
The Countess, suspecting what they had been after, resumed the conversation as soon as Mr. Jorrocks was seated. --"You shall manger cinque fois every day," said she; "cinque fois," she repeated. --"Humph!" said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, "what can that mean? --cank four--four times five's twenty--eat twenty times a day--not possible!" "Oui, Monsieur, cinque fois," repeated the Countess, telling the number off on her fingers--"Café at nine of the matin, déjeuner à la fourchette at onze o'clock, diner at cinque heure, café at six hour, and souper at neuf hour." "Upon my word," replied Mr. Jorrocks, his eyes sparkling with pleasure, "your offer is werry inwiting. My lady," said he, bowing before her, "Je suis--I am much flattered." "And, Monsieur?" said she, looking at the Yorkshireman. He, too, assured her that he was very much flattered, and was beginning to excuse himself, when the Countess interrupted him somewhat abruptly by turning to Mr. Jorrocks and saying, "He sall be your son--n'est ce pas?" "No, my lady, I've no children," replied he, and the Countess's eyes in their turn underwent a momentary illumination.
The Parisian barrier was soon reached, and the man taken up to kick about the jaded travellers' luggage at the journey's end. While this operation was going on in the diligence yard, the Countess stuck close to Mr. Jorrocks, and having dispatched Agamemnon for a fiacre, bundled him in, luggage and all, and desiring her worthy domestic to mount the box, and direct the driver, she kissed her hand to the Yorkshireman, assuring him she would be most happy to see him, in proof of which, she drove away without telling him her number, or where the Rue des Mauvais-Garçons was.
Paris is a charming place after the heat of the summer has passed away, and the fine, clear, autumnal days arrive. Then is the time to see the Tuileries gardens to perfection, when the Parisians have returned from their châteaus, and emigrating English and those homeward bound halt to renovate on the road; then is the time that the gayest plants put forth their brightest hues, and drooping orange flowers scent the air which silvery fountains lend their aid to cool.
On a Sunday afternoon, such as we have described, our friend Mr. Stubbs (who since his arrival had been living very comfortably at the Hôtel d'Hollande, in expectation of Mr. Jorrocks paying his bill) indulged in six sous' worth of chairs--one to sit upon and one for each leg--and, John Bull-like, stretched himself out in the shade beneath the lofty trees, to view the gay groups who promenaded the alleys before him. First, there came a helmeted cuirassier, with his wife in blue satin, and a little boy in his hand in uniform, with a wooden sword, a perfect miniature of the father; then a group of short-petticoated, shuffling French women, each with an Italian greyhound in slips, followed by an awkward Englishman with a sister on each arm, all stepping out like grenadiers; then came a ribbon'd chevalier of the Legion of Honour, whose hat was oftener in his hand than on his head, followed by a nondescript looking militaire with fierce mustachios, in shining jack-boots, white leathers, and a sort of Italian military cloak, with one side thrown over the shoulder, to exhibit the wearer's leg, and the bright scabbard of a large sword, while on the hero's left arm hung a splendidly dressed woman. "What a figure!" said the Yorkshireman to himself, as they came before him, and he took another good stare. --"Yet stay--no, impossible! --Gracious Heaven! it can't be--and yet it is--by Jove, it's Jorrocks!"
"Why now, you old imbecile," cried he, jumping off his chairs and running up to him, "What are you after?" bursting into a loud laugh as he looked at Mr. Jorrocks's mustachios (a pair of great false ones). "Is there no piece of tomfoolery too great for you? What's come across you now? Where the deuce did you get these things?" taking hold of the curls at one side of his mustachios.
"How now?" roared Mr. Jorrocks with rage and astonishment. "How now! ye young scaramouch, vot do you mean by insulting a gentleman sportsman in broad daylight, in the presence of a lady of quality? By Jingo," added he, his eyes sparkling with rage, "if you are not off before I can say 'dumpling' I'll run you through the gizzard and give your miserable carcass to the dogs," suiting the action to the word, and groping under his cloak for the hilt of his sword. --A crowd collected, and the Yorkshireman perceiving symptoms of a scene, slunk out of the mêlée, and Mr. Jorrocks, after an indignant shake or two of his feathers and curl of his mustachios, pursued his course up the gardens.
This was the first time they had met since their arrival, which was above a week before; indeed, it was nine days, for the landlord of the house where the Yorkshireman lived had sent his "little bill" two days before this, it being an established rule of his house, and one which was conspicuously posted in all the rooms, that the bills were to be settled weekly; and Mr. Stubbs had that very morning observed that the hat of Monsieur l'Hote was not raised half so high from his head, nor his body inclined so much towards the ground as it was wont to be--a pretty significant hint that he wanted his cash. --Now the Yorkshireman, among his other accomplishments, had a turn for play, and unfortunately had been at the Salon the night before, when, after continuous run of ill-luck, he came away twelve francs below the amount of the hotel-keeper's bill, consequently a rumpus with Mr. Jorrocks could not have taken place at a more unfortunate moment. Thinking, however, a good night's rest or two might settle him down, and put all matters right, he let things alone until the Tuesday following, when again finding Monsieur's little "memoire" on one side of his coffeecup, and a framed copy of the "rules and regulations" of the house on the other, he felt constrained to take some decisive step towards its liquidation. Accordingly, having breakfasted, he combed his hair straight over his face, and putting on a very penitential look, called a cab, and desired the man to drive him to the Rue des Mauvais-Garçons. --After zigzagging, twisting, and turning about in various directions, they at last jingled to the end of a very narrow dirty-looking street, whose unswept pavement had not been cheered by a ray of sunshine since the houses were built. It was excessively narrow, and there were no flags on either side; but through the centre ran a dribbling stream, here and there obstructed by oyster-shells, or vegetable refuse, as the water had served as a plaything for children, or been stopped by servants for domestic purposes. The street being extremely old, of course the houses were very large, forming, as all houses do in Paris, little squares entered by folding doors, at one side of which, in a sort of lodge, lives the Porter--"Parlez au Portier"--who receives letters, parcels, and communications for the several occupiers, consisting sometimes of twenty or thirty different establishments in one house. From this functionary may be learned the names of the different tenants. Having dismissed his cab, the Yorkshireman entered the first gateway on his left, to take the chance of gaining some intelligence of the Countess. The Porter--a cobbler by trade--was hammering away, last on knee, at the sole of a shoe, and with a grin on his countenance, informed the Yorkshireman that the Countess lived next door but one. A thrill of fear came over him on finding himself so near the residence of his indignant friend, but it was of momentary duration, and he soon entered the courtyard of No. 3--where he was directed by an unshaved grisly-looking porter, to proceed "un troisième," and ring the bell at the door on the right-hand side. Obedient to his directions, the Yorkshireman proceeded to climb a wide but dirty stone staircase, with carved and gilded balusters, whose wall and steps had known no water for many years, and at length found himself on the landing opposite the very apartment which contained the redoubtable Jorrocks. Here he stood for a few seconds, breathing and cooling himself after his exertions, during which time he pictured to himself the worthy citizen immersed in papers deeply engaged in the preparation of his France in three volumes, and wished that the first five minutes of their interview were over. At length he mustered courage to grasp a greasy-looking red tassel, and give a gentle tinkle to the bell. The door was quickly opened by Agamemnon in dirty loose trousers and slippers, and without a coat. He recognised his fellow-traveller, and in answer to his inquiry if Monsieur Jorrocks was at home, grinned, and answered, "Oh oui, certainement, Monsieur le Colonel Jorrockes est ici," and motioned him to come in. The Yorkshireman entered the little ante-room--a sort of scullery, full of mops, pans, dirty shoes, dusters, candlesticks--and the first thing that caught his eye was Jorrocks's sword, which Agamemnon had been burnishing up with sandpaper and leather, lying on a table before the window. This was not very encouraging, but Agamemnon gave no time for reflection, and opening half a light salmon-coloured folding door directly opposite the one by which he entered, the Yorkshireman passed through, unannounced and unperceived by Mr. Jorrocks or the Countess, who were completely absorbed in a game of dominoes, sitting on opposite sides of a common deal table, whose rose-coloured silk cover was laid over the back of a chair. Jorrocks was sitting on a stool with his back to the door, and the Countess being very intent on the game, Mr. Stubbs had time for a hasty survey of the company and apartment before she looked up. It was about one o'clock, and of course she was still _en déshabillé_, with her nightcap on, a loose _robe de chambre_ of flannel, and a flaming broad-striped red-and-black Scotch shawl thrown over her shoulders, and swan's-down-lined slippers on her feet. Mr. Jorrocks had his leather pantaloons on, with a rich blue and yellow brocade dressing-gown, and blue morocco slippers to match. His jack-boots, to which he had added a pair of regimental heel-spurs, were airing before a stove, which contained the dying embers of a small log. The room was low, and contained the usual allowance of red figured velvet-cushioned chairs, with brass nails; the window curtains were red-and-white on rings and gilded rods; a secretaire stood against one of the walls, and there was a large mirror above the marble mantelpiece, which supported a clock surmounted by a flying Cupid, and two vases of artificial flowers covered with glass, on one of which was placed an elegant bonnet of the newest and most approved fashion. The floor, of highly polished oak, was strewed about with playbills, slippers, curl-papers, boxes, cards, dice, ribbons, dirty handkerchiefs, etc.; and on one side of the deal table was a plate containing five well-picked mutton-chop bones, and hard by lay Mr. Jorrocks's mustachios and a dirty small tooth-comb.
Just as the Yorkshireman had got thus far in his survey, the Countess gave the finishing stroke to the game, and Mr. Jorrocks, jumping up in a rage, gave his leathers such a slap as sent a cloud of pipe-clay flying into his face. "Vous avez the devil's own luck"; exclaimed he, repeating the blow, when, to avoid the cloud, he turned short round, and encountered the Yorkshireman.
"How now?" roared he at the top of his voice, "who sent for you? Have you come here to insult me in my own house? I'll lay my soul to an 'oss-shoe, I'll be too many for ye! Where's my sword?"
"Now, my good Mr. Jorrocks," replied the Yorkshireman very mildly, "pray, don't put yourself into a passion--consider the lady, and don't let us have any unpleasantness in Madame la Duchesse Benvolio's house," making her a very low bow as he spoke, and laying his hand on his heart.
"D--n your displeasancies!" roared Jorrocks, "and that's swearing--a thing I've never done since my brother Joe fobbed me of my bottom piece of muffin. Out with you, I say! Out with ye! you're a nasty dirty blackguard; I'm done with you for ever. I detest the sight of you and hate ye afresh every time I see you!"
"Doucement, mon cher Colonel," interposed the Countess, "ve sall play anoder game, and you sall had von better chance," clapping him on the back as she spoke. "I von't!" bellowed Jorrocks. "Turn this chap out first. I'll do it myself. H'Agamemnon! H'Agamemnon! happortez my sword! bring my sword! tout suite, directly!"
"Police! Police! Police!" screamed the Countess out of the window; "Police! Police! Police!" bellowed Agamemnon from the next one; "Police! Police! Police!" re-echoed the grisly porter down below; and before they had time to reflect on what had passed, a sergeant's file of the National Guard had entered the hotel, mounted the stairs, and taken possession of the apartment. The sight of the soldiers with their bright bayonets, all fixed and gleaming as they were, cooled Mr. Jorrocks's courage in an instant, and, after standing a few seconds in petrified astonishment, he made a dart at his jack-boots and bolted out of the room. The Countess Benvolio then unlocked her secretaire, in which was a plated liqueur-stand with bottles and glasses, out of which she poured the sergeant three, and the privates two glasses each of pure _eau-de-vie,_ after which Agamemnon showed them the top of the stairs.
In less than ten minutes all was quiet again, and the Yorkshireman was occupying Mr. Jorrocks's stool. The Countess then began putting things a little in order, adorned the deal table with the rose-coloured cover--before doing which she swept off Mr. Jorrocks's mustachios, and thrust a dirty white handkerchief and the small tooth-comb under the cushion of a chair--while Agamemnon carried away the plate with the bones. "Ah, le pauvre Colonel," said the Countess, eyeing the bones as they passed, "he sall be von grand homme to eat--him eat toujours--all day long--Oh, him mange beaucoup--beaucoup--beaucoup. He is von varé amiable man, bot he sall not be moch patience. I guess he sall be varé rich--n'est ce pas? have many guinea? --He say he keep beaucoup des chiens--many dogs for the hont--he sail be vot dey call rom customer (rum customer) in Angleterre, I think."
Thus she went rattling on, telling the Yorkshireman all sorts of stories about the _pauvre_ Colonel, whom she seemed ready to change for a younger piece of goods with a more moderate appetite; and finding Mr. Stubbs more complaisant than he had been in the diligence, she concluded by proposing that he should accompany the Colonel and herself to a _soirée-dansante_ that evening at a friend of hers, another Countess, in the "Rue des Bons-Enfants."
Being disengaged as usual, he at once assented, on condition that the Countess would effect a reconciliation between Mr. Jorrocks and himself, for which purpose she at once repaired to his room, and presently reappeared arm-in-arm with our late outrageously indignant hero. The Colonel had been occupying his time at the toilette, and was _en grand costume_--finely cleaned leathers, jack-boots and brass spurs, with a spick and span new blue military frock-coat, hooking and eyeing up to the chin, and all covered with braid, frogs, tags, and buttons.
"Dere be von beau garçon!" exclaimed the Countess, turning him round after having led him into the middle of the room--"dat habit does fit you like vax." "Yes," replied Mr. Jorrocks, raising his arms as though he were going to take flight, "but it is rather tight--partiklarly round the waist--shouldn't like to dine in it. What do you think of it?" turning round and addressing the Yorkshireman as if nothing had happened--"suppose you get one like it?" "Do," rejoined the Countess, "and some of the other things--vot you call them, Colonel?" "What--breeches?" "Yes, breeches--but the oder name--vot you call dem?" "Oh, leathers?" replied Mr. Jorrocks. "No, no, another name still." "I know no other. Pantaloons, perhaps, you mean?" "No, no, not pantaloons." "Not pantaloons? --then I know of nothing else. You don't mean these sacks of things, called trousers?" taking hold of the Yorkshireman's. "No, no, not trousers." "Then really, my lady, I don't know any other name." "Oh, yes, Colonel, you know the things I intend. Vot is it you call Davil in Angleterre?" "Oh, we have lots of names for him--Old Nick, for instance." --"Old Nick breeches," said the Countess thoughtfully; "no, dat sall not be it--vot else?" "Old Harry?" replied Mr. Jorrocks. --"Old Harry breeches," repeated the Countess in the hopes of catching the name by the ear--"no, nor dat either, encore anoder name, Colonel." "Old Scratch, then?" "Old Scratch breeches," re-echoed the Countess--"no, dat shall not do." --"Beelzebub?" rejoined Mr. Jorrocks. "Beelzebub breeches," repeated the Countess--"nor dat." "Satan, then?" said Mr. Jorrocks. "Oh oui!" responded the Countess with delight, "satan! black satan breeches--you shall von pair of black satan breeches, like the Colonel."
"And the Colonel will pay for them, I presume?" said the Yorkshireman, looking at Mr. Jorrocks.
"I carn't," said Mr. Jorrocks in an undertone; "I'm nearly cleaned out, and shall be in Short's Gardens before I know where I am, unless I hold better cards this evening than I've done yet. Somehow or other, these French are rather too sharp for me, and I've been down upon my luck ever since I came. --Lose every night, in fact, and then they are so werry anxious for me to have my rewenge, as they call it, that they make parties expressly for me every evening; but, instead of getting my rewenge, I only lose more and more money. --They seem to me always to turn up the king whenever they want him. --To-night we are going to a Countess's of werry great consequence, and, as you know écarté well, I'll back your play, and, perhaps, we may do something between us."
This being all arranged, Mr. Stubbs took his departure, and Mr. Jorrocks having girded on his sword, and the Countess having made her morning toilette, they proceed to their daily promenade in the Tuileries Gardens.
A little before nine that evening, the Yorkshireman again found himself toiling up the dirty staircase, and on reaching the third landing was received by Agamemnon in a roomy uniform of a chasseur--dark green and tarnished gold, with a cocked-hat and black feather, and a couteau de chasse, slung by a shining patent-leather belt over his shoulder. The opening of the inner door displayed the worthy Colonel sitting at his ease, with his toes on each side of the stove (for the evenings had begun to get cool), munching the last bit of crust of the fifth Périgord pie that the Countess had got him to buy. --He was extremely smart; thin black gauze-silk stockings, black satin breeches; well-washed, well-starched white waistcoat with a rolling collar, showing an amplitude of frill, a blue coat with yellow buttons and a velvet collar, while his pumps shone as bright as polished steel.
The Countess presently sidled into the room, all smirks and smiles as dressy ladies generally are when well "got up." Rouge and the milliner had effectually reduced her age from five and forty down to five and twenty. She wore a dress of the palest pink satin, with lilies of the valley in her hair, and an exquisitely wrought gold armlet, with a most Lilliputian watch in the centre.
Mr. Jorrocks having finished his pie-crust, and stuck on his mustachios, the Countess blew out her bougies, and the trio, preceeded by Agamemnon with a lanthorn in his hand, descended the stairs, whose greasy, muddy steps contrasted strangely with the rich delicacy of the Countess's beautifully slippered feet. Having handed them into the voiture, Agamemnon mounted up behind, and in less than ten minutes they rumbled into the spacious courtyard of the Countess de Jackson, in the Rue des Bons-Enfants, and drew up beneath a lofty arch at the foot of a long flight of dirty black-and-white marble stairs, about the centre of which was stationed a _lacquey de place_ to show the company up to the hall. The Countess de Jackson (the wife of an English horse-dealer) lived in an _entresol au troisième_, but the hotel being of considerable dimensions, her apartment was much more spacious than the Countess Benvolio's. Indeed, the Countess de Jackson, being a _marchande des modes_, had occasion for greater accommodation, and she had five low rooms, whereof the centre one was circular, from which four others, consisting of an ante-room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and _salle à manger_, radiated.
Agamemnon having opened the door of the _fiacre_, the Countess Benvolio took the Yorkshireman's arm, and at once preceded to make the ascent, leaving the Colonel to settle the fare, observing as they mounted the stairs, that he was "von exceeding excellent man, but varé slow."
"Madame la Contesse Benvolio and Monsieur Stoops!" cried the _lacquey de place_ as they reached the door of the low ante-room, where the Countess Benvolio deposited her shawl, and took a final look at herself in the glass. She again took the Yorkshireman's arm and entered the round ballroom, which, though low and out of all proportion, had an exceedingly gay appearance, from the judicious arrangement of the numerous lights, reflected in costly mirrors, and the simple elegance of the crimson drapery, festooned with flowers and evergreens against the gilded walls. Indeed, the hotel had been the residence of an ambassador before the first revolution, and this _entresol_ had formed the private apartment of his Excellency. The door immediately opposite the one by which they entered, led into the Countess de Jackson's bedroom, which was also lighted up, with the best furniture exposed and her toilette-table set out with numberless scent bottles, vases, trinkets, and nick-nacks, while the _salle à manger_ was converted into a card-room. Having been presented in due form to the hostess, the Yorkshireman and his new friend stood surveying the gay crowd of beautiful and well-dressed women, large frilled and well-whiskered men, all chatting, and bowing, and dancing, when a half-suppressed titter that ran through the room attracted their attention, and turning round, Mr. Jorrocks was seen poking his way through the crowd with a number of straws sticking to his feet, giving him the appearance of a feathered Mercury. The fact was, that Agamemnon had cleaned his shoes with the liquid varnish (french polish), and forgetting to dry it properly, the carrying away half the straw from the bottom of the _fiacre_ was the consequence, and Mr. Jorrocks having paid the Jehu rather short, the latter had not cared to tell him about it.
The straws were, however, soon removed without interruption to the gaiety of the evening. Mr. Stubbs, of course, took an early opportunity of waltzing with the Countess Benvolio, who, as all French women are, was an admirable dancer, and Jorrocks stood by fingering and curling his mustachios, admiring her movements but apparently rather jealous of the Yorkshireman. "I wish," said he after the dance was over, "that you would sit down at _écarté_ and let us try to win some of these mouncheers' tin, for I'm nearly cleaned out. Let us go into the cardroom, but first let us see if we can find anything in the way of nourishment, for I begin to be hungry. Garsoon," said he catching a servant with a trayful of _eau sucrée_ glasses, "avez-vous kick-shaws to eat?" putting his finger in his mouth--"ge wouderay some refreshment." "Oh, oui," replied the garçon taking him to an open window overlooking the courtyard, and extending his hand in the air, "voilà, monsieur, de très bon rafraîchissement."
The ball proceeded with the utmost decorum, for though composed of shopkeepers and such like, there was nothing in their dress or manner to indicate anything but the best possible breeding. Jorrocks, indeed, fancied himself in the very élite of French society, and, but for a little incident, would have remained of that opinion. In an unlucky moment he took it into his head he could waltz, and surprised the Countess Benvolio by claiming her hand for the next dance. "It seems werry easy," said he to himself as he eyed the couples gliding round the room;--"at all ewents there's nothing like trying, 'for he who never makes an effort never risks a failure.'" The couples were soon formed and ranged for a fresh dance. Jorrocks took a conspicuous position in the centre of the room, buttoned his coat, and, as the music struck up, put his arm round the waist of his partner. The Countess, it seems, had some misgivings as to his prowess in the dancing line, and used all her strength to get him well off, but the majority of the dancers started before him. At length, however, he began to move, and went rolling away in something between a gallop and a waltz, effecting two turns, like a great cart-wheel, which brought him bang across the room, right into the track of another couple, who were swinging down at full speed, making a cannon with his head against both theirs, and ending by all four coming down upon the hard boards with a tremendous crash--the Countess Benvolio undermost, then the partner of the other Countess, then Jorrocks, and then the other Countess herself. Great was the commotion, and the music stopped; Jorrocks lost his wig, and split his Beelzebub breeches across the knees, while the other gentleman cracked his behind--and the Countess Benvolio and the other Countess were considerably damaged; particularly the other Countess, who lost four false teeth and broke an ear-ring. This, however, was not the worst, for as soon as they were all scraped together and set right again, the other Countess's partner attacked Jorrocks most furiously, calling him a _sacré-nom de-Dieu'd bête_ of an Englishman, a mauvais sujet, a cochon, etc., then spitting on the floor--the greatest insult a Frenchman can offer--he vapoured about being one of the "grand nation," "that he was brave--the world knew it," and concluded by thrusting his card--"Monsieur Charles Adolphe Eugene, Confiturier, No. 15 bis, Rue Poupée"--into Jorrocks's face. It was now Jorrocks's turn to speak, so doubling his fists, and getting close to him, he held one to his nose, exclaiming, "D--n ye, sir, je suis--JORROCKS! --Je suis an Englishman! je vous lick within an inch of your life! --Je vous kick! --je vous mill! --je vous flabbergaster!" and concluded by giving him his card, "Monsieur le Colonel Jorrocks, No 3, Rue des Mauvais-Garçons."
A friend of the confectioner's interposed and got him away, and Mr. Stubbs persuaded Mr. Jorrocks to return into the cardroom, where they were speedily waited upon by the friend of the former, who announced that the Colonel must make an apology or fight, for he said, although Jorrocks was a "Colonel Anglais," still Monsieur Eugene was of the Legion of Honour, and, consequently, very brave and not to be insulted with impunity. All this the Yorkshireman interpreted to Mr. Jorrocks, who was most anxious to fight, and wished it was light that they might go to work immediately. Mr. Stubbs therefore told the confectioner's friend (who was also his foreman), that the Colonel would fight him with pistols at six o'clock in the Bois de Boulogne, but no sooner was the word "pistols" mentioned than the friend exclaimed, with a grimace and shrug of his shoulders, "Oh horror, no! Monsieur Adolphe is brave, but he will not touch pistols--they're not weapons of his country." Jorrocks then proposed to fight him with broad swords, but this the confectioner's foreman declined on behalf of his principal, and at last the Colonel suggested that they could not do better than fight it out with fists. Now, the confectioner was ten years younger than Jorrocks, tall, long-armed, and not over-burthened with flesh, and had, moreover, taken lessons of Harry Harmer, when that worthy had his school in Paris, so he thought the offer was a good one, and immediately closed with it. Jorrocks, too, had been a patron of the prize-ring, having studied under Bill Richmond, the man of colour, and was reported to have exhibited in early life (incog.) with a pugilist of some pretensions at the Fives-court, so, all things considered, fists seemed a very proper mode of settling the matter, and that being agreed upon, each party quitted the Countess de Jackson's--the confectioner putting forth all manner of high-flown ejaculations and prayers for success, as he groped about the ante-room for his hat, and descended the stairs. "Oh! God of war!" said he, throwing up his hands, "who guided the victorious army of this grand nation in Egypt, when, from the pyramids, forty centuries beheld our actions--oh, brilliant sun, who shone upon our armies at Jaffa, at Naples, Montebello, Marengo, Austerlitz, Jena, and Algiers, who blessed our endeavours, who knowest that we are brave--brave as a hundred lions--look down on Charles Adolphe Eugene, and enable him to massacre and immolate on the altar of his wrath, this sacré-nom de-Dieu'd beastly hog of an Englishman"--and thereupon he spit upon the flags with all the venom of a viper.
Jorrocks, too, indulged in a few figures of speech, as he poked his way home, though of a different description. "Now blister my kidneys," said he, slapping his thigh, "but I'll sarve him out! I'll baste him as Randall did ugly Borrock. I'll knock him about as Belcher did the Big Ilkey Pigg. I'll damage his mug as Turner did Scroggins's. I'll fib him till he's as black as Agamemnon--for I do feel as though I could fight a few."
* * * * * The massive folding doors of the Porte-Cocher at the Hôtel d'Hollande had not received their morning opening, when a tremendous loud, long, protracted rat-tat-tat-tat-tan, sounded like thunder throughout the extensive square, and brought numerous nightcapped heads to the windows, to see whether the hotel was on fire, or another revolution had broken out. The _maître d'hotel_ screamed, the porter ran, the _chef de cuisine_ looked out of his pigeon-hole window, and the _garçons_ and male _femmes des chambres_ rushed into the yard, with fear and astonishment depicted on their countenances, when on peeping through the grating of the little door, Mr. Jorrocks was descried, knocker in hand, about to sound a second edition. Now, nothing is more offensive to the nerves of a Frenchman than a riotous knock, and the impertinence was not at all migitated by its proceeding from a stranger who appeared to have arrived through the undignified medium of a co-cou. [23] Having scanned his dimensions and satisfied himself that, notwithstanding all the noise, Jorrocks was mere mortal man, the porter unbolted the door, and commenced a loud and energetic tirade of abuse against "Monsieur Anglais," for his audacious thumping, which he swore was enough to make every man of the National Guard rush "to arms." In the midst of the torrent, very little of which Mr. Jorrocks understood, the Yorkshireman appeared, whom he hurried into the _co-cou_, bundled in after him, cried "ally!" to the driver, and off they jolted at a miserably slow trot. A little before seven they reached the village of Passy, where it was arranged they should meet and proceed from thence to the Bois de Boulogne, to select a convenient place for the fight; but neither the confectioner nor his second, nor any one on his behalf, was visible and they walked the length and breadth of the village, making every possible inquiry without seeing or hearing anything of them. At length, having waited a couple of hours, Mr. Jorrocks's appetite overpowered his desire of revenge, and caused him to retire to the "Chapeau-Rouge" to indulge in a "fork breakfast." Nature being satisfied, he called for pen and ink, and with the aid of Mr. Stubbs drew up the following proclamation which to this day remains posted in the _salle à manger_ a copy whereof was transmitted by post to the confectioner at Paris.
[Footnote 23: _Co-cous_ are nondescript vehicles that ply in the environs of Paris. They are a sort of cross between a cab and a young Diligence.]
PROCLAMATION!
I, John Jorrocks, of Great Coram Street, in the County of Middlesex, Member of the Surrey Hunt, in England, and Colonel of the Army when I'm in France, having been grossly insulted by Charles Adolphe Eugene of No. 15 bis, Rue Poupée, confectioner, this day repaired to Passy, with the intention of sarving him out with my fists; but, neither he nor any one for him having come to the scratch, I, John Jorrocks, do hereby proclaim the said Charles Adolphe Eugene to be a shabby fellow and no soldier, and totally unworthy the notice of a fox-hunter and a gentleman sportsman.
(Signed) JOHN JORROCKS.
(Countersigned) STUBBS.
This being completed, and the bill paid, they returned leisurely on foot to Paris, looking first at one object, then at another, so that the Countess Benvolio's dinner-hour was passed ere they reached the Tuileries Gardens, where after resting themselves until it began to get dusk, and their appetites returned, they repaired to the Café de Paris to destroy them again. --The lofty well-gilded salon was just lighted up, and the numberless lamps reflected in costly mirrors in almost every partition of the wall, aided by the graceful figures and elegant dresses of the ladies, interspersed among the sombre-coated gentry, with here and there the gay uniforms of the military, imparted a fairy air to the scene, which was not a little heightened by the contrast produced by Mr. Jorrocks's substantial figure, stumping through the centre with his hat on his head, his hands behind his back, and the dust of the day hanging about his Hessians.
"Garsoon," said he, hanging up his hat, and taking his place at a vacant table laid for two, "ge wouderai some wittles," and, accordingly, the spruce-jacketed, white-aproned _garçon_ brought him the usual red-backed book with gilt edges, cut and lettered at the side, like the index to a ledger, and, as Mr. Jorrocks said, "containing reading enough for a month." "Quelle potage voulez vous, monsieur?" inquired the _garçon_ at last, tired of waiting while he studied the _carte_ and looked the words out in the dictionary. " _Avez-vous_ any potted lobster?" "Non," said the _garçon_, "potage au vermicelle, au riz, a la Julienne, consommé, et potage aux choux." "Old shoe! who the devil do you think eats old shoes here? Have you any mock turtle or gravy soup?" "Non, monsieur," said the _garçon_ with a shrug of the shoulders. "Then avez-vous any roast beef?" "Non, monsieur; nous avons boeuf au naturel--boeuf à la sauce piquante--boeuf aux cornichons--boeuf à la mode--boeuf aux choux--boeuf à la sauce tomate--bifteck aux pommes de terre." "Hold hard," said Jorrocks; "I've often heard that you can dress an egg a thousand ways, and I want to hear no more about it; bring me a beef-steak and pommes de terre for three." "Stop!" cried Mr. Stubbs, with dismay--"I see you don't understand ordering a dinner in France --let me teach you. Where's the _carte? _" "Here," said Mr. Jorrocks, "is 'the bill of lading,'" handing over the book. --"Garçon, apportez une douzaine des huîtres, un citron, et du beurre frais," said the Yorkshireman, and while they were discussing the propriety of eating them before or after the soup, a beautiful dish of little green oysters made their appearance, which were encored before the first supply was finished. "Now, Colonel," said the Yorkshireman, "take a bumper of Chablis," lifting a pint bottle out of the cooler. "It has had one plunge in the ice-pail and no more--see what a delicate rind it leaves on the glass!" eyeing it as he spoke. "Ay, but I'd rayther it should leave something in the mouth than on the side of the glass," replied Mr. Jorrocks; "I loves a good strong generous wine--military port, in fact--but here comes fish and soup--wot are they?" "Filet de sole au gratin, et potage au macaroni avec fromage de Parmesan. I'll take fish first, because the soup will keep hot longest." "So will I," said Mr. Jorrocks, "for I think you understand the thing--but they seem to give werry small penn'orths--it really looks like trifling with one's appetite--I likes the old joint--the cut-and-come-again system, such as we used to have at Sugden's in Cornhill--joint, wegitables, and cheese all for two shillings." "Don't talk of your joints here," rejoined the Yorkshireman--"I told you before, you don't understand the art of eating--the dexterity of the thing consists in titivating the appetite with delicate morsels so as to prolong the pleasure. A well-regulated French dinner lasts two hours, whereas you go off at score, and take the shine out of yourself before you turn the Tattenham Corner of your appetite. But come, take another glass of Chablis, for your voice is husky as though your throat was full of dust. --Will you eat some of this boulli-vert?" "No, not no bouleward for me thank ye." "Well, then, we will have the 'entrée de boeuf--beef with sauce tomate--and there is a côtelette de veau en papillotte;--which will you take?" "I'll trouble the beef, I think; I don't like that 'ere pantaloon cutlet much, the skin is so tough." "Oh, but you don't eat the paper, man; that is only put on to keep this nice layer of fat ham from melting; take some, if it is only that you may enjoy a glass of champagne after it. There is no meat like veal for paving the way for a glass of champagne." "Well, I don't care if I do, now you have explained how to eat it, for I've really been troubled with indigestion all day from eating one wholesale yesterday; but don't you stand potatoes--pommes de terre, as we say in France?" "Oh yes, fried, and à la maître d'hotel; here they come, smoking hot. Now, J---- for a glass of champagne--take it out of the pail--nay, man! not with both hands round the middle, unless you like it warm--by the neck, so," showing him how to do it and pouring him a glass of still champagne. "This won't do," said Jorrocks, holding it up to the candle; "garsoon! garsoon! --no good--no bon--no fizzay, no fizzay," giving the bottom of the bottle a slap with his hand to rouse it. "Oh, but this is still champagne," explained the Yorkshireman, "and far the best." "I don't think so," retorted Mr. Jorrocks, emptying the glass into his water-stand. "Well, then, have a bottle of the other," rejoined the Yorkshireman, ordering one. "And who's to pay for it?" inquired Mr. Jorrocks. "Oh, never mind that--care killed the cat--give a loose to pleasure for once, for it's a poor heart that never rejoices. Here it comes, and 'may you never know what it is to want,' as the beggar boys say. --Now, let's see you treat it like a philosopher--the wire is off, so you've nothing to do but cut the string, and press the cork on one side with your thumb. --Nay! you've cut both sides!" Fizz, pop, bang, and away went the cork close past the ear of an old deaf general, and bounded against the wall. --"Come, there's no mischief done, so pour out the wine. --Your good health, old boy, may you live for a thousand years, and I be there to count them! --Now, that's what I call good," observed the Yorkshireman, holding up his glass, "see how it dulls the glass, even to the rim--champagne isn't worth a copper unless it's iced--is it, Colonel?" "Vy, I don't know--carn't say I like it so werry cold; it makes my teeth chatter, and cools my courage as it gets below--champagne certainly gives one werry gentlemanly ideas, but for a continuance, I don't know but I should prefer mild hale." "You're right, old boy, it does give one very gentlemanly ideas, so take another glass, and you'll fancy yourself an emperor. --Your good health again." "The same to you, sir. And now wot do you call this chap?" "That is a quail, the other a snipe--which will you take?" "Vy, a bit of both, I think; and do you eat these chaps with them?" "Yes, nothing nicer--artichokes á la sauce blanche; you get the real eating part, you see, by having them sent up this way, instead of like haystacks, as they come in England, diving and burning your fingers amid an infinity of leaves." "They are werry pretty eating, I must confess; and this upper Binjamin of ham the birds are cooked in is delicious. I'll trouble you for another plateful." "That's right, Colonel, you are yourself again. I always thought you would come back into the right course; and now you are good for a glass of claret of light Hermitage. Come, buck up, and give a loose to pleasure for once." "For once, ay, that's what you always say; but your once comes so werry often." "Say no more. --Garçon! un demi-bouteille de St. Julien; and here, J----, is a dish upon which I will stake my credit as an experienced caterer--a Charlotte de pommes--upon my reputation it is a fine one, the crust is browned to a turn, and the rich apricot sweet-meat lies ensconced in the middle, like a sleeping babe in its cradle. If ever man deserved a peerage and a pension it is this cook." "It's werry delicious--order another." "Oh, your eyes are bigger than your stomach, Mr. J----. According to all mathematical calculations, this will more than suffice. Ay, I thought so--you are regularly at a stand-still. Take a glass of whatever you like. Good--I'll drink Chablis to your champagne. And now, that there may be no mistake as to our country, we will have some cheese--fromage de Roquefort, Gruyère, Neufchatel, or whatever you like--and a beaker of Burgundy after, and then remove the cloth, for I hate dabbling in dowlas after dinner is done." "Rum beggars these French," said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, laying down the newspaper, and taking a sip of Churchman's chocolate, as on the Sunday morning he sat with the Countess Benvolio, discussing rolls and butter, with _Galignani's Messenger_, for breakfast.
"Rum beggars, indeed," said he, resuming the paper, and reading the programme of the amusements for the day, commencing with the hour of Protestant service at the Ambassador's Chapel, followed on by Palace and Gallery of Pictures of the Palais Royal--Review with Military Music in the Place du Carousel--Horse-races in the Champs de Mars--Fête in the Park of St. Cloud--Combat d'Animaux, that is to say, dog-fighting and bull-baiting, at the Barrière du Combat, Tivoli, etc., etc., "It's not werry right, but I suppose at Rome we must do as Romans do," with which comfortable reflection Mr. Jorrocks proposed that the Countess and he should go to the races. Madame was not partial to animals of any description, but having got a new hat and feathers she consented to show them, on condition that they adjoined to the fête at St. Cloud in the evening.
Accordingly, about noon, the ostler's man of a neighbouring English livery-stable drew up a dark-coloured job cab, with a red-and-white striped calico lining, drawn by a venerable long-backed white horse, at the Countess's gateway in the Rue des Mauvais-Garçons, into which Mr. Jorrocks having handed her ladyship, and Agamemnon, who was attired in his chasseur uniform, having climbed up behind, the old horse, after two or three flourishes of his dirty white tail, as a sort of acknowledgment of the whip on his sides, got himself into motion, and proceeded on his way to the races. The Countess being resolved to cut a dash, had persuaded our hero to add a smart second-hand cocked-hat, with a flowing red-and-white feather, to the rest of his military attire; and the end of a scarlet handkerchief, peeping out at the breast of his embroidered frock-coat, gave him the appearance of wearing a decoration, and procured him the usual salute from the soldiers and veterans of the Hospital of Invalids, who were lounging about the ramparts and walks of the edifice. The Countess's costume was simple and elegant; a sky-blue satin pelisse with boots to match, and a white satin bonnet with white feathers, tipped with blue, and delicate primrose-coloured gloves. Of course the head of the cab was well thrown back to exhibit the elegant inmates to the world.
Great respect is paid to the military in France, as Mr. Jorrocks found by all the hack, cab, and _fiacre _ drivers pulling up and making way for him to pass, as the old crocodile-backed white horse slowly dragged its long length to the gateway of the Champ de Mars. Here the guard, both horse and foot, saluted him, which he politely acknowledged, under direction of the Countess, by raising his _chapeau bras_, and a subaltern was dispatched by the officer in command to conduct him to the place appointed for the carriages to stand. But for this piece of attention Mr. Jorrocks would certainly have drawn up at the splendid building of the École Militaire, standing as it does like a grand stand in the centre of the gravelly dusty plain of the Champ de Mars. The officer, having speared his way through the crowd with the usual courtesy of a Frenchman, at length drew up the cab in a long line of anonymous vehicles under the rows of stunted elms by the stone-lined ditch, on the southern side of the plain when, turning his charger round, he saluted Mr. Jorrocks, and bumped off at a trot. Mr. Jorrocks then stuck the pig-driving whip into the socket, and throwing forward the apron, handed out the Countess, and installed Agamemnon in the cab.
A fine day and a crowd make the French people thoroughly happy, and on this afternoon the sun shone brightly and warmly on the land;--still there was no apparently settled purpose for the assembling of the multitude, who formed themselves in groups upon the plain, or lined the grass-burnt mounds at the sides, in most independent parties. The Champ de Mars forms a regular parallelogram of 2700 feet by 1320, and the course, which is of an oblong form, comprises a circuit of the whole, and is marked out with strong posts and ropes. Within the course, equestrians--or more properly speaking, "men on horseback"--are admitted under the surveillance of a regiment of cavalry, while infantry and cavalry are placed in all directions with drawn swords and fixed bayonets to preserve order. Being a gravelly sandy soil, in almost daily requisition for the exercise and training of troops, no symptoms of vegetation can be expected, and the course is as hard as the ride in Rotten Row or up to Kensington Gardens.
About the centre of the south side, near where the carriages were drawn up, a few temporary stands were erected for the royal family and visitors, the stand for the former being in the centre, and hung with scarlet and gold cloth, while the others were tastefully arranged with tri-coloured drapery. These are entered by tickets only, but there are always plenty of platforms formed by tables and "chaises à louer" (chairs to let) for those who don't mind risking their necks for a sight. Some few itinerants tramped about the plain, offering alternately tooth-picks, play-bills, and race-lists for sale. Mr. Jorrocks, of course, purchased one of the latter, which was decorated at the top with a woodcut, representing three jockeys riding two horses, one with a whip as big as a broad sword. We append the list as a specimen of "Sporting in France," which, we are sorry to see, does not run into our pages quite so cleverly as our printer could wish. [24] [Footnote 24: Racing in France is, of course, now a very different business to the primitive sport it was when this sketch was written. --EDITOR.]
Foreigners accuse the English of claiming every good-looking horse, and every well-built carriage, met on the Continent, as their own, but we think that few would be ambitious of laying claim to the honour of supplying France with jockeys or racehorses. Mr. Jorrocks, indeed, indifferent as he is to the affairs of the turf, could not suppress his "conwiction" of the difference between the flibberty-gibberty appearance of the Frenchmen, and the quiet, easy, close-sitting jockeys of Newmarket. The former all legs and elbows, spurting and pushing to the front at starting, in tawdry, faded jackets, and nankeen shorts, just like the frowsy door-keepers of an Epsom gambling-booth; the latter in clean, neat-fitting leathers, well-cleaned boots, spick and span new jackets, feeling their horses' mouths, quietly in the rear, with their whip hands resting on their thighs. Then such riding! A hulking Norman with his knees up to his chin, and a long lean half-starved looking Frenchman sat astride like a pair of tongs, with a wet sponge applied to his knees before starting, followed by a runaway English stable lad, in white cords and drab gaiters, and half a dozen others equally singular, spurring and tearing round and round, throwing the gravel and sand into each other's faces, until the field was so separated as to render it difficult to say which was leading and which was tailing, for it is one of the rules of their races, that each heat must be run in a certain time, consequently, though all the horses may be distanced, the winner keeps working away. Then what an absence of interest and enthusiasm on the part of the spectators! Three-fourths of them did not know where the horses started, scarcely a man knew their names, and the few tenpenny bets that were made, were sported upon the colour of the jackets. A Frenchman has no notion of racing, and it is on record that after a heat in which the winning horse, after making a waiting race, ran in at the finish, a Parisian observed, that "although 'Annette' had won at the finish, he thought the greater honour was due to 'Hercule,' he having kept the lead the greater part of the distance." On someone explaining to him that the jockey on Annette had purposely made a waiting race, he was totally incredulous, asserting that he was sure the jockeys had too much _amour-propre_ to remain in the rear at any part of the race, when they might be in front.
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SPORTING IN FRANCE
PROGRAMME DES COURSES DE CHEVAUX
QUI AURONT LIEU AU CHAMP-DE-MARS LE DIMANCHE A UNE HEURE,
EN PRESENCE DE LL. MM. LE ROI ET LA REINE, ET DES PRINCES DE LA FAMILLE ROYALE
DEUX PRIX ROYAUX
+------------+--------------+----------------+------+--------+----------------+
| NOMS | SIGNALEMENS | NOMS |POIDS |NOMS | COSTUMES |
|
|Des Chevaux | Et Ages | Des |à |Des |Des Jockeys | | | | Proprietaires |porter|Jockeys | | +------------+--------------+----------------+------+--------+----------------+ |Prix royal de 5000 fr. pour les chevaux et jumens de deuxième espèce. --En | | partie liée | | | | | | | | |Moina |Bai-clair-4 |Haras de Meudon |102 l.|Tom |Veste rouge | | | | | | Hall |toque tricolore | |Corisandre |Bai-brun-5 |M. Bonvié fils |115 |Tom |Veste orange, | | | | | |Wilson |manches et toque| | | | | | |noires. | |Flore |Bai-cerise-4 |M. de Laroque |102 |Tony |Veste noire, | | | | | |Montel |manches blanches| | | | | | |toque noire. | |Eleanor |Alezan-brulé-5|M. de Royère |112 |Bernou |Veste verte, | | | | | | | toque noire. | |Diomède |Bai-4 |M. le baron de |105 |Baptiste|Veste bleue, | | | | la Bastide | | |manches jaunes, | | | | | | |toque bl. et j. | |Cirus |Bai-brun-5 |Lord Seymour |115 |North |Veste orange, | | | | | | | toque noire. | |Aline |Bai-clair-4 |M. Noel |102 |Tom |Veste ponceau, | | | | | | |manches blanches| | | | | | | toque bleue. | |Léonie |Alezan-doré-5 |M. Belhomme |112 |Pichon |Veste jaune, | | | | | | | toque verte | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |Prix royal de 6ooo fr. pour les chevaux de première espèce. --En partie liée | | | | | | | | |Young-Milton|Bai-4 |M. Fasquel |105 l.|Tom Webb|Veste et toque | | | | | | | noires. | |Mouna |Bai-clair-4 |M. de Laroque |102 |Tony |Veste noire, | | | | | | Montal |manches blanches| | | | | | |toque noire | |Paméla |Bai-4 |Heras de Meudon |102 |Tom Hall|Veste rouge, | | | | | | |toque tricolore. | |Eglé |Gris-sanguin-5|Lord Seymour |112 |Mous |Veste orange, | | | | | | | toque noire | |Cédéric |Bai-5 |M. le baron de |115 |Baptiste|Veste bleue, | | | | la Bastide | | |manches jaunes, | | | | | | |toque bl. et ja. | |Young-Tandem|Bai-cerise-4 |M. Schickler |105 |Webb |Veste rouge, | | | | | | | toque noire. | | | | | | | | |Oubiou |Alezan-6 |MM. Salvador et |121 |Tom |Veste bleue, | | | | Tassinari | | Johns |manches blanches| | | | | | | | | | | | | |toque rouge. | |Coradin |Bai-5 |M. Moreil |115 |René |Veste bleue, | | | | | | |manches jaunes, | | | | | | |toque bl. &jaune. | +------------+--------------+----------------+------+--------+----------------+ |Nota. Les chevaux de première espèce sont ceux nés en France de pères et | |mères étrangers: ceux de la deuxième espèce sont ceux nés de pères et | |mères Français ou seulement de l'un des deux. --Chaque épreuve comprendra | |les deux tours du Champs de Mars. --Les courses commenceront par la | |premiere épreuve des chevaux de deuxième espèce. --La seconde course se | |fera pour la première épreuve des chevaux de première espèce: suivie de | |la deuxième épreuve des chevaux de deuxième espèce: et elles seront | |terminées par la deuxième épreuve des chevaux de première espèce. | +-----------------------------------------------------------------------------+ ======================================================================== Transcriber's note: The original document contains an additional column that could not be squeezed into the 80 characters allowed in this format. That column shows the pedigree of the horses, as follows: Moina: Issu de Candide et de Miltonia. Corisandre: Issu d'Holbein et de Lisbeth. Flore: Issue de Tigris et Biche. Eléanor: Issue de Moulay et de Cadette. Diomède: Issu de Prémium et de Gabrielle. Cirus: Issu de Toley et de Miss. Aline: Issue de Snail et d'une jument Normande. Léonie: Issue de Massoud et d'une fille de D-y-o.
Young-Milton: Issu de Milton et de Betzi. Mouna: Issu de Rainbow et de Mouna. Paméla: Issue de Candid et Géane Eglé: Issue de Rainbow and Young-Urganda. Cédéric: Issue de Candid et Prestesse. Young-Tandem: Issu de Multum-in-Parvo et d'Oida. Oubiou: Issu d'Oubiou et d'une fille de Stradlamlad. Coradin: Issu de Candid et de Prestesse. ======================================================================= "Moderate sport," said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, curling his mustachios and jingling a handful of five-franc pieces in the pocket of his leathers--"moderate sport indeed," and therefore he turned his back to the course and walked the Countess off towards the cab.
From beneath a low tenth-rate-looking booth, called "The Cottage of Content," supported by poles placed on the stunted trees of the avenue, and exhibiting on a blue board, "John Jones, dealer in British beer," in gilt letters, there issued the sound of voices clamouring about odds, and weights and scales, and on looking in, a score of ragamuffin-looking grooms, imitation jockeys, and the usual hangers-on of the racehorses and livery-stables, were seen drinking beer, smoking, playing at cards, dice, and chuck-farthing. Before the well-patched canvas curtain that flapped before the entrance, a crowd had collected round one of the horses which was in the care of five or six fellows, one to hold him, another to whistle to him, a third to whisk the flies away with a horse's tail, a fourth to scrape him, a fifth to rinse his mouth out,--while the stud-groom, a tall, gaunt, hairy-looking fellow, in his shirt sleeves, with ear-rings, a blue apron and trousers (more like a gardener than a groom), walked round and round with mystified dignity, sacréing and muttering, "Ne parlez pas, ne parlez pas," as anyone approached who seemed likely to ask questions. Mr. Jorrocks, having well ascertained the importance of his hat and feather, pushed his way with the greatest coolness into the ring, just to cast his eye over the horse and see whether he was fit to go with the Surrey, and the stud-groom immediately took off his lavender-coloured foraging cap, and made two profound salaams, one to the Colonel, the other to the Countess. Mr. Jorrocks, all politeness, took off his _chapeau_, and no sooner was it in the air, than with a wild exclamation of surprise and delight, the groom screamed, "Oh, Monsieur Shorrock, mon ami, comment vous portez vous?" threw his arms round the Colonel's neck, and kissed him on each cheek.
"Hold!" roared the Colonel, half smothered in the embrace, and disengaging himself he drew back a few paces, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword, when in the training groom of Paris he recognised his friend the Baron of Newmarket. The abruptness of the incident disarmed Mr. Jorrocks of reflection, and being a man of impulse and warm affections, he at once forgave the novelty of the embrace, and most cordially joined hands with those of his friend. They then struck up a mixture of broken English and equally broken French, in mutual inquiries after each other's healths and movements, and presuming that Mr. Jorrocks was following up the sporting trade in Paris, the Baron most considerately gave him his best recommendations which horse to back, kindly betting with him himself, but, unfortunately, at each time assigning Mr. Jorrocks the losing horse. At length, being completely cleaned out, he declined any further transactions, and having got the Countess into the cab, was in the act of climbing in himself, when someone took him by the sword as he was hoisting himself up by the wooden apron, and drew him back to the ground. "Holloa, Stubbs, my boy!" cried he, "I'm werry 'appy to see ye," holding out his hand, and thereupon Mr. Stubbs took off his hat to the Countess. "Well now, the deuce be in these French," observed Mr. Jorrocks, confidentially, in an undertone as, resigning the reins to Agamemnon, he put his arm through the Yorkshireman's and drew out of hearing of the Countess behind the cab--"the deuce be in them. I say. There's that beggarly Baron as we met at Newmarket has just diddled me out of four Naps and a half, by getting me to back 'osses that he said were certain to win, and I really don't know how we are to make 'tongue and buckle' meet, as the coachmen say. Somehow or other they are far too sharp for me. Cards, dominoes, dice, backgammon, and racing, all one--they inwariably beat me, and I declare I haven't as much pewter as will coach me to Calais." The Yorkshireman, as may be supposed, was not in a condition of any great pecuniary assistance, but after a turn or two along the mound, he felt it would be a reproach on his country if he suffered his friend to be done by a Frenchman, and on consideration he thought of a trick that Monsieur would not be up to. Accordingly, desiring Mr. Jorrocks to take him to the Baron, and behave with great cordiality, and agree to the proposal he should make, they set off in search of that worthy, who, after some trouble, they discovered in the "Cottage of Content," entertaining John Jones and his comrades with an account of the manner in which he had fleeced Monsieur Shorrock. The Yorkshireman met him with the greatest delight, shook hands with him over and over again, and then began talking about racing, pigeon-shooting, and Newmarket, pretended to be full of money, and very anxious for the Baron's advice in laying it out. On hearing this, the Baron beckoned him to retire, and joining him in the avenue, walked him up and down, while he recommended his backing a horse that was notoriously amiss. The Yorkshireman consented, lost a Nap with great good humour, and banteringly told the Baron he thought he could beat the horse on foot. This led them to talk of foot-racing and at last the Yorkshireman offered to bet that Mr. Jorrocks would run fifty yards with him on his back, before the Baron would run a hundred. Upon this the Baron scratched his head and looked very knowing, pretended to make a calculation, when the Yorkshireman affected fear, and professed his readiness to withdraw the offer. The Baron then plucked up his courage, and after some haggling, the match was made for six Naps, the Yorkshireman reckoning the Baron might have ten francs in addition to what he had won of Mr. Jorrocks and himself. The money was then deposited in the hands of the Countess Benvolio, and away went the trio to the "Cottage of Content," to get men and ropes to measure and keep the ground. The English jockeys and lads, though ready enough to pigeon a countryman themselves, have no notion of assisting a foreigner to do so, unless they share in the spoil, and the Baron being a notorious screw, they all seemed heartily glad to find him in a trap. Out then they all sallied, amid cheers and shouts, while John Jones, with a yard-wand in his hand, proceeded to measure a hundred yards along the low side of the mound. This species of amusement being far more in accordance with the taste of the French than anything in which horses are concerned, an immense mob flocked to the scene, and the Baron having explained how it was, and being considered a safe man to follow, numerous offers were made to bet against the performance of the match. The Yorkshireman being a youth of discretion and accustomed to bet among strangers, got on five Naps more with different parties, who to "prevent accidents" submitted to deposit the money with the Countess, and all things being adjusted, and the course cleared by a picket of infantry, Mr. Jorrocks ungirded his sword, and depositing it with his frock-coat in the cab, walked up to the fifty yards he was to have for start. "Now, Colonel," said the Yorkshireman, backing him to the mound, so that he might leap on without shaking him, "put your best leg first, and it's a hollow thing; if you don't fall, you must win,"--and thereupon taking Mr. Jorrocks's cocked hat and feather from his head, he put it sideways on his own, so that he might not be recognised, and mounted his man. Mr. Jorrocks then took his place as directed by John Jones, and at a signal from him--the dropping of a blue cotton handkerchief--away they started amid the shouts, the clapping of hands, and applause of the spectators, who covered the mound and lined the course on either side. Mr. Jorrocks's action was not very capital, his jack-boots and leathers rather impeding his limbs, while the Baron had as little on him as decency would allow. The Yorkshireman feeling his man rather roll at the start, again cautioned him to take it easy, and after a dozen yards he got into a capital run, and though the lanky Baron came tearing along like an ill-fed greyhound, Mr. Jorrocks had full two yards to spare, and ran past the soldier, who stood with his cap on his bayonet as a winning-post, amid the applause of his backers, the yells of his opponents, and the general acclamation of the spectators.
The Countess, anticipating the victory of her hero, had dispatched Agamemnon early in the day for a chaplet of red-and-yellow immortelles, and having switched the old cab horse up to the winning-post, she gracefully descended, without showing more of her foot and ankle than was strictly correct, and decorated his brow with the wreath, as the Yorkshireman dismounted. Enthusiasm being always the order of the day in France, this act was greeted with the loudest acclamations, and, without giving him time to recover his wind, the populace bundled Mr. Jorrocks neck and shoulders into the cab, and seizing the old horse by the head, paraded him down the entire length of the Champ de Mars, Mr. Jorrocks bowing and kissing his hands to the assembled multitude, in return for the vivas! the clapping of hands, and the waving of ribbons and handkerchiefs that greeted him as he went.
Popularity is but a fickle goddess, and in no country more fickle than in France. Ere the procession reached the end of the dusty plain, the mob had tailed off very considerably, and as the leader of the old white horse pulled him round to return, a fresh commotion in the distance, caused by the apprehension of a couple of pickpockets, drew away the few followers that remained, and the recently applauded and belauded Mr. Jorrocks was left alone in his glory. He then pulled up, and taking the chaplet of immortelles from his brow, thrust it under the driving cushion of the cab, and proceeded to reinstate himself in his tight military frock, re-gird himself with his sword, and resume the cocked hat and feather.
Nothing was too good for Mr. Stubbs at that moment, and, had a pen and ink been ready, Mr. Jorrocks would have endorsed him a bill for any amount. Having completed his toilette he gave the Yorkshireman the vacant seat in the cab, flopped the old horse well about the ears with the pig-driving whip, and trotted briskly up the line he had recently passed in triumphal procession, and wormed his way among the crowd in search of the Countess. There was nothing, however, to be seen of her, and after driving about, and poking his way on foot into all the crowds he could find, bolting up to every lady in blue, he looked at his great double-cased gold repeater, and finding it was near three o'clock and recollecting the fête of St. Cloud, concluded her ladyship must have gone on, and Agamemnon being anxious to see it, of course was of the same opinion; so, again flopping the old horse about the ears, he cut away down the Champ de Mars, and by the direction of Agamemnon crossed the Seine by the Pont des Invalides, and gained the route to Versailles.
Here the genius of the people was apparent, for the road swarmed with voitures of every description, diligences, gondoles, co-cous, cabs, fiacres, omnibuses, dame-blanches, all rolling and rumbling along, occasionally interrupted by the lilting and tilting of a light English cab or tilbury, drawn by a thoroughbred, and driven by a dandy. The spirit of the old white horse even seemed roused as he got among the carriages and heard the tramping of hoofs and the jingling of bells round the necks of other horses, and he applied himself to the shafts with a vigour his enfeebled-looking frame appeared incapable of supplying. So they trotted on, and after a mile travelling at a foot's pace after they got into close line, they reached the porte Maillot, and resigning the cab to the discretion of Agamemnon, Mr. Jorrocks got himself brushed over by one of the gentry who ply in that profession at all public places, and tucking his sword under one arm, he thrust the other through Mr. Stubbs's, and, John-Bull-like, strutted up the long broad grass avenue, through the low part of the wood of St. Cloud, as if all he saw belonged to himself. The scene was splendid, and nature, art, and the weather appeared confederated for effect. On the lofty heights arose the stately place, looking down with placid grandeur on the full foliage of the venerable trees, over the beautiful gardens, the spouting fountains, the rushing cascades, and the gay and countless myriads that swarmed the avenues, while the circling river flowed calmly on, without a ripple on its surface, as if in ridicule of the sound of trumpets, the clang of cymbals, and the beat of drums, that rent the air around.
Along the broad avenue were ranged shows of every description--wild beasts, giants, jugglers, tumblers, mountebanks, and monsters, while in spots sheltered from the sun by lofty trees were dancing-places, swings, roundabouts, archery-butts, pistol-ranges, ball-kicking and head-thumping places, montagnes-Suisses, all the concomitants of fairs and fêtes--beating "Bartlemy Fair," as Mr. Jorrocks candidly confessed, "all to nothing."
The chance of meeting the Countess Benvolio in such a multitude was very remote indeed, but, to tell the truth, Mr. Jorrocks never once thought of her, until having eat a couple of cold fowls and drank a bottle of porter, at an English booth, he felt in his pocket for his purse, and remembered it was in her keeping. Mr. Stubbs, however, settled the account, and in high glee Mr. Jorrocks resumed his peregrinations, visiting first one show, then another, shooting with pea-guns, then dancing a quadrille, until he was brought up short before a splendid green-and-gold roundabout, whose magic circle contained two lions, two swans, two black horses, a tiger, and a giraffe. "Let's have a ride," said he, jumping on to one of the black horses and adjusting the stirrups to his length. The party was soon made up, and as the last comer crossed his tiger, the engine was propelled by the boys in the centre, and away they went at Derby pace. In six rounds Mr. Jorrocks lost his head, turned completely giddy, and bellowed out to them to stop. They took no heed--all the rest were used to it--and after divers yells and ineffectual efforts to dismount, he fell to the ground like a sack. The machine was in full work at the time, and swept round three or four times before they could stop it. At last Mr. Stubbs got to him, and a pitiable plight he was in. He had fallen on his head, broken his feather, crushed his chapeau bras, lost off his mustachios, was as pale as death, and very sick. Fortunately the accident happened near the gate leading to the town of St. Cloud, and thither, with the aid of two gendarmes, Mr. Stubbs conveyed the fallen hero, and having put him to bed at the Hôtel d'Angleterre, he sent for a "médecin," who of course shook his head, looked very wise, ordered him to drink warm water--a never-failing specific in France--and keep quiet. Finding he had an Englishman for a patient, the "médecin" dropped in every two hours, always concluding with the order "encore l'eau chaud." A good sleep did more for Mr. Jorrocks than the doctor, and when the "médecin" called in the morning, and repeated the injunction "encore l'eau chaud," he bellowed out, "Cuss your _l'eau chaud_, my stomach ain't a reserwoir! Give me some wittles!" The return of his appetite being a most favourable symptom, Mr. Stubbs discharged the doctor, and forthwith ordered a _déjeuner à la fourchette_, to which Mr. Jorrocks did pretty fair justice, though trifling in comparison with his usual performances. They then got into a Versailles diligence that stopped at the door, and rattling along at a merry pace, very soon reached Paris and the Rue des Mauvais-Garçons.
"Come up and see the Countess," said Mr. Jorrocks as they arrived at the bottom of the flight of dirty stairs, and, with his hands behind his back and his sword dragging at his heels, he poked upstairs, and opening the outer door entered the apartment. He passed through the small ante-room without observing his portmanteau and carpet-bag on the table, and there being no symptoms of the Countess in the next one, he walked forward into the bedroom beyond.
Before an English fire-place that Mr. Jorrocks himself had been at the expense of providing, snugly ensconced in the luxurious depths of a well-cushioned easy chair, sat a monstrous man with a green patch on his right eye, in slippers, loose hose, a dirty grey woollen dressing-gown, and black silk nightcap, puffing away at a long meerschaum pipe, with a figure of Bacchus on the bowl. At a sight so unexpected Mr. Jorrocks started back, but the smoker seemed quite unconcerned, and casting an unmeaning grey eye at the intruder, puffed a long-drawn respiration from his mouth.
"How now!" roared Mr. Jorrocks, boiling into a rage, which caused the monster to start upon his legs as though he were galvanised. "Vot brings you here?"
"Sprechen sie Deutsch?" responded the smoker, opening his eye a little wider, and taking the pipe from his mouth. "Speak English, you fool," bawled Mr. Jorrocks. "Sie sind sehr unverschämt" (you are very impudent), replied the Dutchman with a thump on the table. "I'll run you through the gizzard!" rejoined Mr. Jorrocks, half drawing his sword,--"skin you alive, in fact!" when in rushed the Countess and threw herself between them.
Now, Mynheer Van Rosembom, a burgomaster of Flushing, was an old friend of the Countess's, and an exceedingly good paying one, and having cast up that morning quite unexpectedly by the early diligence from Dunkirk, and the Countess being enraged at Mr. Jorrocks for not sharing the honours of his procession in the cab on the previous day, and believing, moreover, that his treasury was pretty well exhausted, thought she could not do better than instal Rosembom in his place, and retain the stakes she held for the Colonel's board and lodging.
This arrangement she kept to herself, simply giving Rosembom, who was not a much better Frenchman than Col. Jorrocks, to understand that the room would be ready for him shortly, and Agamemnon was ordered to bundle Mr. Jorrocks's clothes into his portmanteau and bag, and place them in readiness in the ante-room. Rosembom, fatigued with his journey, then retired to enjoy his pipe at his ease, while the Countess went to the Marche St. Honoré to buy some sour crout, roast beef, and prunes for his dinner.
"Turn this great slush-bucket out of my room!" cried Mr. Jorrocks, as the Countess rushed into his apartment. "Vot's he doing here?"
"Doucement, mon cher Colonel," said she, clapping him on the back, "he sall be my brodder." "Never such a thing!" roared Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing him as he spoke. "Never such a thing! no more than myself--out with him, I say, or I'll cut my stick--_toute suite--_directly!"
"Avec tout mon coeur!" replied the Countess, her choler rising as she spoke. "You're another," rejoined Mr. Jorrocks, judging by her manner that she called him something offensive--"Vous ête one mauvaise woman!" "Monsieur," said the Countess, her eyes flashing as she spoke, "vous êtes un polisson! --von rascal! --von dem villain! --un charlatan! --von nasty--bastely--ross bif! --dem dog!" and thereupon she curled her fingers and set her teeth on edge as though she would tear his very eyes out. Rosembom, though he didn't exactly see the merits of the matter, exchanged his pipe for the poker, so what with this, the sword, and the nails, things wore a very belligerent aspect.
Mr. Stubbs, as usual, interposed, and the Countess, still keeping up the semblance of her rage, ordered them to quit her apartment directly, or she would have recourse to her old friends the police. Mr. Stubbs was quite agreeable to go, but he hinted that she might as well hand over the stakes that had been entrusted to her keeping on the previous day, upon which she again indulged in a torrent of abuse, swore they were a couple of thieves, and that Mr. Jorrocks owed her far more than the amount for board and lodging. This made the Colonel stare, for on the supposition that he was a visitor, he had been firing away his money in all directions, playing at everything she proposed, buying her bonnets, Perigord pies, hiring remises, and committing every species of extravagance, and now to be charged for what he thought was pure friendship, disgusted him beyond expression.
The Countess speedily summoned the porter, the man of letters of the establishment, and with his aid drew Mr. Jorrocks out a bill, which he described as "reaching down each side of his body and round his waist," commencing with 2 francs for savon, and then proceeding in the daily routine of café, 1 franc; déjeuner à la fourchette, 5 francs; diner avec vin, 10 francs; tea, 1 franc; souper, 3 francs; bougies, 2 francs; appartement, 3 francs; running him up a bill of 700 francs; and when Mr. Stubbs remonstrated on the exorbitance of the charges, she replied, "It sall be, sare, as small monnaie as sail be consistent avec my dignified respectability, you to charge."
There seemed no help for the matter, so Mr. Stubbs paid the balance, while Mr. Jorrocks, shocked at the duplicity of the Countess, the impudence of Rosembom, and the emptiness of his own pockets, bolted away without saying a word.
That very night the Malle-Poste bore them from the capital, with two cold fowls, three-quarters of a yard of bread, and a bottle of porter, for Mr. Jorrocks on the journey, and ere another sun went down, the sandy suburbs of Calais saw them toiling towards her ramparts, and rumbling over the drawbridges and under the portcullis, that guard the entrance to her gloomy town. Calais! cold, cheerless, lifeless Calais! Whose soul has ever warmed as it approached thy town? but how many hearts have turned with sickening sorrow from the mirthless tinkling of thy bells!
"We'll not stay here long I guess," said Mr. Jorrocks as the diligence pulled up at the post-office, and the conducteur requested the passengers to descend. "That's optional," said a bystander, who was waiting for his letters, looking at Mr. Jorrocks with an air as much as to say, what a rum-looking fellow you are, and not without reason, for the Colonel was attired in a blue sailor's jacket, white leathers, and jack-boots, with the cocked hat and feather. The speaker was a middle-aged, middle-statured man, with a quick intelligent eye, dressed in a single-breasted green riding-coat, striped toilinette waistcoat, and drab trousers, with a whip in his hand. "Thank you for nothing!" replied Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing him in return, upon which the speaker turned to the clerk and asked if there were any letters for Monsieur Apperley or Nimrod. "NIMROD!" exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, dropping on his knees as though he were shot. "Oh my vig what have I done? Oh dear! oh dear! what a dumbfounderer--flummoxed I declare!"
"Hold up! old 'un," said Nimrod in astonishment; "why, what's the matter now? You don't owe me anything I dare say!"
"Owe you anything! yes, I does," said Mr. Jorrocks, rising from the ground, "I owes you a debt of gratitude that I can never wipe off--you'll be in the day-book and ledger of my memory for ever and a year."
"Who are you?" inquired Nimrod, becoming more and more puzzled, as he contrasted his dialect with his dress.
"Who am I? Why, I'm Mister Jorrocks."
"Jorrocks, by Jove! Who'd have thought it! I declare I took you for a horse-marine. Give us your hand, old boy. I'm proud to make your acquaintance."
"Ditto to you, sir, twice repeated. I considers you the werry first man of the age!" --and thereupon they shook hands with uncommon warmth.
"You've been in Paris, I suppose," resumed Nimrod, after their respective digits were released; "were you much gratified with what you saw? What pleased you most--the Tuileries, Louvre, Garden of Plants, Père la Chaise, Notre Dame, or what?"
"Why now, to tell you the truth, singular as it may seem, I saw nothing but the Tuileries and Naughty Dame. --I may say a werry naughty dame, for she fleeced me uncommonly, scarcely leaving me a dump to carry me home."
"What, you've been among the ladies, have you? That's gay for a man at your time of life."
"Yes, I certainlie have been among the ladies,--countesses I may say--but, dash my vig, they are a rum set, and made me pay for their acquaintance. The Countess Benwolio certainlie is a bad 'un."
"Oh, the deuce! --did that old devil catch you?" inquired Nimrod.
"Vot, do you know her?"
"Know her! ay--everybody here knows her with her black boy. She's always on the road, and lives now by the flats she catches between Paris and the coast. She was an agent for Morison's Pills--but having a fractious Scotch lodger that she couldn't get out, she physicked him so dreadfully that he nearly died, and the police took her licence away. But you are hungry, Mr. Jorrocks, come to my house and spend the evening, and tell me all about your travels."
Mr. Stubbs objected to this proposition, having just learned that the London packet sailed in an hour, so the trio adjourned to Mr. Roberts's, Royal Hotel, where over some strong eau-de-vie they cemented their acquaintance, and Mr. Jorrocks, finding that Nimrod was to be in England the following week, insisted upon his naming a day for dining in Great Coram Street.
"Permits" to embark having been considerately granted "gratis" by the Government for a franc apiece, at the hour of ten our travellers stepped on board, and Mr. Jorrocks, having wrapped himself up in his martial cloak, laid down in the cabin and, like Ulysses in Ithaca, as Nimrod would say, "arrived in London Asleep."
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{
"id": "15387"
}
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11
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A RIDE TO BRIGHTON ON "THE AGE"
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_(In a very "Familiar Letter" to Nimrod)_ DEAR NIMROD, You have favoured myself, and the sporting world at large, with a werry rich high-flavoured account of the great Captain Barclay, and his extonishing coach, the "Defiance"; and being werry grateful to you for that and all other favours, past, present, and to come, I take up my grey goose quill to make it "obedient to my will," as Mr. Pope, the poet, says, in relating a werry gratifying ride I had on the celebrated "Brighton Age," along with Sir Wincent Cotton, Bart., and a few other swells. Being, as you knows, of rather an emigrating disposition, and objecting to make a nick-stick of my life by marking down each Christmas Day over roast-beef and plum pudding, cheek-by-jowl with Mrs. J---- at home, I said unto my lad Binjimin--and there's not a bigger rogue unhung--"Binjimin, be after looking out my Sunday clothes, and run down to the Regent Circus, and book me the box-seat of the 'Age,' for I'm blow'd if I'm not going to see the King at Brighton (or 'London-sur-Mary,' as James Green calls it), and tell the pig-eyed book-keeper it's for Mr. Jorrocks, and you'll be sure to get it."
Accordingly, next day, I put in my appearance at the Circus, dressed in my best blue Saxony coat, with metal buttons, yellow waistcoat, tights, and best Hessians, with a fine new castor on my head, and a carnation in my button-hole. Lots of chaps came dropping in to go, and every one wanted the box-seat. "Can I have the box-seat?" said one. --"No, sir; Mr. Jorrocks has it." "Is the box-seat engaged?" asked another. --"Yes, sir; Mr. Jorrocks has taken it." "Book me the box," said a third with great dignity. --"It's engaged already." "Who by?" --"Mr. Jorrocks"; and so they went on to the tune of near a dozen. Presently a rattling of pole chains was heard, and a cry was raised of "Here's Sir Wincent!" I looks out, and saw a werry neat, dark, chocolate-coloured coach, with narrow red-striped wheels, and a crest, either a heagle or a unicorn (I forgets which), on the door, and just the proprietors' names below the winder, and "The Age," in large gilt letters, below the gammon board, drawn by four blood-like, switch-tailed nags, in beautiful highly polished harness with brass furniture, without bearing reins--driven by a swellish-looking young chap, in a long-backed, rough, claret-coloured benjamin, with fancy-coloured tyes, and a bunch of flowers in his button-hole--no coachman or man of fashion, as you knows, being complete without the flower. There was nothing gammonacious about the turn-out; all werry neat and 'andsome, but as plain as plain could be; and there was not even a bit of Christmas at the 'orses' ears, which I observed all the other coaches had. Well, down came Sir Wincent, off went his hat, out came the way-bill, and off he ran into the office to see what they had for him. "Here, coachman," says a linen-draper's "elegant extract," waiting outside, "you've to deliver this (giving him a parcel) in the Marine Parade the instant you get to Brighton. It's Miss---- 's bustle, and she'll be waiting for it to put on to go out to dinner, so you musn't lose a moment, and you may charge what you like for your trouble." "Werry well," says Sir Wincent, laughing, "I'll take care of her bustle. Now, book-keeper, be awake. Three insides here, and six out. Pray, sir," touching his hat to me, "are you booked here? Oh! Mr. Jorrocks, I see. I begs your pardon. Jump up, then; be lively! what luggage have you?" "Two carpet-bags, with J. J., Great Coram Street, upon them." "There, then we'll put them in the front boot, and you'll have them under you. All right behind? Sit tight!" Hist! off we go by St. Mertain's Church into the Strand, to the booking-office there.
The streets were werry full, but Sir Wincent wormed his way among the coal-wagons, wans, busses, coaches, bottom-over-tops,--in wulgar French, "cow sur tate," as they calls the new patent busses--trucks, cabs, &c., in a marvellous workmanlike manner, which seemed the more masterly, inasmuch as the leaders, having their heads at liberty, poked them about in all directions, all a mode Francey, just as they do in Paris. At the Marsh gate we were stopped. A black job was going through on one side, and a haw-buck had drawn a great yellow one 'oss Gravesend cruelty wan into the other, and was fumbling for his coin.
"Now, Young Omnibus!" cried Sir Wincent, "don't be standing there all day." The man cut into his nag, but the brute was about beat. "There, don't 'it him so 'ard (hard)," said Sir Wincent, "or you may hurt him!"
When we got near the Helephant and Castle, Timothy Odgkinson, of Brixton Hill, a low, underselling grocer, got his measly errand cart, with his name and address in great staring white letters, just in advance of the leaders, and kept dodging across the road to get the sound ground, for the whole line was werry "woolley" as you calls it. "Come, Mister independent grocer! go faster if you can," cries Sir Wincent, "though I think you have bought your horse where you buy your tea, for he's werry sloe." A little bit farther on a chap was shoving away at a truck full of market-baskets. "Now, Slavey," said he, "keep out of my way!" At the Helephant and Castle, and, indeed, wherever he stopped, there were lots of gapers assembled to see the Baronet coachman, but Sir Wincent never minded them, but bustled about with his way-bill, and shoved in his parcels, fish-baskets, and oyster-barrels like a good 'un. We pulled up to grub at the Feathers at Merstham, and 'artily glad I was, for I was far on to famish, having ridden whole twenty-five miles in a cold, frosty air without morsel of wittles of any sort. When the Bart. pulled up, he said, "Now, ladies and gentlemen--twenty minutes allowed here, and let me adwise you to make the most of it." I took the 'int, and heat away like a regular bagman, who can always dispatch his ducks and green peas in ten minutes.
We started again, and about one hundred yards below the pike stood a lad with a pair of leaders to clap on, for the road, as I said before, was werry woolley. "Now, you see, Mr. Jorrocks," said Sir Wincent, "I do old Pikey by having my 'osses on this side. The old screw drew me for four shillings one day for my leaders, two each way, so, says I, 'My covey, if you don't draw it a little milder, I'll send my 'osses from the stable through my friend Sir William Jolliffe's fields to the other side of your shop,' and as he wouldn't, you see here they are, and he gets nothing."
The best of company, they say, must part, and Baronets "form no exception to the rule," as I once heard Dr. Birkbeck say. About a mile below the halfway 'ouse another coach hove in sight, and each pulling up, they proved to be as like each other as two beans, and beneath a mackintosh, like a tent cover, I twigged my friend Brackenbury's jolly phiz. "How are you, Jorrocks?" and "How are you, Brack?" flew across like billiard-balls, while Sir Wincent, handing me the ribbons, said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I wish you all a good morning and a pleasant ride," and Brack having done the same by his coach and passengers, the two heroes met on terry firmey, as we say in France, to exchange way-bills and directions about parcels. "Now," said Sir Wincent, "you'll find Miss----'s bustle under the front seat--send it off to the Marine Parade the instant you get in, for she wants it to make herself up to-night for a party." "By Jove, that's lucky," said Brackenbury, "for I'll be hanged if I haven't got old Lady----'s false dinner-set of ivories in my waistcoat pocket, which I should have forgot if you hadn't mentioned t'other things, and then the old lady would have lost her blow-out this Christmas. Here they are," handing out a small box, "and mind you leave them yourself, for they tell me they are costly, being all fixed in coral, with gold springs, and I don't know what--warranted to eat of themselves, they say." "She has lost her modesty with her teeth, it seems," said Sir Wincent. "Old women ought to be ashamed to be seen out of their graves after their grinders are gone. I'll pound it the old tabby carn't be under one hundred. But quick! who does that d----d parrot and the cock-a-too belong to that you've got stuck up there? and look, there's a canary and all! I'll be d----d if you don't bring me a coach loaded like Wombwell's menagerie every day! Well, be lively! 'Twill be all the same one hundred years hence. --All right? Sit tight! Good night!"
"Well, Mr. Jorrocks, it's long since we met," said Brackenbury, looking me over--"never, I think, since I showed you way over the Weald of Sussex from Torrington Wood, on the gallant wite with the Colonel's 'ounds! Ah, those were rare days, Mr. Jorrocks! we shall never see their like again! But you're looking fresh. Time lays a light hand on your bearing-reins! I hope it will be long ere you are booked by the Gravesend Buss. You don't lush much, I fancy?" added he, putting a lighted cigar in his mouth. "Yes, I does," said I--"a good deal; but I tells you what, Brackenbury, I doesn't fumigate none--it's the fumigation that does the mischief," and thereupon we commenced a hargument on the comparitive mischief of smoking and drinking, which ended without either being able to convince the other. "Well, at all events, you gets beefey, Brackenbury," said I; "you must be a couple of stone heavier than when we used to talliho the 'ounds together. I think I could lead you over the Weald now, at all ewents if the fences were out of the way," for I must confess that Brack was always a terrible chap at the jumps, and could go where few would follow.
We did the journey within the six hours--werry good work, considering the load and the state of the roads. No coach like the "Age"--in my opinion. I was so werry much pleased with Brack's driving, that I presented him with a four-in-hand whip.
I put up at Jonathan Boxall's, the Star and Garter, one of the pleasantest and best-conducted houses in all Brighton. It is close to the sea, and just by Mahomed, the sham-poor's shop. I likes Jonathan, for he is a sportsman, and we spin a yarn together about 'unting, and how he used to ride over the moon when he whipped in to St. John, in Berkshire. But it's all talk with Jonathan now, for he's more like a stranded grampus now than a fox-hunter. In course I brought down a pair of kickseys and pipe-cases, intending to have a round with the old muggers, but the snow put a stop to all that. I heard, however, that both the Telscombe Tye and the Devil's Dike dogs had been running their half-crown rounds after hares, some of which ended in "captures," others in "escapes," as the newspapers terms them. I dined at the Albion on Christmas Day, and most misfortunately, my appetite was ready before the joints, so I had to make my dinner off Mary Ann cutlets, I think they call them, that is to say, chops screwed up in large curl papers, and such-like trifles. I saw some chaps drinking small glasses of stuff, so I asked the waiter what it was, and, thinking he said "Elixir of Girls," I banged the table, and said, "Elixir of Girls! that's the stuff for my money--give me a glass." The chap laughed, and said, "Not Girls, sir, but Garus"; and thereupon he gave another great guffaw.
It is a capital coffee-room, full of winders, and finely-polished tables, waiters in silk stockings, and they give spermaceti cheese, and burn Parmesan candles. The chaps in it, however, were werry unsociable, and there wasn't a man there that I would borrow half a crown to get drunk with. Stickey is the landlord, but he does not stick it in so deep as might be expected from the looks of the house, and the cheese and candles considered. It was a most tempestersome night, and, having eaten and drank to completion, I determined to go and see if my aunt, in Cavendish Street, was alive; and after having been nearly blown out to France several times, I succeeded in making my point and running to ground. The storm grew worser and worser, and when I came to open the door to go away, I found it blocked with snow, and the drifts whirling about in all directions. My aunt, who is a werry feeling woman, insisted on my staying all night, which only made the matter worse, for when I came to look out in the morning I found the drift as high as the first floor winder, and the street completely buried in snow. Having breakfasted, and seeing no hopes of emancipation, I hangs out a flag of distress--a red wipe--which, after flapping about for some time, drew three or four sailors and a fly-man or two. I explained from the winder how dreadfully I was situated, prayed of them to release me, but the wretches did nothing but laugh, and ax wot I would give to be out. At last one of them, who acted as spokesman, proposed that I should put an armchair out of the winder, and pay them five shillings each for carrying me home on their shoulders. It seemed a vast of money, but the storm continuing, the crowd increasing, and I not wishing to kick up a row at my aunt's, after offering four and sixpence, agreed to their terms, and throwing out a chair, plumped up to the middle in a drift. Three cheers followed the feat, which drew all the neighbours to the winders, when about half a dozen fellows, some drunk, some sober, and some half-and-half, pulled me into the chair, hoisted me on to their shoulders, and proceeded into St. James's Street, bellowing out, "Here's the new member for Brighton! Here's the boy wot sleeps in Cavendish Street! Huzzah, the old 'un for ever! There's an elegant man for a small tea-party! Who wants a fat chap to send to their friends this Christmas?" The noise they made was quite tremendious, and the snow in many places being up to their middles, we made werry slow progress, but still they would keep me in the chair, and before we got to the end of the street the crowd had increased to some hundreds. Here they began snow-balling, and my hat and wig soon went flying, and then there was a fresh holloa. "Here's Mr. Wigney, the member for Brighton," they cried out; "I say, old boy, are you for the ballot? You must call on the King this morning; he wants to give you a Christmas-box." Just then one of the front bearers tumbled, and down we all rolled into a drift, just opposite Daly's backey shop. There were about twenty of us in together, but being pretty near the top, I was soon on my legs, and seeing an opening, I bolted right forward--sent three or four fellows flying--dashed down the passage behind Saxby's wine vaults, across the Steyne, floundering into the drifts, followed by the mob, shouting and pelting me all the way. This double made some of the beggars over-shoot the mark, and run past the statute of George the Fourth, but, seeing their mistake, or hearing the other portion of the pack running in the contrary direction, they speedily joined heads and tails, and gave me a devil of a burst up the narrow lane by the Wite 'Orse 'Otel. Fortunately Jonathan Boxall's door was open, and Jonathan himself in the passage bar, washing some decanters. "Look sharp, Jonathan!" said I, dashing past him as wite as a miller, "look sharp! come out of that, and be after clapping your great carcase against the door to keep the Philistines out, or they'll be the death of us both." Quick as thought the door was closed and bolted before ever the leaders had got up, but, finding this the case, the mob halted and proceeded to make a deuce of a kick-up before the house, bellowing and shouting like mad fellows, and threatening to pull it down if I did not show. Jonathan got narvous, and begged and intreated me to address them. I recommended him to do it himself, but he said he was quite unaccustomed to public speaking, and he would stand two glasses of "cold without" if I would. "Hot with," said I, "and I'll do it." "Done," said he, and he knocked the snow off my coat, pulled my wig straight, and made me look decent, and took me to a bow-winder'd room on the first floor, threw up; the sash, and exhibited me to the company outside. I bowed and kissed my hand like a candidate. They cheered and shouted, and then called for silence whilst; I addressed them. "Gentlemen," said I, "Who are you?" "Why, we be the men wot carried your honour's glory from Cavendish Street, and wants to be paid for it." ; "Gentlemen," said I, "I'm no orator, but I'm a honest man; I pays everybody twenty shillings in the pound. and no mistake (cheers). If you had done your part of the bargain, I would have done mine, but 'ow can you expect to be paid after spilling me? This is a most inclement day, and, whatever you may say to the contrary, I'm not Mr. Clement Wigney." --"No, nor Mr. Faithful neither," bellowed one of the bearers. --said I, "you'll get the complaints of the season, chilblains and influhensa, if you stand dribbling there in the snow. Let me advise you to mizzle, for, if you don't, I'm blowed if I don't divide a whole jug of cold water equally amongst you. Go home to your wives and children, and don't be after annoying an honest, independent, amiable publican, like Jonathan Boxall. That's all I've got to say, and if I was to talk till I'm black in the face, I couldn't say nothing more to the purpose; so, I wishes you all 'A Merry Christmas and an 'Appy New Year.'"
But I'm fatiguing you, Mr. Nimrod, with all this, which is only hinteresting to the parties concerned, so will pass on to other topics. I saw the King riding in his coach with his Sunday coat on. He looked werry well, but his nose was rather blueish at the end, a sure sign that he is but a mortal, and feels the cold just like any other man. The Queen did not show, but I saw some of her maids of honour, who made me think of the Richmond cheesecakes. There were a host of pretty ladies, and the cold gave a little colour to their noses, too, which, I think, improved their appearance wastly, for I've always remarked that your ladies of quality are rather pasty, and do not generally show their high blood in their cheeks and noses. I'm werry fond of looking at pretty girls, whether maids of 'onour or maids of all work.
The storm stopped all wisiting, and even the Countess of Winterton's ball was obliged to be put off. Howsomever, that did not interfere at all with Jonathan Boxall and me, except that it, perhaps, made us take a bottom of brandy more than usual, particularly after Jonathan had run over again one of his best runs.
Now, dear Nimrod, adieu. Whenever you comes over to England, I shall be werry 'appy to see you in Great Coram Street, where dinner is on the table punctually at five on week days, and four on Sundays; and with best regards to Mrs. Nimrod, and all the little Nimrods, I remain, for Self and Co., yours to serve, JOHN JORROCKS.
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{
"id": "15387"
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12
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MR. JORROCKS'S DINNER PARTY
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The general postman had given the final flourish to his bell, and the muffin-girl had just begun to tinkle hers, when a capacious yellow hackney-coach, with a faded scarlet hammer-cloth, was seen jolting down Great Coram Street, and pulling up at Mr. Jorrocks's door.
Before Jarvey had time to apply his hand to the area bell, after giving the usual three knocks and a half to the brass lion's head on the door, it was opened by the boy Benjamin in a new drab coat, with a blue collar, and white sugar-loaf buttons, drab waistcoat, and black velveteen breeches, with well-darned white cotton stockings.
The knock drew Mr. Jorrocks from his dining-room, where he had been acting the part of butler, for which purpose he had put off his coat and appeared in his shirtsleeves, dressed in nankeen shorts, white gauze silk stockings, white neckcloth, and white waistcoat, with a frill as large as a hand-saw. Handing the bottle and corkscrew to Betsey, he shuffled himself into a smart new blue saxony coat with velvet collar and metal buttons, and advanced into the passage to greet the arrivers.
"Oh! gentlemen, gentlemen," exclaimed he, "I'm so 'appy to see you--so werry 'appy you carn't think," holding out both hands to the foremost, who happened to be Nimrod; "this is werry kind of you, for I declare it's six to a minute. 'Ow are you, Mr. Nimrod? Most proud to see you at my humble crib. Well, Stubbs, my boy, 'ow do you do? Never knew you late in my life," giving him a hearty slap on the back. "Mr. Spiers, I'm werry 'appy to see you. You are just what a sporting publisher ought to be--punctuality itself. Now, gentlemen, dispose of your tiles, and come upstairs to Mrs. J----, and let's get you introduced." "I fear we are late, Mr. Jorrocks," observed Nimrod, advancing past the staircase end to hang up his hat on a line of pegs against the wall.
"Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Jorrocks--"not a bit of it--quite the contrary--you are the first, in fact!"
"Indeed!" replied Nimrod, eyeing a table full of hats by where he stood--"why here are as many hats as would set up a shop. I really thought I'd got into Beaver (Belvoir) Castle by mistake!"
"Haw! haw! haw! werry good, Mr. Happerley, werry good indeed--I owes you one."
"I thought it was a castor-oil mill," rejoined Mr. Spiers.
"Haw! haw! haw! werry good, Mr. Spiers, werry good indeed--owes you one also--but I see what you're driving at. You think these hats have a coconut apiece belonging to them upstairs. No such thing I assure you; no such thing. The fact is, they are what I've won at warious times of the members of our hunt, and as I've got you great sporting coves dining with me, I'm a-going to set them out on my sideboard, just as racing gents exhibit their gold and silver cups, you know. Binjimin! I say, Binjimin! you blackguard," holloaing down the kitchen stairs, "why don't you set out the castors as I told you? and see you brush them well!" "Coming, sir, coming, sir!" replied Benjamin, from below, who at that moment was busily engaged, taking advantage of Betsey's absence, in scooping marmalade out of a pot with his thumb. "There's a good lot of them," said Mr. Jorrocks, resuming the conversation, "four, six, eight, ten, twelve, thirteen--all trophies of sporting prowess. Real good hats. None o' your nasty gossamers, or dog-hair ones. There's a tile!" said he, balancing a nice new white one with green rims on the tip of his finger. "I won that in a most miraculous manner. A most wonderful way, in fact. I was driving to Croydon one morning in my four-wheeled one-'oss chay, and just as I got to Lilleywhite, the blacksmith's, below Brixton Hill, they had thrown up a drain--a 'gulph' I may call it--across the road for the purpose of repairing the gas-pipe--I was rayther late as it was, for our 'ounds are werry punctual, and there was nothing for me but either to go a mile and a half about, or drive slap over the gulph. Well, I looked at it, and the more I looked at it the less I liked it; but just as I was thinking I had seen enough of it, and was going to turn away, up tools Timothy Truman in his buggy, and he, too, began to crane and look into the abyss--and a terrible place it was, I assure you--quite frightful, and he liked it no better than myself. Seeing this, I takes courage, and said, 'Why, Tim, your 'oss will do it!' 'Thank'e, Mr. J----,' said he, 'I'll follow you.' 'Then,' said I, 'if you'll change wehicles'--for, mind ye, I had no notion of damaging my own--'I'll bet you a hat I gets over.' 'Done,' said he, and out he got; so I takes his 'oss by the head, looses the bearing-rein, and leading him quietly up to the place and letting him have a look at it, gave him a whack over the back, and over he went, gig and all, as clever as could be!"
_Stubbs_. Well done, Mr. J----, you are really a most wonderful man! You have the most extraordinary adventures of any man breathing--but what did you do with your own machine?
_Jorrocks_. Oh! you see, I just turned round to Binjimin, who was with me, and said, You may go home, and, getting into Timothy's buggy, I had my ride for nothing, and the hat into the bargain. A nice hat it is too--regular beaver--a guinea's worth at least. All true what I've told you, isn't it, Binjimin?
"Quite!" replied Benjamin, putting his thumb to his nose, and spreading his fingers like a fan as he slunk behind his master.
"But come, gentlemen," resumed Mr. Jorrocks, "let's be after going upstairs. --Binjimin, announce the gentlemen as your missis taught you. Open the door with your left hand, and stretch the right towards her, to let the company see the point to make up to."
The party ascend the stairs one at a time, for the flight is narrow and rather abrupt, and Benjamin, obeying his worthy master's injunctions, threw open the front drawing-room door, and discovered Mrs. Jorrocks sitting in state at a round table, with annuals and albums spread at orthodox distances around. The possession of this room had long been a bone of contention between Mr. Jorrocks and his spouse, but at length they had accommodated matters by Mr. Jorrocks gaining undivided possession of the back drawing-room (communicating by folding-doors), with the run of the front one equally with Mrs. Jorrocks on non-company days. A glance, however, showed which was the master's and which the mistress's room. The front one was papered with weeping willows, bending under the weight of ripe cherries on a white ground, and the chair cushions were covered with pea-green cotton velvet with yellow worsted bindings.
The round table was made of rosewood, and there was a "whatnot" on the right of the fire-place of similar material, containing a handsomely-bound collection of Sir Walter Scott's Works, in wood. The carpet-pattern consisted of most dashing bouquets of many-coloured flowers, in winding French horns on a very light drab ground, so light, indeed, that Mr. Jorrocks was never allowed to tread upon it except in pumps or slippers. The bell-pulls were made of foxes' brushes, and in the frame of the looking-glass, above the white marble mantelpiece, were stuck visiting-cards, notes of invitation, thanks for "obliging inquiries," etc. The hearth-rug exhibited a bright yellow tiger, with pink eyes, on a blue ground, with a flossy green border; and the fender and fire-irons were of shining brass. On the wall, immediately opposite the fire-place, was a portrait of Mrs. Jorrocks before she was married, so unlike her present self that no one would have taken it for her. The back drawing-room, which looked out upon the gravel walk and house-backs beyond, was papered with broad scarlet and green stripes in honour of the Surrey Hunt uniform, and was set out with a green-covered library table in the centre, with a red morocco hunting-chair between it and the window, and several good strong hair-bottomed mahogany chairs around the walls. The table had a very literary air, being strewed with sporting magazines, odd numbers of _Bell's Life_, pamphlets, and papers of various descriptions, while on a sheet of foolscap on the portfolio were ten lines of an elegy on a giblet pie which had been broken in coming from the baker's, at which Mr. Jorrocks had been hammering for some time. On the side opposite the fire-place, on a hanging range of mahogany shelves, were ten volumes of _Bell's Life in London_, the _New Sporting Magazine_, bound gilt and lettered, the _Memoirs of Harriette Wilson, Boxiana_, Taplin's _Farriery_, Nimrod's _Life of Mytton_, and a backgammon board that Mr. Jorrocks had bought by mistake for a history of England.
Mrs. Jorrocks, as we said before, was sitting in state at the far side of the round table, on a worsted-worked ottoman exhibiting a cock pheasant on a white ground, and was fanning herself with a red-and-white paper fan, and turning over the leaves of an annual. How Mr. Jorrocks happened to marry her, no one could ever divine, for she never was pretty, had very little money, and not even a decent figure to recommend her. It was generally supposed at the time, that his brother Joe and he having had a deadly feud about a bottom piece of muffin, the lady's friends had talked him into the match, in the hopes of his having a family to leave his money to, instead of bequeathing it to Joe or his children. Certain it is, they never were meant for each other; Mr. Jorrocks, as our readers have seen, being all nature and impulse, while Mrs. Jorrocks was all vanity and affectation. To describe her accurately is more than we can pretend to, for she looked so different in different dresses, that Mr. Jorrocks himself sometimes did not recognise her. Her face was round, with a good strong brick-dust sort of complexion, a turn-up nose, eyes that were grey in one light and green in another, and a middling-sized mouth, with a double chin below. Mr. Jorrocks used to say that she was "warranted" to him as twelve years younger than himself, but many people supposed the difference of age between them was not so great. Her stature was of the middle height, and she was of one breadth from the shoulders to the heels. She was dressed in a flaming scarlet satin gown, with swan's-down round the top, as also at the arms, and two flounces of the same material round the bottom. Her turban was of green velvet, with a gold fringe, terminating in a bunch over the left side, while a bird-of-paradise inclined towards the right. Across her forehead she wore a gold band, with a many-coloured glass butterfly (a present from James Green), and her neck, arms, waist (at least what ought to have been her waist) were hung round and studded with mosaic-gold chains, brooches, rings, buttons, bracelets, etc., looking for all the world like a portable pawnbroker's shop, or the lump of beef that Sinbad the sailor threw into the Valley of Diamonds. In the right of a gold band round her middle, was an immense gold watch, with a bunch of mosaic seals appended to a massive chain of the same material; and a large miniature of Mr. Jorrocks when he was a young man, with his hair stiffly curled, occupied a place on her left side. On her right arm dangled a green velvet bag with a gold cord, out of which one of Mr. Jorrocks's silk handkerchiefs protruded, while a crumpled, yellowish-white cambric one, with a lace fringe, lay at her side.
On an hour-glass stool, a little behind Mrs. Jorrocks, sat her niece Belinda (Joe Jorrocks's eldest daughter), a nice laughing pretty girl of sixteen, with languishing blue eyes, brown hair, a nose of the "turn-up" order, beautiful mouth and teeth, a very fair complexion, and a gracefully moulded figure. She had just left one of the finishing and polishing seminaries in the neighbourhood of Bromley, where, for two hundred a year and upwards, all the teasing accomplishments of life are taught, and Mrs. Jorrocks, in her own mind, had already appropriated her to James Green, while Mr. Jorrocks, on the other hand, had assigned her to Stubbs. Belinda's dress was simplicity itself; her silken hair hung in shining tresses down her smiling face, confined by a plain tortoiseshell comb behind, and a narrow pink velvet band before. Round her swan-like neck was a plain white cornelian necklace; and her well-washed white muslin frock, confined by a pink sash, flowing behind in a bow, met in simple folds across her swelling bosom. Black sandal shoes confined her fairy feet, and with French cotton stockings, completed her toilette. Belinda, though young, was a celebrated eastern beauty, and there was not a butcher's boy in Whitechapel, from Michael Scales downwards, but what eyed her with delight as she passed along from Shoreditch on her daily walk.
The presentations having been effected, and the heat of the day, the excellence of the house, the cleanliness of Great Coram Street--the usual topics, in short, when people know nothing of each other--having been discussed, our party scattered themselves about the room to await the pleasing announcement of dinner. Mr. Jorrocks, of course, was in attendance upon Nimrod, while Mr. Stubbs made love to Belinda behind Mrs. Jorrocks.
Presently a loud long-protracted "rat-tat-tat-tat-tan, rat-tat-tat-tat-tan," at the street door sounded through the house, and Jorrocks, with a slap on his thigh, exclaimed, "By Jingo! there's Green. No man knocks with such wigorous wiolence as he does. All Great Coram Street and parts adjacent know when he comes. Julius Caesar himself couldn't kick up a greater row." "What Green is it, Green of Rollestone?" inquired Nimrod, thinking of his Leicestershire friend. "No," said Mr. Jorrocks, "Green of Tooley Street. You'll have heard of the Greens in the borough, 'emp, 'op, and 'ide (hemp, hop, and hide) merchants--numerous family, numerous as the 'airs in my vig. This is James Green, jun., whose father, old James Green, jun., _verd antique_, as I calls him, is the son of James Green, sen., who is in the 'emp line, and James is own cousin to young old James Green, sen., whose father is in the 'ide line." The remainder of the pedigree was lost by Benjamin throwing open the door and announcing Mr. Green; and Jemmy, who had been exchanging his cloth boots for patent-leather pumps, came bounding upstairs like a racket-ball. "My dear Mrs. Jorrocks," cried he, swinging through the company to her, "I'm delighted to see you looking so well. I declare you are fifty per cent younger than you were. Belinda, my love, 'ow are you? Jorrocks, my friend, 'ow do ye do?"
"Thank ye, James," said Jorrocks, shaking hands with him most cordially, "I'm werry well, indeed, and delighted to see you. Now let me present you to Nimrod."
"Ay, Nimrod!" said Green, in his usual flippant style, with a nod of his head, "'ow are ye, Nimrod? I've heard of you, I think--Nimrod Brothers and Co., bottle merchants, Crutched Friars, ain't it?"
"No," said Jorrocks, in an undertone with a frown--Happerley Nimrod, the great sporting hauthor."
"True," replied Green, not at all disconcerted, "I've heard of him--Nimrod--the mighty 'unter before the lord. Glad to see ye, Nimrod. Stubbs, 'ow are ye?" nodding to the Yorkshireman, as he jerked himself on to a chair on the other side of Belinda.
As usual, Green was as gay as a peacock. His curly flaxen wig projected over his forehead like the roof of a Swiss cottage, and his pointed gills were supported by a stiff black mohair stock, with a broad front and black frill confined with jet studs down the centre. His coat was light green, with archery buttons, made very wide at the hips, with which he sported a white waistcoat, bright yellow ochre leather trousers, pink silk stockings, and patent-leather pumps. In his hand he carried a white silk handkerchief, which smelt most powerfully of musk; and a pair of dirty wristbands drew the eye to sundry dashing rings upon his fingers.
Jonathan Crane, a little long-nosed old city wine-merchant, a member of the Surrey Hunt, being announced and presented, Mrs. Jorrocks declared herself faint from the heat of the room, and begged to be excused for a few minutes. Nimrod, all politeness, was about to offer her his arm, but Mr. Jorrocks pulled him back, whispering, "Let her go, let her go." "The fact is," said he in an undertone after she was out of hearing, "it's a way Mrs. J---- has when she wants to see that dinner's all right. You see she's a terrible high-bred woman, being a cross between a gentleman-usher and a lady's-maid, and doesn't like to be supposed to look after these things, so when she goes, she always pretend to faint. You'll see her back presently," and, just as he spoke, in she came with a half-pint smelling-bottle at her nose. Benjamin followed immediately after, and throwing open the door proclaimed, in a half-fledged voice, that "dinner was sarved," upon which the party all started on their legs.
"Now, Mr. Happerley Nimrod," cried Jorrocks, "you'll trot Mrs. J---- down--according to the book of etiquette, you know, giving her the wall side. [25] Sorry, gentlemen, I havn't ladies apiece for you, but my sally-manger, as we say in France, is rayther small, besides which I never like to dine more than eight. Stubbs, my boy, Green and you must toss up for Belinda--here's a halfpenny, and let be 'Newmarket'[26] if you please. Wot say you? a voman! Stubbs wins!" cried Mr. Jorrocks, as the halfpenny fell head downwards. "Now, Spiers, couple up with Crane, and James and I will whip in to you. But stop, gentlemen!" cried Mr. Jorrocks, as he reached the top of the stairs, "let me make one request--that you von't eat the windmill you'll see on the centre of the table. Mrs. Jorrocks has hired it for the evening, of Mr. Farrell, the confectioner, in Lamb's Conduit Street, and it's engaged to two or three evening parties after it leaves this." "Lauk, John! how wulgar you are. What matter can it make to your friends where the windmill comes from!" exclaimed Mrs. Jorrocks in an audible voice from below, Nimrod, with admirable skill, having piloted her down the straights and turns of the staircase. Having squeezed herself between the backs of the chairs and the wall, Mrs. Jorrocks at length reached the head of the table, and with a bump of her body and wave of her hand motioned Nimrod to take the seat on her right. Green then pushed past Belinda and Stubbs, and took the place on Mrs. Jorrocks's left, so Stubbs, with a dexterous manoeuvre, placed himself in the centre of the table, with Belinda between himself and her uncle. Crane and Spiers then filled the vacant places on Nimrod's side, Mr. Spiers facing Mr. Stubbs.
[Footnote 25: "In your passage from one room to another, offer the lady the wall in going downstairs," etc,--_Spirit of Etiquette. _] [Footnote 26: "We have repeatedly decided that Newmarket is _one_ toss." --_Bell's Life. _] The dining-room was the breadth of the passage narrower than the front drawing-room, and, as Mr. Jorrocks truly said, was rayther small--but the table being excessively broad, made the room appear less than it was. It was lighted up with spermaceti candles in silver holders, one at each corner of the table, and there was a lamp in the wall between the red-curtained windows, immediately below a brass nail, on which Mr. Jorrocks's great hunting-whip and a bunch of boot garters were hung. Two more candles in the hands of bronze Dianas on the marble mantelpiece, lighted up a coloured copy of Barraud's picture of John Warde on Blue Ruin; while Mr. Ralph Lambton, on his horse Undertaker, with his hounds and men, occupied a frame on the opposite wall. The old-fashioned cellaret sideboard, against the wall at the end, supported a large bright-burning brass lamp, with raised foxes round the rim, whose effulgent rays shed a brilliant halo over eight black hats and two white ones, whereof the four middle ones were decorated with evergreens and foxes' brushes. The dinner table was crowded, not covered. There was scarcely a square inch of cloth to be seen on any part. In the centre stood a magnificent finely spun barley-sugar windmill, two feet and a half high, with a spacious sugar foundation, with a cart and horses and two or three millers at the door, and a she-miller working a ball-dress flounce at a lower window.
The whole dinner, first, second, third, fourth course --everything, in fact, except dessert--was on the table, as we sometimes see it at ordinaries and public dinners. Before both Mr. and Mrs. Jorrocks were two great tureens of mock-turtle soup, each capable of holding a gallon, and both full up to the brim. Then there were two sorts of fish; turbot and lobster sauce, and a great salmon. A round of boiled beef and an immense piece of roast occupied the rear of these, ready to march on the disappearance of the fish and soup--and behind the walls, formed by the beef of old England, came two dishes of grouse, each dish holding three brace. The side dishes consisted of a calf's head hashed, a leg of mutton, chickens, ducks, and mountains of vegetables; and round the windmill were plum-puddings, tarts, jellies, pies, and puffs.
Behind Mrs. Jorrocks's chair stood "Batsay" with a fine brass-headed comb in her hair, and stiff ringlets down her ruddy cheeks. She was dressed in a green silk gown, with a coral necklace, and one of Mr. Jorrocks's lavender and white coloured silk pocket-handkerchiefs made into an apron. "Binjimin" stood with the door in his hand, as the saying is, with a towel twisted round his thumb, as though he had cut it.
"Now, gentlemen," said Mr. Jorrocks, casting his eye up the table, as soon as they had all got squeezed and wedged round it, and the dishes were uncovered, "you see your dinner, eat whatever you like except the windmill--hope you'll be able to satisfy nature with what's on--would have had more but Mrs. J---- is so werry fine, she won't stand two joints of the same sort on the table."
_Mrs. J._ Lauk, John, how can you be so wulgar! Who ever saw two rounds of beef, as you wanted to have? Besides, I'm sure the gentlemen will excuse any little defishency, considering the short notice we have had, and that this is not an elaborate dinner.
_Mr. Spiers. _ I'm sure, ma'm, there's no de_fish_ency at all. Indeed, I think there's as much fish as would serve double the number--and I'm sure you look as if you had your soup "on sale or return," as we say in the magazine line.
_Mr. J._ Haw! haw! haw! werry good, Mr. Spiers. I owe you one. Not bad soup though--had it from Birch's. Let me send you some; and pray lay into it, or I shall think you don't like it. Mr. Happerley, let me send you some--and, gentlemen, let me observe, once for all, that there's every species of malt liquor under the side table. Prime stout, from the Marquess Cornwallis, hard by. Also ale, table, and what my friend Crane there calls lamen_table_--he says, because it's so werry small--but, in truth, because I don't buy it of him. There's all sorts of drench, in fact, except water--thing I never touch--rots one's shoes, don't know what it would do with one's stomach if it was to get there. Mr. Crane, you're eating nothing. I'm quite shocked to see you; you don't surely live upon hair? Do help yourself, or you'll faint from werry famine. Belinda, my love, does the Yorkshireman take care of you? Who's for some salmon? --bought at Luckey's, and there's both Tallyho and Tantivy sarce to eat with it. Somehow or other I always fancies I rides harder after eating these sarces with fish. Mr. Happerley Nimrod, you are the greatest man at table, consequently I axes you to drink wine first, according to the book of etiquette--help yourself, sir. Some of Crane's particklar, hot and strong, real stuff, none of your wan de bones (vin de beaume) or rot-gut French stuff--hope you like it--if you don't, pray speak your mind freely, now that we have Crane among us. Binjimin, get me some of that duck before Mr. Spiers, a leg and a wing, if you please, sir, and a bit of the breast.
_Mr. Spiers. _ Certainly, sir, certainly. Do you prefer a right or left wing, sir?
_Mr. Jorrocks. _ Oh, either. I suppose it's all the same.
_Mr. Spiers. _ Why no, sir, it's not exactly all the same; for it happens there is only one remaining, therefore it must be the _left_ one.
_Mr. J._ (chuckling). Haw! haw! haw! Mr. S----, werry good that--werry good indeed. I owes you two.
"I'll trouble you for a little, Mr. Spiers, if you please," says Crane, handing his plate round the windmill.
"I'm sorry, sir, it is all gone," replies Mr. Spiers, who had just filled Mr. Jorrocks's plate; "there's nothing left but the neck," holding it up on the fork.
"Well, send it," rejoins Mr. Crane; "neck or nothing, you know, Mr. Jorrocks, as we say with the Surrey."
"Haw! haw! haw!" grunts Mr. Jorrocks, who is busy sucking a bone; "haw! hawl haw! werry good, Crane, werry good--owes you one. Now, gentlemen," added he, casting his eye up the table as he spoke, "let me adwise ye, before you attack the grouse, to take the hedge (edge) off your appetites, or else there won't be enough, and, you know, it does not do to eat the farmer after the gentlemen. Let's see, now--three and three are six, six brace among eight--oh dear, that's nothing like enough. I wish, Mrs. J----, you had followed my adwice, and roasted them all. And now, Binjimin, you're going to break the windmill with your clumsiness, you little dirty rascal! Why von't you let Batsay arrange the table? Thank you, Mr. Crane, for your assistance--your politeness, sir, exceeds your beauty." [A barrel organ strikes up before the window, and Jorrocks throws down his knife and fork in an agony.] "Oh dear, oh dear, there's that cursed horgan again. It's a regular annihilator. Binjimin, run and kick the fellow's werry soul out of him. There's no man suffers so much from music as I do. I wish I had a pocketful of sudden deaths, that I might throw one at every thief of a musicianer that comes up the street. I declare the scoundrel has set all my teeth on edge. Mr. Nimrod, pray take another glass of wine after your roast beef. --Well, with Mrs. J---- if you choose, but I'll join you--always says that you are the werry cleverest man of the day--read all your writings--anny-tommy (anatomy) of gaming, and all. Am a hauthor myself, you know--once set to, to write a werry long and elaborate harticle on scent, but after cudgelling my brains, and turning the thing over and over again in my mind, all that I could brew on the subject was, that scent was a werry rum thing; nothing rummer than scent, except a woman."
"Pray," cried Mrs. Jorrocks, her eyes starting as she spoke, "don't let us have any of your low-lifed stable conversation here--you think to show off before the ladies," added she, "and flatter yourself you talk about what we don't understand. Now, I'll be bound to say, with all your fine sporting hinformation, you carn't tell me whether a mule brays or neighs!"
"Vether a mule brays or neighs?" repeated Mr. Jorrocks, considering. "I'll lay I can!"
"Which, then?" inquired Mrs. Jorrocks.
"Vy, I should say it brayed."
"Mule bray!" cried Mrs. Jorrocks, clapping her hands with delight, "there's a cockney blockhead for you! It brays, does it?"
_Mr. Jorrocks. _I meant to say, neighed.
"Ho! ho! ho!" grinned Mrs. J----, "neighs, does it? You are a nice man for a fox-'unter--a mule neighs--thought I'd catch you some of these odd days with your wain conceit."
"Vy, what does it do then?" inquired Mr. Jorrocks, his choler rising as he spoke. "I hopes, at all ewents, he don't make the 'orrible noise you do."
"Why, it screams, you great hass!" rejoined his loving spouse.
A single, but very resolute knock at the street door, sounding quite through the house, stopped all further ebullition, and Benjamin, slipping out, held a short conversation with someone in the street, and returned.
"What's happened now, Binjimin?" inquired Mr. Jorrocks, with anxiety on his countenance, as the boy re-entered the room; "the 'osses arn't amiss, I 'ope?"
"Please, sir, Mr. Farrell's young man has come for the windmill--he says you've had it two hours," replied Benjamin.
"The deuce be with Mr. Farrell's young man! he does not suppose we can part with the mill before the cloth's drawn--tell him to mizzle, or I'll mill him. 'Now's the day and now's the hour'; who's for some grouse? Gentlemen, make your game, in fact. But first of all let's have a round robin. Pass the wine, gentlemen. What wine do you take, Stubbs."
"Why, champagne is good enough for me."
_Mr. Jorrocks,_ I dare say; but if you wait till you get any here, you will have a long time to stop. Shampain, indeed! had enough of that nonsense abroad--declare you young chaps drink shampain like hale. There's red and wite port, and sherry, in fact, and them as carn't drink, they must go without.
X. was expensive and soon became poor, Y. was the wise man and kept want from the door.
"Now for the grouse!" added he, as the two beefs disappeared, and they took their stations at the top and bottom of the table. "Fine birds, to be sure! Hope you havn't burked your appetites, gentlemen, so as not to be able to do justice to them--smell high--werry good--gamey, in fact. Binjimin. take an 'ot plate to Mr. Nimrod--sarve us all round with them."
The grouse being excellent, and cooked to a turn, little execution was done upon the pastry, and the jellies had all melted long before it came to their turn to be eat. At length everyone, Mr. Jorrocks and all, appeared satisfied, and the noise of knives and forks was succeeded by the din of tongues and the ringing of glasses, as the eaters refreshed themselves with wine or malt liquors. Cheese and biscuit being handed about on plates, according to the _Spirit of Etiquette_. Binjimin and Batsay at length cleared the table, lifted off the windmill, and removed the cloth. Mr. Jorrocks then delivered himself of a most emphatic grace.
The wine and dessert being placed on the table, the ceremony of drinking healths all round was performed. "Your good health, Mrs. J----. --Belinda, my loove, your good health--wish you a good 'usband. --Nimrod, your good health. --James Green, your good health. --Old _verd antique's_ good health. --Your uncle's good health. --All the Green family. --Stubbs, your good health. --Spiers, Crane, etc." The bottles then pass round three times, on each of which occasions Mrs. Jorrocks makes them pay toll. The fourth time she let them pass; and Jorrocks began to grunt, hem, and haw, and kick the leg of the table, by way of giving her a hint to depart. This caused a dead silence, which at length was broken by the Yorkshireman's exclaiming "horrid pause!"
"Horrid paws!" vociferated Mrs. J----, in a towering rage, "so would yours, let me tell you, sir, if you had helped to cook all that dinner": and gathering herself up and repeating the words "horrid paws, indeed, I like your imperence," she sailed out of the room like an exasperated turkey-cock; her face, from heat, anger, and the quantity she had drank, being as red as her gown. Indeed, she looked for all the world as if she had been put into a furnace and blown red hot. Jorrocks having got rid of his "worser half," as he calls her, let out a reef or two of his acre of white waistcoat, and each man made himself comfortable according to his acceptation of the term. "Gentlemen," says Jorrocks, "I'll trouble you to charge your glasses, 'eel-taps off--a bumper toast--no skylights, if you please. Crane, pass the wine--you are a regular old stop-bottle--a turnpike gate, in fact. I think you take back hands--gentlemen, are you all charged? --then I'll give you THE NOBLE SPORT OF FOX-'UNTING! gentlemen, with three times three, and Crane will give the 'ips--all ready--now, ip, 'ip, 'ip, 'uzza, 'uzza, 'uzza--'ip, 'ip, 'ip, 'uzza, 'uzza, 'uzza--'ip, 'ip, 'ip, 'uzza, 'uzza, 'uzza. --one cheer more, 'UZZA!" After this followed "The Merry Harriers," then came "The Staggers," after that "The Trigger, and bad luck to Cheatum," all bumpers; when Jorrocks, having screwed his courage up to the sticking-place, called for another, which being complied with, he rose and delivered himself as follows: "Gentlemen, in rising to propose the toast which I am now about to propose--I feel--I feel--(Yorkshireman--'very queer?') J---- No, not verry queer, and I'll trouble you to hold your jaw (laughter). Gentlemen, I say, in rising to propose the toast which I am about to give, I feel--I feel--(Crane--'werry nervous?') J---- No, not werry nervous, so none of your nonsense; let me alone, I say. I say, in rising to propose the toast which I am about to give, I feel--(Mr. Spiers--'very foolish?' Nimrod--'very funny?' Crane--'werry rum?') J---- No, werry proud of the distinguished honour that has been conferred upon me--conferred upon me--conferred upon me--distinguished honour that has been conferred upon me by the presence, this day, of one of the most distinguished men--distinguished men--by the presence, this day, of one of the most distinguished men and sportsmen--of modern times (cheers.) Gentlemen--this is the proudest moment of my life! the eyes of England are upon us! I give you the health of Mr. Happerley Nimrod." (Drunk with three times three.)
When the cheering, and dancing of the glasses had somewhat subsided, Nimrod rose and spoke as follows: "Mr. Jorrocks, and gentlemen", "The handsome manner in which my health has been proposed by our worthy and estimable host, and the flattering reception it has met with from you, merit my warmest acknowledgments. I should, indeed, be unworthy of the land which gave me birth, were I insensible of the honour which has just been done me by so enlightened and distinguished an assembly as the present. My friend, Mr. Jorrocks, has been pleased to designate me as one of the most distinguished sportsmen of the day, a title, however, to which I feel I have little claim: but this I may say, that I have portrayed our great national sports in their brightest and most glowing colours, and that on sporting subjects my pen shall yield to none (cheers). I have ever been the decided advocate of many sports and exercises, not only on account of the health and vigour they inspire, but because I feel that they are the best safeguards on a nation's energies, and the best protection against luxury, idleness, debauchery, and effeminacy (cheers). The authority of all history informs us, that the energies of countries flourished whilst manly sports have flourished, and decayed as they died away (cheers). What says Juvenal, when speaking of the entry of luxury into Rome?"
Saevior armis Luxuria incubuit, victumque ulciscitur orbem.
"And we need only refer to ancient history, and to the writings of Xenophon, Cicero, Horace, or Virgil, for evidence of the value they have all attached to the encouragement of manly, active, and hardy pursuits, and the evils produced by a degenerate and effeminate life on the manners and characters of a people (cheers). Many of the most eminent literary characters of this and of other countries have been ardently attached to field sports; and who, that has experienced their beneficial results, can doubt that they are the best promoters of the _mens sana in corpore sano_--the body sound and the understanding clear (cheers)? Gentlemen, it is with feelings of no ordinary gratification that I find myself at the social and truly hospitable board of one of the most distinguished ornaments of one of the most celebrated Hunts in this great country, one whose name and fame have reached the four corners of the globe--to find myself after so long an absence from my native land--an estrangement from all that has ever been nearest and dearest to my heart--once again surrounded by these cheerful countenances which so well express the honest, healthful pursuits of their owners. Let us then," added Nimrod, seizing a decanter and pouring himself out a bumper, "drink, in true Kentish fire, the health and prosperity of that brightest sample of civic sportsmen, the great and renowned JOHN JORROCKS!"
Immense applause followed the conclusion of this speech, during which time the decanters buzzed round the table, and the glasses being emptied, the company rose, and a full charge of Kentish fire followed; Mr. Jorrocks, sitting all the while, looking as uncomfortable as men in his situation generally do.
The cheering having subsided, and the parties having resumed their seats, it was his turn to rise, so getting on his legs, he essayed to speak, but finding, as many men do, that his ideas deserted him the moment the "eyes of England" were turned upon him, after two or three hitches of his nankeens, and as many hems and haws, he very coolly resumed his seat, and spoke as follows: "Gentlemen, unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, I am taken quite aback by this werry unexpected compliment (cheers); never since I filled the hancient and honerable hoffice of churchwarden in the populous parish of St. Botolph Without, have I experienced a gratification equal to the present. I thank you from the werry bottom of my breeches-pocket (applause). Gentlemen, I'm no horator, but I'm a honest man (cheers). I should indeed be undeserving the name of a sportsman--undeserving of being a member of that great and justly celebrated 'unt, of which Mr. Happerley Nimrod has spun so handsome and flattering a yarn, if I did not feel deeply proud of the compliment you have paid it. It is unpossible for me to follow that great sporting scholar fairly over the ridge and furrow of his werry intricate and elegant horation, for there are many of those fine gentlemen's names--French, I presume--that he mentioned, that I never heard of before, and cannot recollect; but if you will allow me to run 'eel a little, I would make a few hobservations on a few of his hobservations. --Mr. Happerley Nimrod, gentlemen, was pleased to pay a compliment to what he was pleased to call my something 'ospitality. I am extremely obliged to him for it. To be surrounded by one's friends is in my mind the 'Al' of 'uman 'appiness (cheers). Gentlemen, I am most proud of the honour of seeing you all here to-day, and I hope the grub has been to your likin' (cheers), if not, I'll discharge my butcher. On the score of quantity there might be a little deficiency, but I hope the quality was prime. Another time this shall be all remedied (cheers). Gentlemen, I understand those cheers, and I'm flattered by them--I likes 'ospitality! --I'm not the man to keep my butter in a 'pike-ticket, or my coals in a quart pot (immense cheering). Gentlemen, these are my sentiments, I leaves the flowers of speech to them as is better acquainted with botany (laughter)--I likes plain English, both in eating and talking, and I'm happy to see Mr. Happerley Nimrod has not forgot his, and can put up with our homely fare, and do without pantaloon cutlets, blankets of woe,[27] and such-like miseries."
[Footnote 27: "Blanquette de veau."]
"I hates their 'orse douvers (hors-d'oeuvres), their rots, and their poisons (poissons); 'ord rot 'em, they near killed me, and right glad am I to get a glass of old British black strap. And talking of black strap, gentlemen, I call on old Crane, the man what supplies it, to tip us a song. So now I'm finished--and you, Crane, lap up your liquor and begin!" (applause).
Crane was shy--unused to sing in company--nevertheless, if it was the wish of the party, and if it would oblige his good customer, Mr. Jorrocks, he would try his hand at a stave or two made in honour of the immortal Surrey. Having emptied his glass and cleared his windpipe, Crane commenced: "Here's a health to them that can ride! Here's a health to them that can ride! And those that don't wish good luck to the cause. May they roast by their own fireside! It's good to drown care in the chase, It's good to drown care in the bowl. It's good to support Daniel Haigh and his hounds, Here's his health from the depth of my soul."
CHORUS "Hurrah for the loud tally-ho! Hurrah for the loud tally-ho! It's good to support Daniel Haigh and his hounds. And echo the shrill tally-ho!"
"Here's a health to them that can ride! Here's a health to them that ride bold! May the leaps and the dangers that each has defied, In columns of sporting be told! Here's freedom to him that would walk! Here's freedom to him that would ride! There's none ever feared that the horn should be heard Who the joys of the chase ever tried."
"Hurrah for the loud tally-ho! Hurrah for the loud tally-ho! It's good to support Daniel Haigh and his hounds, And halloo the loud tally-ho!"
"Beautiful! beautiful!" exclaimed Jorrocks, clapping his hands and stamping as Crane had ceased.
"A werry good song, and it's werry well sung. Jolly companions every one!"
"Gentlemen, pray charge your glasses--there's one toast we must drink in a bumper if we ne'er take a bumper again. Mr. Spiers, pray charge your glass--Mr. Stubbs, vy don't you fill up? --Mr. Nimrod, off with your 'eel taps, pray--I'll give ye the 'Surrey 'Unt,' with all my 'art and soul. Crane, my boy, here's your werry good health, and thanks for your song!" (All drink the Surrey Hunt and Crane's good health, with applause, which brings him on his legs with the following speech): "Gentlemen, unaccustomed as I am to public speaking (laughter), I beg leave on behalf of myself and the absent members of the Surrey 'Unt, to return you our own most 'artfelt thanks for the flattering compliment you have just paid us, and to assure you that the esteem and approbation of our fellow-sportsmen is to us the magnum bonum of all earthly 'appiness (cheers and laughter). Gentlemen, I will not trespass longer upon your valuable time, but as you seem to enjoy this wine of my friend Mr. Jorrocks's, I may just say that I have got some more of the same quality left, at from forty-two to forty-eight shillings a dozen, also some good stout draught port, at ten and sixpence a gallon--some ditto werry superior at fifteen; also foreign and British spirits, and Dutch liqueurs, rich and rare." The conclusion of the vintner's address was drowned in shouts of laughter. Mr. Jorrocks then called upon the company in succession for a toast, a song, or a sentiment. Nimrod gave, "The Royal Staghounds"; Crane gave, "Champagne to our real friends, and real pain to our sham friends"; Green sung, "I'd be a butterfly"; Mr. Stubbs gave, "Honest men and bonnie lasses"; and Mr. Spiers, like a patriotic printer, gave, "The liberty of the Press," which he said was like fox-hunting--"if we have it not we die"--all of which Mr. Jorrocks applauded as if he had never heard them before, and drank in bumpers. It was evident that unless tea was speedily announced he would soon become; O'er the ills of life victorious, for he had pocketed his wig, and had been clipping the Queen's English for some time. After a pause, during which his cheeks twice changed colour, from red to green and back to red, he again called for a bumper toast, which he prefaced with the following speech, or parts of a speech: "Gentlemen--in rising--propose toast about to give--feel werry--feel werry--(Yorkshireman, 'werry muzzy?') J---- feel werry--(Mr. Spiers, 'werry sick?') J---- werry--(Crane, 'werry thirsty?') J---- feel werry --(Nimrod, 'werry wise?') J---- no; but werry sensible --great compliment--eyes of England upon us--give you the health--Mr. Happerley Nimrod--three times three!"
He then attempted to rise for the purpose of marking the time, but his legs deserted his body, and after two or three lurches down he went with a tremendous thump under the table. He called first for "Batsay," then for "Binjimin," and, game to the last, blurted out, "Lift me up! --tie me in my chair! --fill my glass!"
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{
"id": "15387"
}
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13
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THE DAY AFTER THE FEAST:
AN EPISODE BY THE YORKSHIREMAN
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On the morning after Mr. Jorrocks's "dinner party" I had occasion to go into the city, and took Great Coram Street in my way. My heart misgave me when I recollected Mrs. J---- and her horrid paws, but still I thought it my duty to see how the grocer was after his fall. Arrived at the house I rang the area bell, and Benjamin, who was cleaning knives below, popped his head up, and seeing who it was, ran upstairs and opened the door. His master was up, he said, but "werry bad," and his misses was out. Leaving him to resume his knife-cleaning occupation, I slipped quietly upstairs, and hearing a noise in the bedroom, opened the door, and found Jorrocks sitting in his dressing-gown in an easy chair, with Betsey patting his bald head with a damp towel.
"Do that again, Batsay! Do that again!" was the first sound I heard, being an invitation to Betsey to continue her occupation. "Here's the Yorkshireman, sir," said Betsey, looking around.
"Ah, Mr. York, how are you this morning?" said he, turning a pair of eyes upon me that looked like boiled gooseberries--his countenance indicating severe indisposition. "Set down, sir; set down--I'm werry bad--werry bad indeed--bad go last night. Doesn't do to go to the lush-crib this weather. How are you, eh? tell me all about it. Is Mr. Nimrod gone?"
"Don't know," said I; "I have just come from Lancaster Street, where I have been seeing an aunt, and thought I would take Great Coram Street in my way to the city, to ask how you do--but where's Mrs. Jorrocks?"
_Jorrocks_. Oh, cuss Mrs. J----; I knows nothing about her--been reading the Riot Act, and giving her red rag a holiday all the morning--wish to God I'd never see'd her--took her for better and worser, it's werry true; but she's a d----d deal worser than I took her for. Hope your hat may long cover your family. Mrs. J----'s gone to the Commons to Jenner--swears she'll have a diworce, a _mensa et thorax_, I think she calls it--wish she may get it--sick of hearing her talk about it--Jenner's the only man wot puts up with her, and that's because he gets his fees. Batsay, my dear! you may damp another towel, and then get me something to cool my coppers--all in a glow, I declare--complete fever. You whiles go to the lush-crib, Mr. Yorkshireman; what now do you reckon best after a regular drench?
_Yorkshireman. _ Oh, nothing like a glass of soda-water with a bottom of brandy--some people prefer a sermon, but that won't suit you or I. After your soda and brandy take a good chivy in the open air, and you'll be all right by dinner-time.
_Jorrocks. _ Right I Bliss ye, I shall niver be right again. I can scarce move out of my chair, I'm so bad--my head's just fit to split in two--I'm in no state to be seen.
_Yorkshireman. _ Oh, pooh! --get your soda-water and brandy, then have some strong coffee and a red herring, and you'll be all right, and if you'll find cash, I'll find company, and we'll go and have a lark together.
_Jorrocks. _ Couldn't really be seen out---besides, cash is werry scarce. By the way, now that I come to think on it, I had a five-pounder in my breeches last night. Just feel in the pocket of them 'ere nankeens, and see that Mrs. J---- has not grabbed it to pay Jenner's fee with.
_Yorkshireman_ (feels). No--all right--here it is--No. 10,497--I promise to pay Mr. Thos. Rippon, or bearer, on demand, five pounds! Let's demand it, and go and spend the cash.
_Jorrocks. _ No, no--put it back--or into the table-drawer, see--fives are werry scarce with me--can't afford it--must be just before I'm generous.
_Yorkshireman. _ Well, then, J----, you must just stay at home and get bullied by Mrs. J----, who will be back just now, I dare say, perhaps followed by Jenner and half Doctors' Commons.
_Jorrocks_. The deuce! I forgot all that--curse Mrs. J---- and the Commons too. Well, Mr. Yorkshireman, I don't care if I do go with you--but where shall it be to? Some place where we can be quiet, for I really am werry bad, and not up to nothing like a lark.
_Yorkshireman_. Suppose we take a sniff of the briny--Margate--Ramsgate--Broadstairs?
_Jorrocks_. No, none of them places--over-well-known at 'em all--can't be quiet--get to the lush-crib again, perhaps catch the cholera and go to Gravesend by mistake. Let's go to the Eel Pye at Twickenham and live upon fish.
_Yorkshireman_. Fish! you old flat. Why, you know, you'd be the first to cry out if you had to do so. No, no--let's have no humbug--here, drink your coffee like a man, and then hustle your purse and see what it will produce. Why, even Betsey's laughing at the idea of your living upon fish.
_Jorrocks_. Don't shout so, pray--your woice shoots through every nerve of my head and distracts me (drinks). This is grand Mocho--quite the cordial balm of Gilead--werry fine indeed. Now I feel rewived and can listen to you.
_Yorkshireman_. Well, then, pull on your boots--gird up your loins, and let's go and spend this five pounds--stay away as long as it lasts, in fact.
_Jorrocks_. Well, but give me the coin--it's mine you know--and let me be paymaster, or I know you'll soon be into dock again. That's right; and now I have got three half-crowns besides, which I will add.
_Yorkshireman_. And I've got three pence, which, not to be behind-hand in point of liberality, I'll do the same with, so that we have got five pounds seven shillings and ninepence between us, according to Cocker.
_Jorrocks_. Between us, indeed! I likes that. You're a generous churchwarden.
_Yorkshireman_. Well--we won't stand upon trifles the principle is the thing I look to--and not the amount. So now where to, your honour?
After a long parley, we fixed upon Herne Bay. Our reasons for doing so were numerous, though it would be superfluous to mention them, save that the circumstance of neither of us ever having been there, and the prospect of finding a quiet retreat for Jorrocks to recover in, were the principal ones. Our arrangements were soon made. "Batsay," said J---- to his principessa of a cook, slut, and butler, "the Yorkshireman and I are going out of town to stay five pounds seven and ninepence, so put up my traps." Two shirts (one to wash the other as he said), three pairs of stockings, with other etceteras, were stamped into a carpet-bag, and taking a cab, we called at the "Piazza," where I took a few things, and away we drove to Temple Bar. "Stop here with the bags," said Jorrocks, "while I go to the Temple Stairs and make a bargain with a Jacob Faithful to put us on board, for if they see the bags they'll think it's a case of necessity, and ask double; whereas I'll pretend I'm just going a-pleasuring, and when I've made a bargain, I'll whistle, and you can come." Away he rolled, and after the lapse of a few minutes I heard a sort of shilling-gallery cat-call, and obeying the summons, found he had concluded a bargain for one and sixpence. We reached St. Catherine's Docks just as the Herne Bay boat--the _Hero_--moored alongside, consequently were nearly the first on board.
Herne Bay being then quite in its infancy, and this being what the cits call a "weekday," they had rather a shy cargo, nor had they any of that cockney tomfoolery that generally characterises a Ramsgate or Margate crew, more particularly a Margate one. Indeed, it was a very slow cargo, Jorrocks being the only character on board, and he was as sulky as a bear with a sore head when anyone approached. The day was beautifully fine, and a thin grey mist gradually disappeared from the Kentish hills as we passed down the Thames. The river was gay enough. Adelaide, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, was expected on her return from Germany, and all the vessels hung out their best and gayest flags and colours to do her honour. The towns of Greenwich and Woolwich were in commotion. Charity schools were marching, and soldiers were doing the like, while steamboats went puffing down the river with cargoes to meet and escort Her Majesty. When we got near Tilbury Fort, a man at the head of the steamer announced that we should meet the Queen in ten minutes, and all the passengers crowded on to the paddle-box of the side on which she was to pass, to view and greet her. Jorrocks even roused himself up and joined the throng. Presently a crowd of steamers were seen in the distance, proceeding up the river at a rapid pace, with a couple of lofty-masted vessels in tow, the first of which contained the royal cargo. The leading steamboat was the celebrated _Magnet_--considered the fastest boat on the river, and the one in which Jorrocks and myself steamed from Margate, racing against and beating the _Royal William. _ This had the Lord Mayor and Aldermen on board, who had gone down to the extent of the city jurisdiction to meet the Queen, and have an excuse for a good dinner. The deck presented a gay scene, being covered with a military band, and the gaudy-liveried lackeys belonging to the Mansion House, and sheriffs whose clothes were one continuous mass of gold lace and frippery, shining beautifully brilliant in the midday sun. The royal yacht, with its crimson and gold pennant floating on the breeze, came towering up at a rapid pace, with the Queen sitting under a canopy on deck. As we neared, all hats were off, and three cheers--or at least as many as we could wedge in during the time the cortège took to sweep past us--were given, our band consisting of three brandy-faced musicians, striking up _God save the King_--a compliment which Her Majesty acknowledged by a little mandarining; and before the majority of the passengers had recovered from the astonishment produced by meeting a live Queen on the Thames, the whole fleet had shot out of sight. By the time the ripple on the water, raised by their progress, had subsided, we had all relapsed into our former state of apathy and sullenness. A duller or staider set I never saw outside a Quakers' meeting. Still the beggars eat, as when does a cockney not in the open air? The stewards of these steamboats must make a rare thing of their places, for they have plenty of custom at their own prices. In fact, being in a steamboat is a species of personal incarceration, and you have only the option between bringing your own prog, or taking theirs at whatever they choose to charge--unless, indeed, a person prefers going without any. Jorrocks took nothing. He laid down again after the Queen had passed, and never looked up until we were a mile or two off Herne Bay.
With the reader's permission, we will suppose that we have just landed, and, bags in hand, ascended the flight of steps that conduct passengers, as it were, from the briny ocean on to the stage of life.
"My eyes!" said Jorrocks, as he reached the top, "wot a pier, and wot a bit of a place! Why, there don't seem to be fifty houses altogether, reckoning the windmill in the centre as one. What's this thing?" said he to a ticket-porter, pointing to a sort of French diligence-looking concern which had just been pushed up to the landing end. "To carry the lumber, sir--live and dead--gentlemen and their bags, as don't like to walk." "Do you charge anything for the ride?" inquired Jorrocks, with his customary caution. "Nothing," was the answer. "Then, let's get on the roof," said J----, "and take it easy, and survey the place as we go along." So, accordingly, we clambered on to the top of the diligence, "summâ diligentiâ," and seated ourselves on a pile of luggage; being all stowed away, and as many passengers as it would hold put inside, two or three porters proceeded to propel the machine along the railroad on which it runs. "Now, Mr. Yorkshireman," said Jorrocks, "we are in a strange land, and it behoves us to proceed with caution, or we may spend our five pounds seven and sixpence before we know where we are."
_Yorkshireman_. Seven and ninepence it is, sir.
_Jorrocks_. Well, be it so--five pounds seven and ninepence between two, is by no means an impossible sum to spend, and the trick is to make it go as far as we can. Now some men can make one guinea go as far as others can make two, and we will try what we can do. In the first place, you know I makes it a rule never to darken the door of a place wot calls itself an 'otel, for 'otel prices and inn prices are werry different. You young chaps don't consider these things, and as long as you have got a rap in the world you go swaggering about, ordering claret and waxlights, and everything wot's expensive, as though you must spend money because you are in an inn. Now, that's all gammon. If a man haven't got money he can't spend it; and we all know that many poor folks are obliged at times to go to houses of public entertainment, and you don't suppose that they pay for fire and waxlights, private sitting-rooms, and all them 'ere sort of things. Now, said he, adjusting his hunting telescope and raking the town of Herne Bay, towards which we were gently approaching on our dignified eminence, but as yet had not got near enough to descry "what was what" with the naked eye, I should say yon great staring-looking shop directly opposite us is the cock inn of the place (looks through his glass). I'm right P-i-e-r, Pier 'Otel I reads upon the top, and that's no shop for my money. Let's see what else we have. There's nothing on the right, I think, but here on the left is something like our cut--D-o-l dol, p-h-i-n phin, Dolphin Inn. It's long since I went the circuit, as the commercial gentlemen (or what were called bagmen in my days) term it, but I haven't forgot the experience I gained in my travels, and I whiles turn it to werry good account now.
"Coach to Canterbury, Deal, Margate, sir, going directly," interrupted him, and reminded us that we had got to the end of the pier, and ought to be descending. Two or three coaches were drawn up, waiting to carry passengers on, but we had got to our journey's end. "Now," said J----, "let's take our bags in hand and draw up wind, trying the 'Dolphin' first."
Rejecting the noble portals of the Pier Hotel, we advanced towards Jorrocks's chosen house, a plain unpretending-looking place facing the sea, which is half the battle, and being but just finished had every chance of cleanliness. "Jonathan Acres" appeared above the door as the name of the landlord, and a little square-built, hatless, short-haired chap, in a shooting-jacket, was leaning against the door. "Mr. Hacres within?" said Jorrocks. "My name's Acres," said he of the shooting-jacket. "Humph," said J----, looking him over, "not Long Acre, I think." Having selected a couple of good airy bedrooms, we proceeded to see about dinner. "Mr. Hacres," said Jorrocks, "I makes it a rule never to pay more than two and sixpence for a feed, so now just give us as good a one as you possibly can for that money": and about seven o'clock we sat down to lamb-chops, ducks, French beans, pudding, etc.; shortly after which Jorrocks retired to rest, to sleep off the remainder of his headache. He was up long before me the next morning, and had a dip in the sea before I came down. "Upon my word," said he, as I entered the room, and found him looking as lively and fresh as a four-year-old, "it's worth while going to the lush-crib occasionally, if it's only for the pleasure of feeling so hearty and fresh as one does on the second day. I feel just as if I could jump out of my skin, but I will defer the performance until after breakfast. I have ordered a fork one, do you know, cold 'am and boiled bacon, with no end of eggs, and bread of every possible description. By the way, I've scraped acquaintance with Thorp, the baker hard by, who's a right good fellow, and says he will give me some shooting, and has some werry nice beagles wot he shoots to. But here's the grub. Cold 'am in abundance. But, waiter, you should put a little green garnishing to the dishes, I likes to see it, green is so werry refreshing to the eye; and tell Mr. Hacres to send up some more bacon and the bill, when I rings the bell. Nothing like having your bill the first morning, and then you know what you've got to pay, and can cut your coat according to your cloth." The bacon soon disappeared, and the bell being sounded, produced the order.
"Humph," said J----, casting his eyes over the bill as it lay by the side of his plate, while he kept pegging away at the contents of the neighbouring dish--"pretty reasonable, I think--dinners, five shillings, that's half a crown each; beds, two shillings each; breakfasts, one and ninepence each, that's cheap for a fork breakfast; but, I say, you had a pint of sherry after I left you last night, and PALE sherry too! How could you be such an egreggorus (egregious) ass! That's so like you young chaps, not to know that the only difference between pale and brown sherry is, that one has more of the pumpaganus aqua in it than the other. You should have made it pale yourself, man. But look there. Wot a go!"
Our attention was attracted to a youth in spectacles, dressed in a rich plum-coloured coat, on the outside of a dingy-looking, big-headed, brown nag, which he was flogging and cramming along the public walk in front of the "Dolphin," in the most original and ludicrous manner. We presently recognised him as one of our fellow-passengers of the previous day, respecting whom Jorrocks and I had had a dispute as to whether he was a Frenchman or a German. His equestrian performances decided the point. I never in all my life witnessed such an exhibition, nor one in which the performer evinced such self-complacency. Whether he had ever been on horseback before or not I can't tell, but the way in which he went to work, using the bridle as a sort of rattle to frighten the horse forward, the way in which he shook the reins, threw his arms about, and belaboured the poor devil of an animal in order to get him into a canter (the horse of course turning away every time he saw the blow coming), and the free, unrestrained liberty he gave to his head, surpassed everything of the sort I ever saw, and considerably endangered the lives of several of His Majesty's lieges that happened to be passing. Instead of getting out of their way, Frenchmanlike, he seemed to think everything should give way to an equestrian; and I saw him scatter a party of ladies like a covey of partridges, by riding slap amongst them, and not even making the slightest apology or obeisance for the rudeness. There he kept, cantering (or cantering as much as he could induce the poor rip to do) from one end of the town to the other, conceiving, I make not the slightest doubt, that he was looked upon with eyes of admiration by the beholders. He soon created no little sensation, and before he was done a crowd had collected near the Pier Hotel, to see him get his horse past (it being a Pier Hotel nag) each time; and I heard a primitive sort of postman, who was delivering the few letters that arrive in the place, out of a fish-basket, declare "that he would sooner kill a horse than lend it to such a chap." Having fretted his hour away, the owner claimed the horse, and Monsieur was dismounted.
After surveying the back of the town, we found ourselves rambling in some beautiful picturesque fields in the rear. Kent is a beautiful county, and the trimly kept gardens, and the clustering vines twining around the neatly thatched cottages, remind one of the rich, luxuriant soil and climate of the South. Forgetting that we were in search of sea breezes, we continued to saunter on, across one field, over one stile and then over another, until after passing by the side of a snug-looking old-fashioned house, with a beautifully kept garden, the road took a sudden turn and brought us to some parkish-looking well-timbered ground in front, at one side of which Jorrocks saw something that he swore was a kennel.
"I knows a hawk from a hand-saw," said he, "let me alone for that. I'll swear there are hounds in it. Bless your heart, don't I see a gilt fox on one end, and a gilt hare on the other?"
Just then came up a man in a round fustian jacket, to whom Jorrocks addressed himself, and, as good luck would have it, he turned out to be the huntsman (for Jorrocks was right about the kennel), and away we went to look at the hounds. They proved to be Mr. Collard's, the owner of the house that we had just passed, and were really a very nice pack of harriers, consisting of seventeen or eighteen couple, kept in better style (as far as kennel appearance goes) than three-fourths of the harriers in England. Bird, the huntsman, our cicerone, seemed a regular keen one in hunting matters, and Jorrocks and he had a long confab about the "noble art of hunting," though the former was rather mortified to find on announcing himself as the "celebrated Mr. Jorrocks" that Bird had never heard of him before.
After leaving the kennel we struck across a few fields, and soon found ourselves on the sea banks, along which we proceeded at the rate of about two miles an hour, until we came to the old church of Reculvers. Hard by is a public-house, the sign of the "Two Sisters," where, having each taken a couple of glasses of ale, we proceeded to enjoy one of the (to me at least) greatest luxuries in life--viz. that of lying on the shingle of the beach with my heels just at the water's edge.
The day was intensely hot, and after occupying this position for about half an hour, and finding the "perpendicular rays of the sun" rather fiercer than agreeable, we followed the example of a flock of sheep, and availed ourselves of the shade afforded by the Reculvers. Here for a short distance along the beach, on both sides, are small breakwaters, and immediately below the Reculvers is one formed of stake and matting, capable of holding two persons sofa fashion. Into this Jorrocks and I crept, the tide being at that particular point that enabled us to repose, with the water lashing our cradle on both sides, without dashing high enough to wet us.
"Oh, but this is fine!" said J----, dangling his arm over the side, and letting the sea wash against his hand. "I declare it comes fizzing up just like soda-water out of a bottle--reminds me of the lush-crib. By the way, Mr. Yorkshireman, I heard some chaps in our inn this morning talking about this werry place, and one of them said that there used to be a Roman station, or something of that sort, at it. Did you know anything of them 'ere ancient Romans? Luxterous dogs, I understand. If Mr. Nimrod was here now he could tell us all about them, for, if I mistake not, he was werry intimate with some of them--either he or his father, at least."
A boat that had been gradually advancing towards us now run on shore, close by where we were lying, and one of the crew landed with a jug to get some beer. A large basket at the end attracted Jorrocks's attention, and, doglike, he got up and began to hover about and inquire about their destination of the remaining crew, four in number. They were a cockney party of pleasure, it seemed, going to fish, for which purpose they had hired the boat, and laid in no end of bait for the fish, and prog for themselves. Jorrocks, though no great fisherman (not having, as he says, patience enough), is never at a loss if there is plenty of eating; and finding that they had got a great chicken pie, two tongues, and a tart, agreed to pay for the boat if they would let us in upon equal terms with themselves as to the provender, which was agreed to without a debate. The messenger having returned with a gallon of ale, we embarked, and away we slid through the "glad waters of the dark blue sea." It was beautifully calm, scarcely a breeze appearing on the surface. After rowing for about an hour, one of the boatmen began to adjust the lines and bait the hooks; and having got into what he esteemed a favourite spot, he cast anchor and prepared for the sport. Each man was prepared with a long strong cord line, with a couple of hooks fastened to the ends of about a foot of whalebone, with a small leaden plummet in the centre. The hooks were baited with sandworms, and the instructions given were, after sounding the depth, to raise the hooks a little from the bottom, so as to let them hang conveniently for the fish to swallow. Great was the excitement as we dropped the lines overboard, as to who should catch the first whale. Jorrocks and myself having taken the fishermen's lines from them, we all met upon pretty equal terms, much like gentlemen jockeys in a race. A dead silence ensued. "I have one!" cried the youngest of our new friends. "Then pull him up," responded one of the boatmen, "gently, or you'll lose him." "And so I have, by God! he's gone." "Well, never mind," said the boatmen, "let's see your bait--aye, he's got that, too. We'll put some fresh on--there you are again--all right. Now drop it gently, and when you find you've hooked him, wind the line quickly, but quietly, and be sure you don't jerk the hook out of his mouth at starting." "I've got one!" cries Jorrocks--"I've got one--now, my wig, if I can but land him. I have him, certainly--by Jove! he's a wopper, too, judging by the way he kicks. Oh, but it's no use, sir--come along--come along--here he is--doublets, by crikey--two, huzza! huzza! What fine ones! --young haddocks or codlings, I should call them--werry nice eating, I dare say--I'm blow'd if this arn't sport." "I have one," cries our young friend again. "So have I," shouts another; and just at the same moment I felt the magic touch of my bait, and in an instant I felt the thrilling stroke. The fish were absolutely voracious, and we had nothing short of a miraculous draught. As fast as we could bait they swallowed, and we frequently pulled them up two at a time. Jorrocks was in ecstasies. "It was the finest sport he had ever encountered," and he kept halloaing and shouting every time he pulled them up, as though he were out with the Surrey. Having just hooked a second couple, he baited again and dropped his line. Two of our new friends had hooked fish at the same instant, and, in their eagerness to take them, overbalanced the boat, and Jorrocks, who was leaning over, went head foremost down into the deeps!
* * * * * A terrible surprise came over us, and for a second or two we were so perfectly thunderstruck as to be incapable of rendering any assistance. A great splash, followed by a slight gurgling sound, as the water bubbled and subsided o'er the place where he went down, was all that denoted the exit of our friend. After a considerable dive he rose to the surface, minus his hat and wig, but speedily disappeared. The anchor was weighed, oars put out, and the boat rowed to the spot where he last appeared. He rose a third time, but out of arms' reach, apparently lifeless, and just as he was sinking, most probably for ever, one of the men contrived to slip the end of an oar under his arm, and support him on the water until he got within reach from the boat.
The consternation when we got him on board was tremendous! Consisting, as we did, of two parties, neither knowing where the other had come from, we remained in a state of stupefied horror, indecision, and amazement for some minutes. The poor old man lay extended in the bottom of the boat, apparently lifeless, and even if the vital spark had not fled, there seemed no chance of reaching Herne Bay, whose pier, just then gilded by the rich golden rays of the setting sun, appeared in the far distance of the horizon. Where to row to was the question. No habitation where effective succour could be procured appeared on the shore, and to proceed without a certain destination was fruitless. How helpless such a period as this makes a man feel! "Let's make for Grace's," at length exclaimed one of the boatmen, and the other catching at the proposition, the head of the boat was whipped round in an instant, and away we sped through the glassy-surfaced water. Not a word broke upon the sound of the splashing oars until, nearing the shore, one of the men, looking round, directed us to steer a little to the right, in the direction of a sort of dell or land-break, peculiar to the Isle of Thanet; and presently we ran the head of the boat upon the shingle, just where a small rivulet that, descending from the higher grounds, waters the thickly wooded ravine, and discharges itself into the sea. The entrance of this dell is formed by a lofty precipitous rock, with a few stunted overhanging trees on one side, while the other is more open and softened in its aspect, and though steep and narrow at the mouth, gently slopes away into a brushwood-covered bank, which, stretching up the little valley, becomes lost in a forest of lofty oaks that close the inland prospect of the place. Here, to the left (just after one gets clear of the steeper part), commanding a view of the sea, and yet almost concealed from the eye of a careless traveller, was a lonely hut (the back wall formed by an excavation of the sandy rock) and the rest of clay, supporting a wooden roof, made of the hull of a castaway wreck, the abode of an old woman, called Grace Ganderne, well known throughout the whole Isle of Thanet as a poor harmless secluded widow, who subsisted partly on the charity of her neighbours, and partly on what she could glean from the smugglers, for the assistance she affords them in running their goods on that coast; and though she had been at work for forty years, she had never had the misfortune to be detected in the act, notwithstanding the many puncheons of spirits and many bales of goods fished out of the dark woods near her domicile.
To this spot it was, just as the "setting sun's pathetic light" had been succeeded by the grey twilight of the evening, that we bore the body of our unfortunate companion. The door was closed, but Grace being accustomed to nocturnal visitors, speedily answered the first summons and presented herself. She was evidently of immense age, being nearly bowed double, and her figure, with her silvery hair, confined by a blue checked cotton handkerchief, and palsied hand, as tremblingly she rested upon her staff and eyed the group, would have made a subject worthy of the pencil of a Landseer. She was wrapped in an old red cloak, with a large hood, and in her ears she wore a pair of long gold-dropped earrings, similar to what one sees among the Norman peasantry--the gift, as I afterwards learned, of a drowned lover. After scrutinising us for a second or two, during which time a large black cat kept walking to and fro, purring and rubbing itself against her, she held back the door and beckoned us to enter. The little place was cleanly swept up, and a faggot and some dry brushwood, which she had just lighted for the purpose of boiling her kettle, threw a gleam of light over the apartment, alike her bedchamber, parlour, and kitchen. Her curtainless bed at the side, covered with a coarse brown counterpane, was speedily prepared for our friend, into which being laid, our new acquaintances were dispatched in search of doctors, while the boatman and myself, under the direction of old Grace, applied ourselves to procuring such restoratives as her humble dwelling afforded.
"Let Grace alone," said the younger of the boatmen, seeing my affliction at the lamentable catastrophe, "if there be but a spark of life in the gentleman, she'll bring him round--many's the drowning man--aye, and wounded one, too--that's been brought in here during the stormy nights, and after fights with the coast-guard--that she's recovered."
Hot bottles, and hot flannels, and hot bricks were all applied, but in vain; and when I saw hot brandy, too, fail of having the desired effect, I gave my friend up as lost, and left the hut to vent my grief in the open air. Grace was more sanguine and persevering, and when I returned, after a half-hour's absence, I could distinctly feel a returning pulse. Still, he gave no symptoms of animation, and it might only be the effect produced by the applications--as he remained in the same state for several hours. Fresh wood was added to the fire, and the boatmen having returned to their vessel, Grace and I proceeded to keep watch during the night, or until the arrival of a doctor. The poor old body, to whom scenes such as this were matter of frequent occurrence, seemed to think nothing of it, and proceeded to relate some of the wonderful escapes and recoveries she had witnessed, in the course of which she dropped many a sigh to the memory of some of her friends--the bold smugglers. There were no such "braw lads" now as formerly, she said, and were it not that "she was past eighty, and might as weel die in one place as anither, she wad gang back to the bonny blue hulls (hills) of her ain canny Scotland."
In the middle of one of her long stories I thought I perceived a movement of the bedclothes, and, going to look, I found a considerable increase in the quickness of pulsation, and also a generous sort of glow upon the skin. "An' ded I no tell ye I wad recover him?" said she, with a triumphant look. "Afore twa mair hours are o'er he'll spak to ye." "I hope so, I'm sure," said I, still almost doubting her. "Oh, trust to me," said she, "he'll come about--I've seen mony a chiel in a mickle worse state nor him recovered. Pray, is the ould gintleman your father or your grandfather?"
_Yorkshireman. _ Why, I can't say that he's either exactly--but he's always been as good as a grandmother to me, I know.
Grace was right. About three o'clock in the morning a sort of revulsion of nature took place, and after having lain insensible, and to all appearance lifeless, all that time, he suddenly began to move. Casting his eye wildly around, he seemed lost in amazement. He muttered something, but what it was I could not catch.
"Lush-crib again, by Jove!" were the first words he articulated, and then, appearing to recollect himself, he added, "Oh, I forgot, I'm drowned--well drowned, too--can't be help'd, however--wasn't born to be hanged--and that seems clear." Thus he kept muttering and mumbling for an hour, until old Grace thinking him so far recovered as to remove all danger from sudden surprise, allowed me to take her seat at the bedside. He looked at me long and intensely, but the light was not sufficiently strong to enable him to make out who I was.
"Jorrocks!" at length said I, taking him by the hand, "how are you, my old boy?" He started at the sound of his name. "Jorrocks," said he, "who's that?" "Why, the Yorkshireman; you surely have not forgotten your old friend and companion in a hundred fights!"
_Jorrocks. _ Oh, Mr. York, it's you, is it? Much obliged by your inquiries, but I'm drowned.
_Yorkshireman. _ Aye, but you are coming round, you'll be better before long.
_Jorrocks. _ Never! Don't try to gammon me. You know as well as I do that I'm drowned, and a drowned man never recovers. No, no, it's all up with me, I feel. Set down, however, while I say a few words to you. You're a good fellow, and I've remembered you in my will, which you'll find in the strong port-wine-bin, along with nine pounds secret service money. I hopes you'll think the legacy a fat one. I meant it as such. If you marry Belinda, I have left you a third of my fourth in the tea trade. Always said you were cut out for a grocer. Let Tat sell my stud. An excellent man, Tat--proudish perhaps--at least, he never inwites me to none of his dinners--but still a werry good man. Let him sell them, I say, and mind give Snapdragon a charge or two of shot before he goes to the 'ammer, to prevent his roaring. Put up a plain monument to my memory--black or white marble, whichever's cheapest--but mind, no Cupids or seraphums, or none of those sort of things--quite plain--with just this upon it--_Hic jacet Jorrocks. _ And now I'll give you a bit of news. Neptune has appointed me huntsman to his pack of haddocks. Have two dolphins for my own riding, and a young lobster to look after them. Lord Farebrother whips in to me--he rides a turtle. "And now, my good friend," said he, grasping my hands with redoubled energy, "do you think you could accomplish me a rump-steak and oyster sauce? --also a pot of stout? --but, mind, blow the froth off the top, for it's bad for the kidneys!"
THE END
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{
"id": "15387"
}
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1
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THE STRANGER.
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That portion of territory known throughout Christendom as Kentucky, was, at an early period, the theatre of some of the wildest, most hardily contested, and bloody scenes ever placed on record. In fact its very name, derived from the Indian word Kan-tuck-kee, which was applied to it long before its discovery by the whites, is peculiarly significant in meaning--being no less than "the dark and bloody ground." History makes no mention of its being inhabited prior to its settlement by the present race; but rather serves to aid us to the inference, that from time immemorial it was used as a "neutral ground," whereon the different savage tribes were wont to meet in deadly strife; and hence the portentious name by which it was known among them. But notwithstanding its ominous title, Kentucky, when first beheld by the white hunter, presented all the attractions he would have envied in Paradise itself. The climate was congenial to his feelings--the country was devoid of savages--while its thick tangles of green cane--abounding with deer, elk, bears, buffaloes, panthers, wolves and wild cats, and its more open woods with pheasant, turkey and partridge--made it the full realization of his hopes--his longings. What more could he ask? And when he again stood among his friends, beyond the Alleghanies, is it to be wondered at that his excited feelings, aided by distance, should lead him to describe it as the El Dorado of the world? Such indeed he did describe it; and to such glowing descriptions, Kentucky was doubtless partially indebted for her settlement so much in advance of the surrounding territory.
As it is not our purpose, in the present instance, to enter into a history of the country, further than is necessary to the development of our story, the reader will pardon us for omitting that account of its early settlement which can readily be gleaned from numerous works already familiar to the reading public. It may not be amiss, however, to remark here, what almost every reader knows, that first and foremost in the dangerous struggles of pioneer life, was the celebrated Daniel Boone; whose name, in the west, and particularly in Kentucky, is a household word; and whose fame, as a fearless hunter, has extended not only throughout this continent, but over Europe. The birth place of this renowned individual has been accredited to several states, by as many writers; but one, more than the rest, is positive in asserting it to have been Bucks county, Pennsylvania; and the year of his birth 1732; which is sufficient for our purpose, whether strictly correct or not. At an early period of his life, all agree that he removed with his father to a very thinly settled section of North Carolina, where he spent his time in hunting--thereby supplying the family with meat and destroying the wild beasts, while his brothers assisted the father in tilling the farm--and where he afterwards, in a romantic manner, became acquainted with a settler's daughter, whom he married; and whence, in the spring of 1769, in company with five others, he set out on an expedition of danger across the mountains, to explore the western wilds; and after undergoing hardships innumerable, and losing all his companions in various ways, he at last succeeded in erecting the first log cabin, and being the first white settler within the borders of Kentucky. To follow up, even from this time, a detail of his trials, adventures, captures by the Indians, and hair-breadth escapes, to the close of his eventful career, would be sufficient to fill a volume; therefore we shall drop him for the time--merely remarking, by the way, that he will be found to figure occasionally in the following pages.
From the first appearance of Boone in the wilds of Kentucky, we shall pass over a space of some ten or twelve years, and open our story in the fall of 1781. During this period, the aspect of the country for a considerable distance around the present site of Lexington, had become materially changed; and the smoke from the cabin of the white settler arose in an hundred places, where, a dozen years before, prowled the wolf, the bear, and the panther, in perfect security. In sooth, the year in question had been very propitious to the immigrants; who, flocking in from eastern settlements in goodly numbers, were allowed to domiciliate themselves in their new homes, with but few exceptions, entirely unmolested by the savage foe. So much in fact was this the case, that instead of taking up their residence in a fort--or station, as they were more generally called--the new comers erected cabins for themselves, at such points as they considered most agreeable; gradually venturing further and further from the strongholds, until some of them became too distant to look hopefully for succor in cases of extreme necessity.
Among the stations most prominent at this period, as being most secure, and against which the attacks of the Indians were most frequent and unsuccessful, may be mentioned Harrod's, Boone's, Logan's, and Bryan's, so called in honor of their founders. The first two named, probably from being the two earliest founded, were particularly unfortunate in drawing down upon themselves the concentrated fury of the savages, who at various times surrounded them in great numbers and attempted to take them by storm. These attacks not unfrequently lasted several days, in which a brisk fire was maintained on both sides, whenever a foe could be seen; until wearied out with fruitless endeavors, or surprised by a reinforcement of the whites, the Indians would raise the siege, with a howl of rage, and depart. One of the longest and most remarkable of these on record, we believe, was that of Boonesborough, which was attacked in June, 1778, by five hundred Indians, led on by Duquesne, a Frenchman, and which, with only a small garrison, commanded by Boone himself, nobly held out for eight days, when the enemy withdrew in despair. But, as we before remarked, it not being our purpose to enter into a general history of the time, we will now proceed with our story.
It was near the close of a mild, beautiful day, in the autumn of 1781, that a young man, some twenty-two years of age, emerged from a wood into an open space or clearing, at a distance of perhaps fifteen miles eastward from Lexington. The general appearance of this individual betokened the hunter, but at the same time one who followed it for pleasure, rather than as a means of support. This was evident from his dress, which although somewhat characteristic of the time, was much superior to that generally worn by the woodsman. He had on a woolen hunting frock, of fine texture, of a dark green color, that came a few inches below the hips. Beneath this, and fitting closely around his shoulders, neck and breast, was a scarlet jacket, ornamented with two rows of round, white metal buttons. A large cape, with a deep red fringe, of about inch in width, was attached to the frock, and extended from the shoulders nearly to the elbow. Around the waist, outside the frock, passed a dark leather belt, in which were confined a brace of handsome pistols, and a long silver-hilted hunting knife. Breeches of cloth, like the frock, were connected with leggins of tanned deer skin, which in turn extended over, and partly concealed, heavy cow-hide boots. A neatly made cap of deer skin, with the hair outside, surmounted a finely shaped head. His features, though somewhat pale and haggard, as if from recent grief or trouble, were mostly of the Grecian cast. He had a high, noble forehead; a large, clear, fascinating gray eye; a well formed mouth, and a prominent chin. In height he was about five feet and ten inches, broad shouldered, straight, heavy set, with handsome proportions.
Upon the shoulder of the young man, as he emerged from the wood, rested an elegant rifle; which, after advancing a short distance, he brought into a trailing position; and then pausing, he dropped the breech upon the ground, placed his hands over the muzzle, and, carelessly leaning his chin upon them, swept with his eye the surrounding country, to which he was evidently a stranger.
The day had been one of those mild and smoky ones, peculiar to the climate and season; and the sun, large and red, was near to sinking behind the far western ridge, giving a beautiful crimson, mellow tinge to each object which came beneath his rays. The landscape, over which the stranger gazed, was by no means unpleasing. His position was on an eminence, overlooking a fertile valley, partly cleared, and partly shaded by woods, through which wound a crystal stream, whose gentle murmurs could be heard even where he stood. Beyond this stream, the ground, in pleasing undulations, took a gentle rise, to a goodly height, and was covered by what is termed an open wood--a wood peculiar to Kentucky at this period--consisting of trees in the regularity of an orchard, at some distance apart, devoid of underbrush, beneath which the earth was beautifully carpeted with a rank growth of clover, high grass, and wild flowers innumerable. In the rear of the young hunter, as if to form a background to the picture, was the wood he had just quitted, which, continuing the elevation spoken of, but more abruptly, rose high above him, and was crowned by a ledge of rocks. Far in the distance, to his right, could be seen another high ridge; while to the left, spreading far away from the mouth of the valley, if we may so term it, like the prairies of Missouri, was a beautiful tangle, or cane-brake, containing its thousands of wild animals. The open space wherein the hunter stood was not large, covering an area of not more than half a dozen acres. It was of an oblong form, and sloped off from his position to the right, left, and front, and reached from the wood down to the stream in the valley, where stood a rather neat log cabin, from which a light blue smoke ascended in graceful wreaths. The eye of the stranger, glancing over the scene, fell upon this latter with that gleam of satisfaction which is felt by a person after performing a long fatiguing journey, when he sees before him a comfortable inn, where he is to repose for the night; and pausing for a couple of minutes, he replaced his rifle upon his shoulder, and started forward down the hill, at a leisure pace.
Scarcely had the stranger advanced twenty paces, when he was startled by a fierce yell, accompanied by the report of a rifle, the ball of which whizzed past him, within an inch of his head. Ere he could recover from his surprise, a sharp pain in the side, followed by another report, caused him to reel like one intoxicated, and finally sink to the earth. As the young man fell, two Indians sprung from behind a cluster of bushes, which skirted the clearing some seventy-five yards to the right, and, with a whoop of triumph, tomahawk in hand, rushed toward him. Believing that his life now depended upon his own speedy exertions, the young hunter, by a great effort, succeeded in raising himself on his knees; and drawing up his rifle with a hasty aim, he fired; but with no other success than that of causing one of the savages to jerk his head suddenly aside without slackening his speed. There was still a chance left him; and setting his teeth hard, the wounded man drew his pistols from his belt, and awaited the approach of his enemies; who, when within thirty paces, discovering the weapons of death, suddenly came to a halt, and commenced loading their rifles with great rapidity.
The young hunter now perceived, with painful regret, that only an interposition of Providence could save him, for his life was hanging on a thread that might snap at any moment. It was an awful moment of suspense, as there, on his knees, far, far away from the land of his birth, in a strange country, he, in the prime of life, without a friend near, wounded and weak, was waiting to die, like a wild beast, by the hands of savages, with his scalp to be borne hence as a trophy, his flesh to be devoured by wolves, and his bones left to bleach in the open air. It was an awful moment of suspense! and a thousand thoughts came rushing through his mind; and he felt he would have given worlds, were they his, for the existence of even half an hour, with a friend by, to receive his dying requests. To add to his despair, he felt himself fast growing weaker and weaker; and with an unsteady vision, as his last hope, he turned his eye in the direction of the cottage, to note if any assistance were at hand; but he saw none; and nature failing to support him longer in his position, he sunk back upon the ground, believing the last sands of his existence were run.
Meantime, the Indians had loaded their rifles; and one of them, stepping a pace in front of his companion, was already in the act of aiming, when, perceiving the young man falter and sink back, he lowered the muzzle of his gun, and, grasping his tomahawk, darted forward to despatch him without further loss of ammunition. Already had he reached within five or six paces of his victim, who, now unable to exert himself in his own defence, could only look upon his savage enemy and the weapon uplifted for his destruction, when, crack went another rifle, in an opposite direction whence the Indians approached, and, bounding into the air, with a terrific yell, the foremost fell dead by the young man's side. On seeing his companion fall, the other Indian, who was only a few paces behind, stopped suddenly, and, with a yell of fear and disappointment, turned and fled.
Those only who have been placed in peril sufficient to extinguish the last gleam of hope, and have suddenly been relieved by a mysterious interposition of Providence, can fully realize the feelings with which the wounded hunter saw himself rescued from an ignominious death. True, he was weak and faint from a wound which was, perhaps, mortal; still it was a great consolation to feel that he should die among those who would bury him, and perhaps bear a message to friends in a far-off land. With such thoughts uppermost in his mind, the young man, by great exertion, raised himself upon his elbow, and turned his head in the direction whence his deliverer might be expected; but, to his surprise and disappointment, no one appeared; and after vainly attempting to regain his feet, he sunk back, completely exhausted. The wound in his side had now grown very painful, and was bleeding freely; while he became conscious, that unless the hemorrhage could be stanched immediately, the only good service a friend could render him, would be to inter his remains. In this helpless state, something like a minute elapsed, when he felt a strange sensation about his heart--his head grew dizzy--his thoughts seemed confused--the sky appeared suddenly to grow dark, and he believed the icy grasp of death was already settling upon him. At this moment a form--but whether of friend or foe he could not tell--flitted before his uncertain vision; and then all became darkness and nonentity. He had swooned.
When the young stranger recovered his senses, after a lapse of some ten minutes, his glance rested on the form of a white hunter, of noble aspect, who was bending over him with a compassionate look; and who, meantime, had opened his dress to the wound and stanched the blood, by covering it with a few pieces of coarse linen, which he had torn into shreds for the purpose, and secured there by means of his belt.
As this latter personage is destined to figure somewhat in the following pages, we shall take this opportunity of describing him as he appeared to our wounded friend.
In height and proportion--but not in age--these two individuals were somewhat alike--the new comer being full five feet, ten inches, with a robust, athletic frame, and all the concomitants of a powerful man. At the moment when first beheld by the young man, after regaining his senses, he was kneeling by his side, his cap of the wild-cat skin was lying on the ground, and the last mellow rays of the setting sun were streaming upon an intelligent and manly countenance, which, now rendered more deeply interesting by the earnest, compassionate look wherewith he regarded the other, made him appear to that other, in his peculiar situation, this most noble being he had ever seen. Of years he had seen some fifty; though there was a freshness about his face, owing probably to his hardy, healthy mode of life, which made him appear much younger. His countenance was open and pleasing, with good, regular, though not, strictly speaking, handsome features. His forehead was high and full, beneath which beamed a mild, clear blue eye. His nose was rather long and angular; his cheekbones high and bold; his lips thin and compressed, covering a goodly set of teeth; his chin round and prominent; the whole together conveying an expression of energy, decision, hardy recklessness and manly courage. His dress was fashioned much like the other's, already described, but of coarser materials--the frock being of linsey-woolsey; the breeches and leggings of deerskin; and the moccasins, in place of boots of the same material. Around his waist passed a belt; wherein, instead of pistols, were confined a tomahawk and scalping knife--two weapons which were considered as indispensable to the regular white hunter of that day as to the Indian warrior himself.
So soon as the elder of the two became aware of consciousness on the part of the younger, a friendly smile succeeded to the look of anxiety with which he had been regarding him; and in the frank, cordial, familiar tone of that period, when every man's cabin was the traveler's home, and every strange guest was treated with the hospitality of an old acquaintance, he said: "Well, stranger, I'm right glad to welcome you back to life agin; for I war beginning to fear your account with earthly matters had closed. By the Power that made me! but you've had a narrow escape on't; and ef Betsy (putting his hand on his rifle, which was lying by his side,) hadn't spoke out as she did, that thar red skin varmint (pointing to the dead Indian) would have been skulking now like a thief through yonder woods, with your crown piece hanging to his girdle."
"A thousand thanks," returned the wounded man, pressing the hand of the other as much as his strength would permit, and accompanying it with a look of gratitude more eloquent than words: "A thousand thanks, sir, for your timely shot, and subsequent kindness and interest in behalf of one you know not, but who will ever remember you with gratitude."
"See here, stranger, I reckon you've not been long in these parts?"
"But a few days, sir."
"And you've come from a good ways east o' the Alleghanies?"
"I have."
"I knew it. I'd have bet Betsey agin a bushel of corn, and that's large odds you know, that such war the fact, from the particular trouble you've taken to thank me for doing the duty of a man. Let me assure you, stranger, that you're in a country now whar equality exists; and whar one man's just as good as another, provided he is no coward, and behaves himself as he should do; and whether stranger or not, is equally entitled to the assistance of his fellows; perticularly when about being treed by such a sneaking varmint as that lying yonder. Besides, I don't want any body to thank me for shooting Indians; for I always do it, whensomever I get a chance, as Betsey would tell you, ef she could speak English; for somehow thar's no perticular agreement atween us, unless it's for each to make the most he can off the other; and so far I reckon thar's a ballance in my favor, though the wretches are ever trying desperate hard to get even. But come, stranger, it won't do for you to be lying thar with that hole in your side; and so just have patience a minute, till I've secured the top-knot of this beauty here, and then I'll assist you down to yonder cabin, whar I doubt not you'll be well cared for."
As he spoke, the old woodsman rose to his feet, drew his knife, and turning to the dead Indian, to the surprise of the other, who was but little familiar with Kentucky customs of that day, deliberately took off the scalp, which he attached to his belt;[1] and then spurning the body with his foot, he muttered: "Go, worthless dog! and fill the belly of some wolf! and may your cowardly companion be soon keeping you company." Then, as he turned to the other, and noticed his look of surprise, he added: "Well, stranger, I reckon this business looks a little odd to you, coming from away beyond the mountains as you do."
"Why, if truth must be told, I confess it does," answered the other.
"Don't doubt it, stranger; but you'll do it yourself afore you've wintered here two seasons."
"I must beg leave to differ with you on that point."
"Well, well, we'll not quarrel about it--it arn't worth while; but ef you stay here two year, without scalping a red-skin and perhaps skinning one, I'll agree to pay you for your time in bar-skins at your own valuation."
"I am much obliged to you for the offer," answered the young man--a faint smile lighting his pale features; "but I think it hardly probable I shall remain in the country that length of time."
"Not unless you have good care, I reckon," returned the other; "for that thar wound o' yourn arn't none o' the slightest; though I don't want you to be skeered, for I've seen many a worse one cured. But come, I'll assist you down to yon cabin, and then I must be off--for I've got a good distance to travel afore daylight to-morrow;" and bending down as he spoke, the veteran hunter placed his arms under the arms of the wounded man, and gently raised him upon his feet.
Although extremely weak from loss of blood, the latter, by this means of support, was enabled to walk, at a slow pace; and the two descended the hill--the elder, the while, talking much, and endeavoring by his discourse to amuse and cheer up his companion.
"Why," he continued, "you think your case a hard one, no doubt, stranger; but it's nothing compared to what some of us old settlers have seen and been through with, without even winking, as one may say. Within the last few year, I've seen a brother and a son shot by the infernal red-skins--have lost I don't know how many companions in the same way--been shot at fifty times myself, and captured several; and yet you see here I am, hale and hearty, and just as eager, with Betsey's permission, to talk to the varmints now as I war ten year ago."
"But do you not weary of this fatiguing and dangerous mode of life?" inquired the other.
"Weary, stranger? Lord bless ye! you're but a young hunter to ax such a question as that. Weary, friend? Why I war born to it--nursed to it--had a rifle for a plaything; and the first thing I can remember particularly, war shooting a painter;[2] and it's become as nateral and necessary as breathing; and when I get so I can't follow the one, I want to quit the other. Weary on't, indeed! Why, thar's more real satisfaction in sarcumventing and scalping one o' there red heathen, than in all the amusement you could scare up in a thick-peopled, peaceable settlement in a life time."
"By the way," said the other, "pray tell me how you chanced to be so opportune in saving my life?"
"Why, you must know, I war just crossing through the wood back here about a mile, on my way home from the Licks, when I came across the trail of two Indians, whom I 'spected war arter no good; and as Betsey war itching for something to do, I kind o' kept on the same way, and happened round on the other side o' this ridge, just as the red varmints fired. I saw you fall, but could'nt see them, on account o' the hill; but as I knowed they'd be for showing themselves soon, I got Betsey into a comfortable position, and waited as patiently as I could, until the ugly face of that rascal yonder showed clar; when I told her to speak to him, which she did in rale backwood's dialect, and he died a answering her. I then hurried round on the skirt of the wood, loading Betsey as I went; but finding the other varmint had got off, I hastened to you and found you senseless: the rest you know."
By this time the two had reached nearly to the foot of the hill, and within a hundred yards of the cabin. Here they were joined by a tall, lank, lantern-jawed, awkward young man, some twenty years of age, with small, dark eyes, a long, peaked nose, and flaxen hair that floated down over his ungainly shoulders, like weeping willows over a scrub oak, and who carried in his hand a rifle nearly as long and ugly as himself.
"Why, colonel, how are ye? good even' to ye, stranger," was his salutation, as he came up. "I war down by the tangle yonder, when I heerd some firing, and some yelling, and I legged it home, ahead o' the old man, just to keep the women folks in sperets, in case they war attacked, and get a pop or so at an Injen myself; but thank the Lord, they warn't thar; and so I ventered on, with long Nance here, to see whar they mought be."
"Well, Isaac," returned the one addressed as colonel, "I don't doubt your being a brave lad, and I've had some opportunity o' seeing you tried; but being is how thar's no Indians to shoot just now, I'll ax you to show your good qualities in another way. This young man's been badly wounded, and ef you'll give him a little extra care, you'll put me under obligations which I'll be happy to repay whensomever needed."
"It don't need them thar inducements you've just mentioned, colonel, to rouse all my sympathies for a wounded stranger. Rely on't, he shan't suffer for want o' attention."
"Rightly said, lad; rightly said; and so I leave him in your care. Tender my regards to your family, for I must be off, and can't stay to see them." Then turning to the wounded man, he grasped his hand and said: "Stranger, thar's something about you I like; I don't say it of every man I meet; and so you may put it down for a compliment or not, just as you please. Give me your name?"
"Algernon Reynolds."
"Algernon Reynolds, I hope we shall meet again, though in a different manner from our introduction; but whether or no, ef you ever need the assistance of either Betsey or myself, just make it known, and we'll do our best for you. Good bye, sir--good bye, Isaac!" and without waiting a reply, the speaker sprung suddenly behind a cluster of bushes near which the party stood, and the next moment was lost to view in the gathering darkness.
"A great man, that thar, sir! --a powerful great man," observed Isaac, gazing with admiration after the retreating form of the hunter. "Always doing good deeds, and never looking for pay nor thanks; may God give him four-score and ten."
"Amen to that!" returned Reynolds. "But pray tell me his name."
"And you don't know him?"
"I do not."
"And you didn't inquire his name?"
"I did not."
"And ef you had, sir, ten to one but he'd a given you a fictitious one, to keep clar o' your surprise and extra thanks. Why that, sir, war the great white hunter, Colonel Daniel Boone."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Reynolds, in no feigned surprise--"the very man I have so longed to behold; for his fame has already extended far beyond the Alleghanies. But come, friend Isaac, my wound grows painful; my exertions thus far have weakened me exceedingly; and with your permission, I will proceed to the cottage. Ah! I feel myself growing faint--fainter--fa-i-n-t;" and he sunk senseless into the other's arms; who, raising him, apparently without an effort, bore him into the house.
[Footnote 1: However barbarous such a proceeding may appear to thousands in the present day of civilization and refinement, we can assure them, on the authority of numerous historians of that period, that it was a general custom with the early settlers of the west, to take the scalp of an Indian slain by their hand, whenever opportunity presented.]
[Footnote 2: Backwoods name for a panther.]
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NEW CHARACTERS.
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When young Reynolds again regained his senses, it was some minutes before he could sufficiently recover from the confusion of ideas consequent upon his mishap, to follow up the train of events that had occurred to place him in his present situation. His first recollection was of the attack made upon him by the Indians; and it required considerable argument with himself, to prove conclusively, to his own mind, that he was not even now a captive to the savage foe. Gradually, one by one, each event recurred to his mind, until he had traced himself to the moment of his swooning in the arms of a tall, ungainly young man, called Isaac; but of what, had taken place since--where he now was--or what length of time had intervened--he had not the remotest idea. He was lying on his back, upon a rude, though by no means uncomfortable, bed; and, to the best of his judgment, within the four walls of some cabin--though to him but two of the walls were visible--owing to the quantity of skins of the buffalo, bear, and deer, which were suspended around the foot and front of his pallet. He was undressed; and, as he judged, upon applying his hand to the wounded part, had been treated with care; for it came in contact with a nicely arranged bandage of cloth, which was even now moist with some spirituous liquid. But what perplexed him most, was the peculiar light, with the aid of which, though dim, he could discern every object so distinctly. It could not proceed from a candle--it was too generally diffused; nor from the fire--it was too gray, and did not flicker; nor from the moon--it was not silvery enough: from what then did it proceed? It appeared the most like daylight; but this it could not be, he reasoned, from the fact that he was wounded just before night-fall--unless--and the idea seemed to startle him--unless he had lain in a senseless state for many hours, and it was indeed again morning. Determined, however, to satisfy himself on this point, he attempted to rise for the purpose; but found, to his no small surprise and regret, that he had not even strength sufficient to lift his body from the bed; and, therefore, that nothing was left him, but to surmise whatever he chose, until some one should appear to solve the riddle; which, he doubted not, would be ere long.
While these reflections and surmises were rapidly passing through the mind of our hero--for such we must acknowledge him to be--he heard no sound indicating the immediate vicinity of any other human being; and turning his thoughts upon this latter, he was beginning to doubt whether, at the moment, he was not the only individual beneath the roof; when he heard a step, as of some one entering another apartment; and, directly following, a female voice addressed to some person within.
"Have ye looked to the stranger agin, Ella, and moisted his bandage?"
"I have, mother," was the answer, in a sweet and silvery voice, which caused our wounded hero to start with a thrill of pleasing astonishment.
"And how appeared he, Ella?" continued the first speaker.
"Why, I thought a little better," answered the same soft, musical voice; "he seemed asleep, and entirely tranquil."
"God send it, gal, for he's had a tougher, sartin. Three days, now, nater's bin tugging away for him; and I'd hate to see him die now, arter all; and being the colonel's recommind, too; for Isaac says the colonel injuncted him strongly to take car o' him; and I'd do any thing to oblege sech a man as him. He didn't appear to have his senses, I reckon?"
"I judged not," answered Ella; "though, from his tranquil sleep, I argued favorably of his case."
"Well," rejoined the other, "it's my opine the crisis is at hand; and that he'll ayther come out o' this _lethargick_--as they calls it--a rational, or die straight off. 'Spose you look at him agin, Ella; or, stay, I'll look myself. Poor feller! how he did rave and run on 'bout his troubles at home, that's away off, until I all but cried, in reckoning how I'd feel ef it war Isaac as war going on so." .
As the speaker concluded, she advanced to where the object of her remarks was lying; and, drawing aside in a gentle manner, some of the skins near his head, gazed upon him.
As will be surmised by the reader, not a syllable of the foregoing colloquy had been lost upon Reynolds; who heard, with unbounded astonishment, of his narrow escape from that dark valley whence none who enter again return, and that three days had elapsed since he had fallen into an unconscious state. He learned, too, with regret, that he had been communicating matters--to what extent he knew not--to others, which he wished safely locked in his own breast; and judging it best, in the present instance, to dissemble a little, that his informant might not be aware of his having overheard her, he feigned to be asleep on her approach.
"He's sleeping yit, poor creater," continued the hostess, as she bent over the bed of our hero, until he felt her breath upon his face. "I hope it arn't a going to be his final sleep--so young, and so handsome too! but, O dear, thar's no telling what them Injen bullets will do, for folks does say as how they have a knack o' pizening them, that's orful to tell on! O Lord o' marcy, Ella, child, do come here!" cried the dame suddenly: "I do believe he's coming to, for sartin."
This latter speech was occasioned by a movement of the pretended sleeper, and the gradual opening of his eyes, with the rude stare of bewildered surprise natural to one in his supposed situation, and such as he would have exhibited without feigning, had the hostess been present some ten minutes sooner. Discovering, as already intimated, a returning consciousness on the part of her guest, the good woman drew back her head, but still kept her position by the bed, and her eyes fixed upon him, with an expression which betrayed a fear lest her hopes of this important event should prove entirely fallacious. Behind her, with timid step, stole up Ella, and, peeping over her shoulders, encountered the eyes of the young man beaming upon her, with a look which her acute perception told her was any thing but insane; and instantly starting back, the blood rushed upward, crimsoning her neck and face with a beautiful glow. As for Reynolds--in whom, as already stated, the voice of Ella alone was sufficient to awaken a thrill of pleasure--no sooner did he behold her, though but for an instant, than he felt that thrill revived with a sensation, which, in spite of himself, he knew was expressed in his own countenance; and he hastened to speak, in order as much as possible to conceal it.
"Will you have the goodness, madam, to inform me where I am?"
"Thar, thar, Ella, child!" exclaimed the matron, joyously; "I told ye so--I know'd it--he's come to, for sartin--the Lord be praised!" Then addressing herself to Reynolds, she continued: "Whar are you, stranger, do you ax? Why you're in the cabin o' Ben Younker--as honest a man as ever shot a painter--who's my husband, and father of Isaac Younker, what brought ye here, according to the directions of Colonel Boone, arter you war shot by the Injens, the varmints, three days ago; and uncle of Ella Barnwell here, as I calls daughter, 'cause her parents is dead, poor creaters, and she hadn't a home to go to, but come'd to live with us, that are fetching her up in a a dutiful way;" and the good woman concluded her lucid account of family matters with a sound that much resembled a person taking breath after some laborious exertion.
"And is it possible," answered Reynolds, who hastened to reply, in order to conceal a strong inclination he felt for laughing, "that I have lain here three whole days?"
"Three days, and four nights, and part o' another day, jest as true as buffaloes run in cane-brakes, and Injen varmints shoot white folks whensomever they git a chance," replied Mrs. Younker, with great volubility. "And Ella, the darling, has tended on ye like you war her own nateral born brother; and Isaac, and Ben, and myself ha' tended on ye too, while you war raving and running on at an orful rate, though you've had the best bed, and best o' every thing we've got in the house."
"For all of which I am at a loss for terms to express my gratitude," returned Reynolds, coloring slightly as he thought of the assiduous attentions he had unconsciously received from Ella Barnwell, who already began to be an object in his eyes of no little importance.
"Don't mention about gratitude," rejoined the kind hearted Mrs. Younker; "don't talk about gratitude, for a lettle favor sech as every body's got a right to, what comes into this country and gits shot by savages. We havn't done no more for you than we'd a done for any body else in like sarcumstances; and, la, sir, the pleasure o' knowing you're a going to git well agin, arter being shot by Injen's pizen bullets,[3] is enough to pay us twenty times over--Eh! Ella, child--don't you say so?"
"No one, save the gentleman himself, or his dearest friends, can be more rejoiced at his favorable symptoms than myself," responded Ella, timidly, in a voice so low, sweet and touching, that Reynolds, who heard without seeing her--for she kept the rude curtain of skins between them--felt his heart beat strangely, while his eyes involuntarily grew moist.
"That's truly said, gal--truly said, I do believe," rejoined Mrs. Younker; "for she's hung over you, sir, (turning to the wounded man) night and day, like a mother over her child, until we've had to use right smart authority to make her go to bed, for fear as how she'd be sick too."
"And if I live," answered Reynolds, in a voice that trembled with emotion, "and it is ever in my power to repay such disinterested attention and kindness, I will do it, even to the sacrificing that life which she, together with you and your family, good woman, has been the means, under God, of preserving."
"Under God," repeated the matron; "that's true; I like the way you said that, stranger; it sounds reverential--it's just--and it raises my respect for you a good deal; for all our doings is under God's permit;" and she turned her eyes upward, with a devout look, in which position she remained several seconds; while Ella, with her fair hands clasped, followed her example, and seemed, with her moving lips, engaged in prayer.
"But come," resumed the dame, "it won't do for you, stranger, to be disturbed too much jest now; for you arn't any too strong, I reckon; and so you'll jest take my advice, and go to sleep awhile, and you'll feel all the better for't agin Ben and Isaac come home, which'll be in two or three hours."
Saying this, Mrs. Younker again disposed the curtains so as to conceal from Reynolds all external objects; and, together with Ella, withdrew, leaving him to repose. Whether he profited by her advice immediately, or whether he meditated for some time on other matters, not excluding Ella, we shall leave to the imagination of the reader; while we proceed, by way of episode, to give a general, though brief account, of the Younker family.
Benjamin Younker was a man about fifty-five years of age--tall, raw-boned and very muscular--and although now past the prime, even the meridian of life, was still possessed of uncommon strength. His form, never handsome, even in youth, was now disfigured by a stoop in the shoulders, caused by hard labor and rheumatism. His face corresponded with his body--being long and thin, with hollow cheeks, and high cheek bones,--his eyes were small and gray, with heavy eye-brows; his nose long and pointed; his mouth large and homely, though expressive; and his forehead medium, surmounted by a sprinkling of brown-gray hair. In speech he was deliberate, generally pointed, and seldom spoke when not absolutely necessary. He was a good farmer--such being his occupation; a keen hunter, whenever he chose to amuse himself in that way; a sure marksman; and, although ignorant in book learning, possessed a sound judgment, and a common-sense understanding on all subjects of general utility. He was a native of Eastern Virginia, where the greater portion of his life had been spent in hunting and agricultural pursuits--where he was married and had been blessed with two children--a son and a daughter--of whom the former only was now living, and has already been introduced to the reader as Isaac--and whence, at the instance of his wife and son, he removed, in the spring of 1779, into the borders of Kentucky--finally purchased and settled where he now resided; and where, although somewhat exposed, he and his family had thus far remained unmolested.
The dame, Mrs. Younker, was a large, corpulent woman of forty-five, with features rather coarse and masculine, yet expressive of shrewdness and courage, and, withal, a goodly share of benevolence. She was one of that peculiar class of females, who, if there is any thing to be said, always claim the privilege of saying it; in other words, an inveterate talker; and who, if we may be allowed the phrase, managed her husband, and all around her, with the length of her tongue. In the country where she was brought up and known, to say of another, that he or she could compete with Ben Younker's wife in talking, was considered the extreme of comparison; and it is not recorded that any individual ever presumed on the credulity of the public sufficient to assert that the vocal powers of the said Mrs. Younker were ever surpassed. Unlike most great talkers, she was rarely heard to speak ill of any, and then only such as were really deserving of censure; while her rough kind of piety--if we may so term it--and her genuine goodness of heart, known to all with whom she came in contact, served to procure her a long list of friends. She possessed, as the reader has doubtless judged from the specimen we have given, little or no education; but this deficiency, in her eyes, as well as in most of those who lived on the frontiers, was of minor consequence--the knowledge of hunting, farming, spinning and weaving, being considered by far the more necessary qualifications for discharging the social duties of life.
Of Isaac, with whom the reader is already, acquainted, we shall not now speak, other than to say, he could barely read and write--rather preferring that he develop his character in his own peculiar way. But there is another, and though last, we trust will not prove least in point of interest to the reader, with whom we shall close, this episodical history--namely--Ella Barnwell.
The mother of Ella--a half sister to the elder-Younker--died when she was very young, leaving her to the care of a kind and indulgent father, who, having no other child, lavished on her his whole affections. At the demise of his wife, Barnwell was a prosperous, if not wealthy merchant, in one of the eastern cities of Virginia; and knowing the instability of wealth, together with his desire to fit his daughter for any station in society, he spared no expense necessary to educate her in all the different branches of English usually studied by a female. To this was added drawing, needle-work, music and dancing; and as Ella proved by no means a backward scholar in whatever she undertook, she was, at the age of fifteen, to use a familiar phrase, turned out an accomplished young lady. But alas! she had been qualified for a station which fate seemed determined not to let her occupy; for just at this important period of her life, her father became involved in an unfortunate speculation, that ended in ruin, dishonor, and his own bodily confinement in prison for debts he could never discharge. Naturally high spirited and proud, this misfortune and persecution proved too much for his philosophy--and what was more, his reason--and in a state of mental derangement, he one night hung himself to the bars of his prison window--leaving his daughter at the age we have named, a poor, unprotected, we might almost add friendless, orphan; for moneyless and friendless are too often synonymous terms, as poor Ella soon learned to her mortification and sorrow.
Ella Barnwell, the young, the beautiful, and accomplished heiress, was a very different personage from poor Ella Barnwell the bankrupt's daughter; and those who had fawned upon and flattered and courted the one, now saw proper to pass the other by in silent contempt. It was a hard, a very hard lesson for one at the tender age of Ella, who had been petted and pampered all her life, and taught by her own simplicity of heart to look upon all pretenders as real friends--it was a hard lesson, we say, for one of her years, to be forced at one bold stroke to learn the world, and see her happy, artless dreams vanish like froth from the foaming cup; but if hard, it was salutary--at least with her; and instead of blasting in the bud, as it might have done a frailer flower, it set her reason to work, destroyed the romantic sentimentalism usually attached to females of that excitable age, taught her to rely more upon herself, and less upon others, more upon actions and less upon words, and, in short, made a strong minded woman of her at once. Yet this was not accomplished without many a heart-rending pang, as the briny tears of chagrin, disappointment, and almost hopeless destitution, that nightly chased each other down the pale cheeks of Ella Barnwell to the pillow which supported her feverish head, for weeks, and even months after the death of her father, could well attest.
The father of Ella was an Englishman, who had emigrated to this country a few years previous to his marriage; and as none of his near relations had seen proper to follow his example, Ella, on his side, was left entirely destitute of any to whom she could apply for assistance and protection. On her mother's side, she knew of none who would be likely to assist her so readily as her half uncle, Benjamin Younker, whom she remembered as having seen at the funeral of her mother; and who then, taking her in his brawny arms, while the tears dimmed his eyes, in a solemn, impressive manner told her, that, in the ups and downs of life, should she ever stand in need of another's strong arm or purse, to call on him, and that, while blest with either himself, she should not want. This at the time had made a deep impression on her youthful mind, but subsequently had been nearly or quite obliterated, until retouched by feeling the want of that aid then so solemnly and generously tendered. Accordingly, after trying some of her supposed true-hearted friends--who had more than once been sharers in her generosity; and who, in return, had professed the most devoted attachment; but who now, in her distress, unkindly treated her urgent requests with cold neglect,--Ella hastened to make her situation known to her uncle; the result of which had been her adoption into a family, who, if not graced with that refinement and education to which she had been accustomed, at least possessed virtues that many of the refined and learned were strangers to--namely--truth, honesty, benevolence, and fidelity.
Ella, in her new situation, with her altered views of society in general, soon grew to love her benefactor and his family, and take that sincere pleasure in their rude ways, which, at one time, she would have considered as next to impossible. With a happy faculty, belonging only to the few, she managed to work herself into their affections, by little and little, almost imperceptibly, until, ere they were aware of the fact themselves, she was looked upon rather as a daughter and sister, than a more distant relation. In sooth, the former appellation the reader has already seen applied to her during the recorded conversation of the voluble Mrs. Younker--an appellation which Ella ever took good care to acknowledge by the corresponding title of mother.
About a year from the period of Ella's becoming a member of the family, the Younkers had removed, as already stated, to what was then considered the "Far West," and had finally purchased and settled where we find them in the opening of our story. In this expedition, Ella, though somewhat reluctantly, had accompanied them--had remained with them ever since--and was now, notwithstanding her former lady-like mode of life, through the tuition of Mrs. Younker, regularly installed into all the mysteries of milking, churning, sewing, baking, spinning and weaving. With this brief outline of her past history, we shall proceed to describe her personal appearance, at the time of her introduction to the reader, and then leave her to speak and act for herself during the progress of this drama of life.
Eighteen years of sunshine and cloud, had served to mould the form of Ella Barnwell into one of peculiar beauty and grace. In height she was a little above five feet, had a full round bust, and limbs of that beautiful and airy symmetry, which ever give to their possessor an appearance of etherial lightness. Her complexion was sufficiently dark to entitle her to the appellation of brunette; though by many it would have been thought too light, perhaps, owing to the soft, rich transparency of her skin; through which, by a crimson tint, could be traced the "tell-tale-blood," on the slightest provocation tending to excitement. Her features, if examined closely, could not be put down as entirely regular, owing to a very slight defect in the mouth, which otherwise was very handsome, and which was graced with two plump, pretty, half pouting lips. This defect, however, was only apparent when the countenance was in stern repose; and, as this was seldom, when in company with others, it was of course seldom observed. The remainder of her features were decidedly good, and, seen in profile, really beautiful. Her eye was a full, soft, animated hazel, that could beam tenderly with love, sparkle brilliantly with wit, or flash scornfully with anger; but inclining more to the first and second qualities than the last. Her eye-brows were well defined, and just sufficiently arched to correspond with the eyes themselves. Her forehead was prominent, of a noble cast, and added dignity to her whole appearance. Her hair was a rich, dark brown, fine and glossy, and although neatly arranged about the head, evidently required but little training to enable it to fall gracefully about her neck in beautiful ringlets. The general expression of her face, was a soft, bewitching playfulness, which, combined with the half timid, benevolent look, beaming from her large, mild, hazel eye, invariably won upon the beholder at the first glance, and increased upon acquaintance. Her voice we have already spoken of as possessing a silvery sweetness; and if one could be moved at merely seeing her, it only required this addition to complete the charm. To all of the foregoing, let us add an ardent temperament--capable of the most tender, lasting and devoted attachment, when once the affections were placed on an object--a sweet disposition, modest deportment, and graceful manners--and you have the portrait in full of Ella Barnwell, the orphan, the model of her sex, and the admiration of all who knew her.
[Footnote 3: Mrs. Younker is the only authority we have for supposing Indians poison their bullets, although we have read of poisoned arrows, and hence infer such a proceeding to be rather a supposition with her than a certainty.]
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{
"id": "15424"
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3
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THE TALE AND FATAL SECRET.
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The dwelling of Benjamin Younker, as already mentioned, stood at the base of a hill, on the margin of a beautiful valley, and within a hundred feet of a lucid stream, whose waters, finding their source in the neighboring bills, rushed down, all gleesome and sparkling, over a limestone bed, and "From morn till night, from night till morn," sung gentle melodies for all who chose to listen.
The building itself though rough, both externally and internally, was what at that period was termed a double cabin; and in this respect was entitled to a superiority over most of its neighbors. As this may serve for a representative of the houses or cabins of the early settlers of Kentucky, we shall proceed to describe its structure and general appearance somewhat more minutely than might otherwise be deemed necessary.
The sides of the cottage in question, were composed of logs, rough from the woods where they had been felled, with the bark still clinging to them, and without having undergone other transformation than being cut to a certain length, and notched at either end, so as to sink into each other, when crossed at right angles, until their bodies met, thereby forming a structure of compactness, strength and solidity. Some ten or twelve feet from the ground, the two upper end logs of the cabin projected a foot or eighteen inches beyond the lower, and supported what were called _butting poles_--poles which crossed these projections at right angles, and, extending along the front and back of the building, formed the eaves of the roof. This latter was constructed by gradually shortening the logs at either end, until those which crossed them, as we said before, at right angles, came together at an angle of forty-five degrees, and the last one formed the ridge-pole or comb of the whole. On these logs, lapping one over the other, and the lower tier resting against the butting poles, were laid slabs of clapboard--a species of plank split from some straight-grained tree--about four feet long, and from three to four wide. These were secured in their places by logs in turn resting on them, at certain intervals, and answering the purpose of nails; necessity requiring these latter articles of convenience to be dispensed with in the early settlements of the West. As the cabin was double, two doors gave entrance from without, one into either apartment. These entrances were formed by cutting away the logs for the space of three feet by six, and were closed by rude doors, made of rough slabs, pinned strongly to heavy cross bars, and hung on hinges of the same material. These, like the rest of the building, were rendered, by their thickness, bullet proof--so that when closed and bolted, the house was capable of withstanding an ordinary attack of the Indians. With the exception of one window, opening into the apartment generally occupied by the family, and flanked by a heavy shutter, the doors and chimney were the only means through which light and air were admitted. These were all firmly secured at night--the unsettled and exposed state of the country, and the dangerous proximity of the pioneers to the ruthless savage, particularly those without the forts, rendering necessary, on their part, the most vigilant caution.
The internal appearance of the cabin corresponded well with the external. The apartment occupied by the family during the day, where the meals were cooked and served, and the general household affairs attended to, was very homely; and might, if contrasted with some of the present time, be termed almost wretched; though considered, at the period of which we write, rather above than below the ordinary. The floor was composed of what by the settlers were termed puncheons; which were made by splitting in half trees of some eighteen inches in diameter, and hewing the faces of them as regular as possible with the broad-axe. These were laid, bark side downwards, upon sleepers running crosswise for the purpose, and formed at least a dry, solid and durable, if not polished, floor. At one end of the cabin was the chimney, built of logs, outside the apartment, but connecting with it by a space cut away for the purpose. The back, jambs, and hearth of this chimney were of stone, and put together, in a manner not likely to be imitated by masons of the present day. A coarse kind of plaster filled up the surrounding crevices, and served to keep out the air and give a rude finish to the whole.
The furniture of the Younkers, if the title be not too ambiguous, would scarcely have been coveted by any of our modern exquisites, even had they been living in that age of straight-forward common sense. A large, rough slab, split from some tree, and supported by round legs set in auger holes, had the honor of standing for a table--around which, like a brood of chickens around their mother, were promiscuously collected several three-legged stools of similar workmanship. In one corner of the room were a few shelves; on which were ranged some wooden trenchers, pewter plates, knives and forks, and the like necessary articles, while a not very costly collection of pots and kettles took a less dignified and prominent position beneath. Another corner was occupied by a bed, the covering of which was composed of skins of different animals, with sheetings of home-made linen. In the vicinity of the bed, along the wall, was a row of pegs, suspending various garments of the occupants; all of which--with the exception of a few articles, belonging to Ella, procured for her before the death of her father--were of the plainest and coarsest description. A churn--a clock--the latter a very rare thing among the pioneers of Kentucky--a footwheel for spinning flax--a small mirror--together with several minor articles, of which it is needless to speak--completed the inventory of the apartment. From this room were two exits, besides the outer door--one by a ladder leading above to a sort of attic chamber, where were two beds; and the other through the wall into the adjoining cabin, whither our hero had been borne in a state of insensibility on the night of his mishap, and where he was for the second time presented to the reader. This latter place was graced with a bed, a loom for weaving, a spinning-wheel, a large oaken chest, and a few rough benches.
Such, reader, as our description has set forth, was the general appearance of Younker's dwelling, both without and within, in the year of our Lord 1781; and, moreover, a fair representative of an hundred others of the period in question--so arbitrary was necessity in making one imitate the other. But to resume our story.
In the after part of a day as mild and beautiful as the one on which we opened our narrative, but some four weeks later, Ella Barnwell, needle-work in hand, was seated near the open door leading from the apartment first described to the reader. Her head was bent forward, and her eyes were apparently fixed upon her occupation with great intentness--though a close observer might have detected furtive glances occasionally thrown upon a young man, with a pale and somewhat agitated countenance, who was pacing to and fro on the ground without. With the exception of these two, no person was within sight--though the rattling of a loom in the other apartment or cabin, betokened the vicinity of the industrious hostess.
For some moments the young man--a no less personage than our hero--paced back and forth like one whose mind is harrowed by some disagreeable thought: then suddenly halting in front of the doorway, and in a voice which, though not intended to be so, was slightly tremulous, he addressed himself to the young lady, in words denoting a previous conversation.
"Then I must have said some strange things, Ella--I beg pardon--Miss Barnwell."
"Have I not requested you, Mr. Reynolds, on more than one occasion, to call me Ella, instead of using the formality which rather belongs to strangers in fashionable society than to those dwelling beneath the same roof, in the wilds of Kentucky?" responded the person addressed, in a tone of pique, while she raised her head and let her soft, dark eyes rest reproachfully on the other.
"Well, well, Ella," rejoined Reynolds, "I crave pardon for my heedlessness; and promise you, on that score at least, no more cause for offence in future."
"Offence!" said Ella, quickly, catching at the word: "O, no--no--not offence, Mr. Reynolds! I should be sorry to take offence at what was meant in all kindness, and with true respect; but somehow I--that is--perhaps it may not appear so to others--but I--to me it appears studied--and--and--cold;" and as she concluded, in a hesitating manner, she quickly bent her head forward, while her cheek crimsoned at the thought, that she might perhaps have ventured too far, and laid herself liable to misconstruction.
"And yet, Ella," returned Reynolds, somewhat playfully, "you resemble many others I have known, in preaching what you do not practice. You request me to lay aside all formality, and address you by your name only; while you, in that very request, apply to me the title you consider as studied, formal and cold."
"You have reference to my saying _Mr._ Reynolds, I presume," answered Ella; "but I see no analogy between the two; as in addressing you thus, I do but what, under the circumstances, is proper; and what, doubtless, habit has rendered familiar to your ear; while, on the other hand, no one ever thinks of calling me any thing but Ella, or at the most, Ella Barnwell--and hence all superfluities grate harshly."
"Even complimentary adjectives, eh?" asked Reynolds, with an arch look.
"Even those, Mr. Reynolds; and those most of all are offensive, I assure you."
"I thought all of your sex were fond of flattery."
"Then have you greatly erred in thinking."
"But thus says general report."
"Then, sir, general report is a slanderer, and should not be credited. Those who court flattery, are weak-minded and vain; and I trust you do not so consider all our sex."
"Heaven forbid," answered Reynolds, with energy, "that I should think thus of all, or judge any too harshly! --but there may be causes to force one into the conviction, that the exceptions are too few to spoil the rule."
"I trust such is not your case," responded Ella, quickly, while her eyes rested on the other with a searching glance.
"No one is required to criminate himself in law," replied Reynolds, evasively, with a sigh; and then immediately added, as if anxious to change the topic: "But I am eager for you to inform me what I said during my delirium."
"O, many things," returned Ella, "the half of which I could not repeat; but more particularly you spoke of troubles at home, and often repeated the name of Elvira with great bitterness. Then you would run on incoherently, for some time, about pistols, and swords, and end by saying that the quarrel was just--that you were provoked to it, until it became almost self defence--and that if he died, his blood would be on his own head."
"Good heavens, Ella! did I indeed say this?" exclaimed Reynolds, with a start, while his features became deadly pale. "Did I say more? did I mention further particulars? --speak! tell me--tell me truly!"
"Not in my hearing," answered Ella, while her own face blanched at the sudden vehemence of the other.
"Well, well, do not be alarmed!" said Reynolds, evidently somewhat relieved, and softening his voice, as he noticed the change in her countenance; "people sometimes say strange things, when reason, the great regulator of the tongue, is absent. What construction did you put upon my words, Ella?"
"Why, in sooth," replied Ella, watching his features closely as she spoke, "I thought nothing of them, other than to suppose you might formerly have had some trouble; and that in the chaos of wild images crowding your brain, after being attacked and wounded by savages, it was natural some of these image should be of a bloody nature."
"Then you did not look upon the words as having reference to a reality."
"No! at the time I did not."
"At the time?" repeated Reynolds, with a slight fall of countenance; "have you then seen or heard any thing since to make you suspicious?"
"Nothing--until--" "Well, well," said Reynolds, quickly, as she hesitated; "speak out and fear nothing!"
"Until but now, when you became so agitated, and spoke so vehemently on my repeating your delirious language," added Ella, concluding the sentence.
"Ha!" ejaculated Reynolds, as if to himself; "sanity has done more to betray me than delirium. Well, Ella," continued he, addressing her more direct, "you have heard enough to make you doubtful of my character; therefore you must needs hear the whole, that you may not judge me worse than I am; but remember, withal, the tale is for your ear alone."
"Nay, Mr. Reynolds, if it be a secret, I would rather not have it in keeping," answered Ella.
"It is a secret," returned Reynolds, solemnly, with his eyes cast down in a dejected manner; "a secret, I would to Heaven I had not myself in keeping! but hear it you must, Ella, for various reasons, from my lips; and then we part--(his voice slightly faltered) we part--forever!"
"Forever!" gasped Ella, quickly, with a choking sensation, while her features grew pale, and then suddenly flushed, and her work unconsciously dropped from her hand. Then, as if ashamed of having betrayed her feelings, she became confused, and endeavored to cover the exposure by adding, with a forced laugh: "But really, Mr. Reynolds, I must crave pardon for my silly behavior--but your manner of speaking, somehow, startled me--and--and I--before I was aware--really, it was very silly--indeed it was, and I pray you overlook it!"
"Were circumstances not as I have too much reason to fear they are," returned Reynolds, slowly, sadly, and impressively, with his eyes fixed earnestly and even tenderly upon the other, "I would not exchange that simple expression of yours, Ella, for a mine of gold. By that alone you have spoken volumes, and told me what I already feared was true, but hoped was otherwise. Nay, turn not your head away, Ella--dear Ella, if you will allow me so to address you--it is better, under the circumstances, that we speak plainly and understandingly, as the time of our final separation draweth near. I fear that my manner and language have hitherto too much expressed my feelings, and encouraged hopes in you that can never be realized. Oh! Ella, if such be the case, I would, for your dear sake, we had never met! --and the thought hereafter, that I have caused you a pang, will add its weight of anguish to my already bitter lot. The days that I have spent beneath this hospitable roof, and in your sweet presence, are so many of bright sunshine, in a life of cloud and storm; but will only serve, as I recall them, to make the remainder, by contrast, seem more dark and dreary. From the first I learned you were an orphan, and my sympathy was aroused in your behalf; subsequently, I listened to your recital of grief, and trouble, and cold treatment by the world--told in an artless manner--and in spite of me, in spite of my struggles to the contrary, I discovered awakening in my breast a feeling of a stronger nature. Had my wound permitted, I should have torn myself from your presence then, with the endeavor, if such a thing were possible, to forget you; but, alas! fate ordered otherwise, and the consequence I fear will be to add sorrow to both. But one thing, dear Ella, before I go further, let me ask: Can you, and will you forgive me, for the manner in which I have conducted myself in your company?"
"I have nothing to forgive; and had I, it should be forgiven," answered Ella, sweetly, in a timid voice, her hands unconsciously toying with her needle-work, and her face half averted, whereon could be traced the suppressed workings of internal emotion.
"Thank you, Ella--thank you, for taking a weight from my heart. And now, ere I proceed with what to both of us will prove a painful revelation, let me make one request more--a foolish one I know--but one I trust you will grant nevertheless."
"Name it," said Ella, timidly, as the other paused.
"It is, simply, that in judging me by the evidence I shall give against myself, you will lean strongly to the side of mercy; and, when I am gone, think of me rather as an unfortunate than criminal being."
"You alarm me, Mr. Reynolds, with such a request!" answered Ella, looking up to the other with a pale, anxious countenance. "I know not the meaning of it! and, as I said before, I would rather not have your secret in keeping--the more so, as you say the revelation will be a painful one to both."
For a moment the young man paused, as though undecided as to his reply, while his countenance expressed a look of mortified regret really painful to behold--so much so, that Ella, moved by this to a feeling of compassion, said: "I perceive my answer wounds your feelings--I meant no harm; go on with your story; I will listen, and endeavor to concede all you desire."
"Thank you--again thank you!" returned the other, energetically, with emotion. "I will make my narrative brief as possible."
Saying which, he entered the apartment where the other was sitting, and seating himself a few feet distant from her, after some little hesitation, as if to bring his resolution to the point, thus began: "I shall pass over all minor affairs of my life, and come at once to the period and event, which changed me from a happy youth, blessed with home and friends, to a wanderer--I know not but an outlaw--on the face of the earth. I was born in the state of Connecticut, A.D. 1759; and my father being a man of property, and one determined on giving his children (of whom there were two, one older than myself) a liberal education, I was at an early age sent to a neighboring school, where I remained until turned of eighteen, and then returned to my parents.
"About this period, an old, eccentric lady--a maiden aunt of my father--died, bequeathing to me--or rather to the second born of her nephew, Albert Reynolds, which chanced to be myself--the bulk of her property--in value some fifty thousand dollars, on condition, that, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, I should marry a certain Elvira Longworth--a lady some three years my junior, for whom my great aunt had formed a strong attachment. And the will further provided, That in case the said second born of Albert Reynolds, either through the intervention of Providence, in removing him from off the face of the earth, (so it was worded) and from among the living, or through a mutual dislike of the parties seemed, did not between the specified ages, celebrate, with due rejoicing, the said nuptials with the said Elvira Longworth, the sum of twenty thousand dollars should be paid over to the said Elvira, if living, and the remainder of the property (or in case she was deceased the whole) should revert to the regular heirs at law.
"Such was the will--one of the most singular perhaps on record--which, whatever the design of its author, was destined, by a train of circumstances no one could foresee, to result in the most terrible consequences to those it should have benefited. On the reading thereof, no little dissatisfaction was expressed in regard to it, by numerous relatives of the deceased; each of whom, as a matter of course, was expecting a considerable share of the old lady's property; and all of whom, with but few exceptions, were nearer akin than myself; and therefore, in that respect, more properly entitled to it. As a consequence of the will, I, though innocent of its construction--for none could be more surprised at it than myself--became a regular target for the ridicule, envy, and hate of those who chanced to be disappointed thereby. At the outset, I had no intention of seeking a title to the property by complying with the specification set forth at the instance of its late owner; and only looked upon it as a piece of crack-brained folly, that would serve for a nine days' comment and jest, and then be forgotten; but when I saw, that instead of being treated with the courtesy and respect no conscious act of mine had ever forfeited, I was ridiculed, sneered at, and looked upon with jealousy and hate by those whose souls were too narrow to believe in a noble action--and who, measuring and judging me by their own sordid standards of avaricious justice, deemed I would spare no pains to legally rob them, as they termed it,--when I saw this, I say, my blood became heated, my fiercer passions were roused, and I inwardly swore, that if it were now in my power to accomplish what they feared, I would do it, though the lady in question were a fright to look upon. In this decision I was rather encouraged by my father, who being at the time somewhat involved, thought it a feasible plan of providing for me, and then, by my aid, recovering from his own pecuniary embarrassments.
"As yet I had never seen Elvira--she living in an adjoining county, some thirty miles distant, where my aunt, on a visit to a distant relative, had first made her acquaintance, and formed that singular attachment, peculiar to eccentric temperaments, which had resulted in the manner already shown. Accordingly, one fine spring morning, I mounted my horse, and set forth to seek my intended, and behold what manner of person she was of. Late at night I arrived at the village where she resided--stabled my beast--took lodging at a hotel--inquired out her residence--and, betimes, the morning following, made my obeisance in her presence, and with that bashful, awkward grace--if I may be allowed so paradoxical a term--which my youth present purpose, and former good breeding combined, were calculated to produce. I was more embarrassed still a minute after, when, having given my name, and hinted at the singular document of the old lady deceased, I found my fair intended, as well as her family, were in total ignorance of my meaning; and could I at the moment have been suddenly transferred to my horse, I do not think I should have paused to make the necessary explanation. As it was, there was no alternative; and accordingly begging a private interview with Elvira, I disclosed the whole secret; which she listened to for a time with unfeigned surprise; and then bursting into a wild, ringing laugh, declared it to be 'The funniest and most ridiculous thing she ever heard of.'
"She was a gay, sprightly, beautiful being--fresh in the bloom of some fifteen summers--with a bright, sparkling, roguish eye--long, floating, auburn ringlets--a musical voice--a ringing laugh--the latter frequent and long,--so that I soon felt it needed not the stimulating desire of wealth and revenge to urge me on to that, which, under any circumstances, would have been by no means disagreeable. To make a long story short, I called upon her at stated periods; and, within a year from our first acquaintance, we were plighted to each other. About this time my father, together with some influential friends, procured me a lieutenancy, to serve in our present struggle for the maintainance of that glorious independence, drawn up by the immortal Jefferson, and signed by the noble patriots some two years before. I served a two years' campaign, and fought in the unfortunate and bloody battle of Camden; which resulted, as doubtless you have heard, in great loss and defeat to the American arms. Shortly after the action commenced, our captain was killed, and the command of the company devolved on me. I fulfilled my duties to the best of my ability, and myself and men were in the hottest of the fight. But from some alleged misdemeanor, whereof I can take my oath I was guiltless, I was afterward very severely censured by one of my superior officers; which so wounded my feelings, that I at once resigned my commission and returned to my native state.
"On arriving at home, to my surprise and mortification, I learned that my intended was just on the eve of marriage with a cousin of mine--a worthless fellow--who, urged on by the relatives interested, and his own desire of acquiring the handsome competence of twenty thousand dollars, had taken advantage of my absence to calumniate me, (in which design he had been aided by several worthy assistants) and supplant me in the good graces--I will not say affections, as I think the term too strong--of Elvira Longworth.
"The lady in question I do not think I ever loved--at least as I understand the meaning of that term--and now--that she had listened to slander against me while absent, and, without waiting to know whether it would be refuted on my return, had engaged herself to another--I cared less for her than before;--but my pride was touched, that I should be thus tamely set aside for one I heartily despised; and this, together with my desire to thwart the machinations of the whole intriguing clique arrayed against me, determined me, if feasible, to regain the favor of Elvira, and have the ceremony performed as soon as possible. This, Ella, I know you think, and I am ready to admit it, was wrong--very wrong; but I make no pretensions to be other than a frail mortal, liable to all the errors appertaining thereto; and were this is the only sin to be laid to my charge, my conscience were far less troublesome than now.
"I determined, I say, to regain my former place in her favor or affection--whichever you like--and, to be brief, I apparently succeeded. The day was set for our marriage; which, for several reasons unnecessary to be detailed, was to take place at the residence of my father; and, as the will specified it should be with all due rejoicings, great preparations were accordingly made, and a goodly number of guests invited.
"At length the day came--the eventful day. Never shall I forget it; nor with what feelings, at the appointed hour, I entered the crowded hall, where the ceremony was to take place, with Elvira leaning tremblingly on my arm, her features devoid of all color, and approached the spot where the divine stood ready to unite us forever. All eyes were now fixed upon us; and the marriage rite was begun amid that deep and almost awful solemnity, which not unfrequently characterizes such proceedings on peculiar occasions, when every spectator, as well as the actors themselves, feel a secret awe steal over them, as though about to witness a tragic, rather than a civil, performance.
"I have mentioned that Elvira trembled violently when we entered the hall; but this trembling increased after the divine commenced the ritual; so that when I had answered in the affirmative the solemn question pertaining to my taking the being by my side as mine till death, her trepidation had become so great that it was with difficulty I could support her; and when the same interrogative was put to her, a silence of some moments followed; and then the answer came forth, low and trembling, but still sufficiently distinct to be generally understood; and was, to the unbounded astonishment of all, in the negative!"
"In the negative!" exclaimed Ella, suddenly, who had during the last few sentences been unconsciously leaning forward, as though to devour each syllable as it was uttered, and who now resumed her former position with a long drawn breath. "In the negative say you, Alger--a--a--Mr. Reynolds?"
"Call me Algernon, Ella, I pray you; it sounds more sweet and friendly. Ay, she answered in the negative. Heavens! what a shock was there for my proud nature! To be thus publicly insulted and rejected--to be thus made the butt and ridicule of fools and knaves--a mark for the jests and sneers of friend and foe! Oh! how my blood boiled and coursed in lava streams through my heated veins! I saw it all. I was the dupe of some artful design, intended to stigmatize me forever; and wild with a thousand terrible brain-searing thoughts, I rushed from the hall to my own apartment, seized upon my pistols, and was just in the act of putting a period to my existence, when my arm was suddenly grasped, and my hated rival and cousin stood before me. " 'Fiend!' cried I in frenzy; 'devil in human shape! --do you seek me in the body? What want you here?'
"His features were pale with excitement, and his lips quivered as he made answer: 'Be calm, Algernon, be calm; it was meant but in jest!' " 'Jest!' screamed I; 'do you then own to a knowledge of it, villain? --were you its author? --then take that, and answer it as you dare!' --and as I spoke, with the breech of my undischarged pistol, I stretched him senseless at my feet. Under the excitement of the moment, I was about to take a more terrible revenge; when others suddenly rushed in--seized and disarmed me--bore my rival from my sight--and, to conclude, placed me in bed, where I was confined for three weeks by a delirious fever, and then only recovered as it were by a miracle.
"During my convalescence, I learned that my cousin, soon after my return, had been privately married to Elvira; and prompted by his evil genius, and some of my enemies, had induced his wife to enter into the plot, the result of which has already been briefly narrated. I do not think she did it through malice, and doubtless little thought of the consequences that were destined to follow; but whether so or not, her punishment has, I think, been fully adequate to her crime; for the last I heard of her, she was an inmate of a mad-house--remorse for her conduct, the abuse heaped upon her by society, and her own severe fright at the termination of the stratagem, having driven her insane. Now comes the most tragic part of my narrative.
"When so far recovered as to again be abroad, I was cautioned by my parents against my rash act; and for their sakes, I promised to be temperate in all my movements; but, alas! how little we know when we promise, what we may be in sooth destined to perform. On my father's estate, about a mile distant from his residence, was a beautiful grove--whither, for recreation, I was in the habit of repairing at all periods of my life; and where, so soon as my strength permitted, after my sickness, I rambled daily. About ten days from my recovery, as I was taking my usual stroll through these grounds, I was suddenly confronted by my cousin. His cheeks were hollow and pale, and his whole appearance haggard in the extreme. His eyes, too, seemed to flash, or burn, as it were, with an unearthly brightness; and his voice, as he addressed me, was hoarse, and his manner hurried. " 'We meet well,' he said, 'well! I have watched for you long.' " 'Away!' cried I; 'tempt me no more--or something will follow I may regret hereafter!' " 'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed he, in derision, with that peculiar, hollow sound, which even now, as I recall it, makes my blood run cold:--'Say you so, cousin? --I came for that;' and again he laughed as before. 'See here--see here!' and he presented, as he spoke, with the butts toward me, a brace of pistols. 'Here is what will settle all our animosities,' he continued; 'take your choice, and be quick, or perchance we may be interrupted.' " 'Are you mad,' cried I, 'that you thus seek my life, after the wrongs you have done me?' " 'Mad! --ha, ha! --yes! --yes! --I believe I am,' he answered; 'and my wife is mad also. I did you wrong, I know--went to apologise for it, and you struck me down. Whatever the offence, a blow I never did and never will forgive; so take your choice, and be quick, for one or both of us must never quit this place alive.' " 'Away!' cried I, turning aside; 'I will not stain my hands with the blood of my kin. Go! the world is large enough to hold us both.' " 'Coward!' hissed he; 'take that, then, and bear what I have borne;' and with the palm of his hand he smote me on the cheek.
"I could bear no more--I was no longer myself--I was maddened with passion--and snatching a pistol from his hand, which was still extended toward me, without scarcely knowing what I did, I exclaimed, 'Your blood be on your own head!' --and--and--Oh, Heaven! --pardon me, Ella--I--shot him through the body."
Ella, who had partly risen from her seat, and was listening with breathless attention, now uttered an exclamation of horror, and sunk back, with features ghastly pale; while the other, burying his face in his hands, shook his whole frame with convulsive sobs. For some time neither spoke; and then the young man, slowly raising his face, which was now a sad spectacle of the workings of grief and remorse, again proceeded: "Horror-stricken--aghast at what I had done--I stood for a moment, gazing upon him weltering in his blood, with eyes that burned and seemed starting from their sockets--with feelings that are indescribable--and then rushing to him, I endeavored to raise him, and learn the extent of his injury. " 'Fly!' said he, faintly, as I bent over him--'fly for your life! I have got my due--I am mortally wounded--and if you remain, you will surely be arrested as my murderer. Farewell, Algernon--the fault was mine--but this you can not prove; and so leave me--leave me while you have opportunity.'
"His words were true; I felt them in force; if he died, I would be arraigned as his murderer--I had no proof to the contrary--circumstances would be against me--I should be imprisoned--condemned--perhaps executed--a loathsome sight for gaping thousands--I could not bear the thought--I might escape--ay, would escape--and bidding him a hasty farewell, I turned and fled. Not a hundred rods distant I met my father; and falling on my knees before him, I hurriedly related what had taken place, and begged advice for myself, and his immediate attendance upon my cousin. He turned pale and trembled violently at my narration; and, as I concluded, drew forth a purse of gold, which he chanced to have with him, and placing it in my hand, exclaimed: "'Fly--son--child--Algernon--for Heaven's sake, fly!' " 'Whither, father?' " 'To the far western wilds, beyond the reach of civilization--at least beyond the reach of justice--and spare my old eyes the awful sight of seeing a beloved son arraigned as a criminal!' " 'And my mother?' " 'You can not see her--it might cost you your life,--farewell!' and with the last word trembling on his lips, he embraced me fondly, and we parted--perchance forever.
"I fled, feeling that the brand of Cain was on me; that henceforth my life was to be one of remorse and misery; that I was to be a wanderer upon the face of the earth--mayhap an Ishmael, with every man's hand against me. To atone in a measure to my conscience for the awful deed I had committed, I knelt upon the earth, and swore, by all I held sacred in time and eternity, that if the wound inflicted upon my cousin should prove mortal, I would live a life of celibacy, and become a wandering pilgrim in the western wilds of America till God should see proper to call me hence."
"And--and did the wound prove mortal?" asked Ella, breathlessly.
"Alas! I know not, Ella, and I fear to know. Four months have passed since then; and after many adventures, hardships, sufferings, and hair-breadth escapes, you see me here before you, a miserable man."
"But not one guilty of murder, Algernon," said Ella, energetically.
"I know not that--Heaven grant it true!"
"O, then, do not despair, Algernon! --trust in God, and hope for the best. I have a hope that all will yet be well."
"Amen to that, dear Ella; and a thousand, thousand thanks, for your sweet words of consolation; they are as balm to my torn and bleeding heart; but until I _know_ my fate, we must not meet again; and if, oh Heaven! and if the worst be true--then--then farewell forever! But who comes here?"
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{
"id": "15424"
}
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4
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THE STRANGER.
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The closing sentence of the preceding chapter was occasioned by the glimpse of a man's shadow, that for a moment swept along in the sunlight, some twenty paces distant from the speaker, and then suddenly disappeared by being swallowed up in the larger and more stationary shade thrown from the cottage by the sinking sun. Scarcely were the words alluded to uttered, ere the sound of a step was heard close by the door, and the next moment the cause of the shadow and remark divided the light of the entrance.
The individual in question, was a stout built, broad-shouldered, athletic man--some five feet nine inches in height--whose age, judging from his general appearance, as well as his features, might range from twenty-seven to thirty years. At the moment when he appeared before our acquaintances of the foregoing chapter, his right arm was held in a manner so as to screen the lower portion of his face; while a hat, not very much unlike those of the present day, pressed down upon his forehead, left but little of his countenance, and that mainly about the eyes, visible. With the latter he gave a quick, searching, suspicious glance at the two before him; and then, as if satisfied he had nothing to fear, lowered his arm and raised his hat from his forehead, exposing a physiognomy by no means pleasing to one skilled in reading the heart thereby. His complexion was swarthy--his skin coarse--and the general expression of his features repulsive in the extreme; this expression arising from the combination of three distinct parts of his countenance--namely: the forehead which was low and receding from two dark-red, shaggy eye-brows,--the eyes themselves, which were small, bloodshot and very fiery; and the mouth, which was narrow, thin-lipped, and habitually contracted into a sneering, sinister smile. In this general expression, was combined cunning, deceit, treachery, and bloodthirsty ferocity--each one of which passions were sufficiently powerful, when fully excited, to predominate over the whole combination. The hair of his head was short, thick, coarse and red, grew low upon his forehead, and, in its own peculiar way, added a fierceness to his whole appearance. Nature had evidently designed him for a villain of the darkest die; and on the same principle that she gives a rattle to a certain venomous snake, that other creatures may be warned of the deadly fang in time to avoid it--so had she stamped him with a look wherein his passions were mirrored, that those who gazed thereon might know with whom and what they had to do, and be prepared accordingly. The costume too of the stranger was rather singular, and worthy of note--being composed, for the most part, of an extraordinary long frock or overcoat--more like the gown of some monk than either--which reached almost down to the moccasins covering his feet, and was laced together in front, nearly the whole length, by thongs of deerskin. Around the waist passed a rude belt of the same material--carelessly tied at one side--in which, contrary to the usual custom of that period, there was not confined a single weapon, not even so much as a knife; and this fact, together with the general appearance of the individual and his own suspicious movements, led Algernon, almost at the first glance, to consider the long frock or gown an article of disguise, beneath which the stranger was doubtless doubly armed and costumed in a very different manner.
As the eyes of the new comer, after closely scanning Reynolds, rested for the first time upon Ella, there flashed across his ugly features an expression of admiration and surprise--while the look of suspicion which he had previously exhibited, seemed entirely to disappear. Turning to the young man, who on his appearance had risen from his seat, and now stood as if waiting to know his commands, in a voice evidently much softened from its usual tones, but still by no means pleasant and harmonious, he said: "Will you be kind enough to inform me, sir, to whom this dwelling belongs?"
"It is owned, I believe, by one Benjamin Younker," answered Algernon, in a cavalier manner, still eyeing the other closely.
"May I ask his occupation?"
"He is a farmer, sir--a tiller of the soil."
"Will you favor me with a description of his personal appearance?"
"I can do so," replied Algernon, somewhat surprised at the question, "provided I know the motive of inquiry to be a good one."
"It is no other, I assure you," returned the stranger. "It was simply prompted by curiosity."
"Well, then, the individual in question is a man who has seen more than fifty years--is tall, raw-boned, muscular, has a stoop in the shoulder, a long, thin face, small eyes, and hair slightly gray."
"Has he any sons?" inquired the stranger.
"One, a youth of twenty, who bears a strong resemblance to his father."
"Daughters?"
"He has no other child."
"Then this young lady"--slightly bowing to Ella.
"Is a more distant relation--a niece," answered Ella, rising as she spoke and disappearing from his sight.
"A beautiful creature!" said the stranger, musingly, as if to himself--"a beautiful creature! Pardon me," added he, again addressing Algernon; "but may I inquire concerning yourself?"
"I am a guest here, sir."
"Aha--yes; a hunter I presume?"
"I sometimes hunt."
"Pardon me again--but are there more indwellers here than you have mentioned?"
"One, sir--the good dame of the cottage."
For a moment or two the stranger mused, as if running over in his mind all that had been said; and then observed: "Doubtless you think me very inquisitive; but I had a reason for all my questions; and I thank you sincerely, sir, for your prompt replies. It is now growing late; the sun will presently be down; and as I am a traveler--a stranger in this region--I would rather not pursue my journey further, providing I could be entertained here for the night."
"As to that, I am unable to answer," said Algernon; "but if you will step within, I will make the necessary inquiries."
"Thank you," replied the stranger, with a show of cordiality; "thank you;" and he immediately entered the cottage.
Those days, as before said, were the good old days of hospitality--and, as far as population went, of social intercourse also--when every man's cabin was the stranger's home, and every neighbor every neighbor's friend. There were no distinct grades of society then as now, from which an honest individual of moral worth must be excluded because of poverty--a good character for upright dealing being the standard by which all were judged; and whoever possessed this, could rank equally with the best, though poor as the beggar Lazarus. Doubtless intellect and education then, as well as at the present day, held in many things a superiority over imbecility and ignorance; but there were no distinct lines of demarcation drawn; and in the ordinary routine of intercourse one with another, there was no superiority claimed, and none acknowledged. And this arose, probably, from the necessity each felt for there being a general unity--a general blending together of all qualifications, as it were, into one body politic--by which each individual became an individual member of the whole, perfect in his place, and capable of supplying what another might chance to need; as the man of education might be puny in stature and deficient of a strong arm; the man of strong arm deficient in education; the imbecile man might be a superior woodman--the man of intellect an inferior one:--so that, as before remarked, each of these qualities, being essential to perfect the whole, each one of course was called upon to exercise his peculiar talent, and take his position on an equality with his neighbor. There has been great change in society since then; those days of simple equality have gone forever; but we question if the present race, with all their privileges, with all their security, with all their means of enjoyment, are as happy as those noble old pioneers, with all their necessities, with all their dangers, with all their sufferings.
According, therefore, to the established custom of the early settlers, the stranger for whom Algernon proceeded to make inquiries, was entitled to all the rights of hospitality; and whether liked or disliked, could not consistently be smiled away, nor frowned away, as doubtless he would have been, had he lived in this civil, wonderworking age of lightning and steam; and though his appearance was any thing but agreeable to Mrs. Younker, who surveyed him through her spectacles (being a little near sighted) from the adjoining cabin, whither Algernon had repaired to learn her decision; and though it would prove inconvenient to herself to grant his request; yet, as she expressed it, "He war a stranger, as hadn't no home and didn't know whar to go to; and prehaps war hungry, poor man; and it wouldn't be right nor Christian-like to refuse him jest a night's lodging like;" and so the matter was settled, and Algernon was deputed to inform him that he could stay and would be welcome to such fare as their humble means afforded.
Some half an hour later, a loud hallooing announced the arrival of the two Younkers with the domestic cattle--consisting of the kine and some pet sheep which ran with them--from their labors in a distant field, where they had been engaged in harvesting corn. A few minutes after, the elder Younker entered the cabin, bearing upon his shoulder a rifle, from which depended a large, fat turkey that he had shot during his absence. With a slight but friendly nod to the stranger, he proceeded to deposit his game on the hearth--where it was presently examined and commented on at considerable length by the good dame--and then carefully placing his rifle on a couple of horn hooks depending from the ceiling for the purpose, he seated himself on a stool, his back to the wall, with the air of one who is very much fatigued, and does not wish to mingle in conversation of any kind.
The sun by this time was already below the horizon; twilight was fast deepening into night; and the matron, having finished her remarks on the turkey, and "Wondered ef sech birds wouldn't git to being scaser arter a while, when all on, 'em war shot?" proceeded to the cow-yard, to assist Isaac in milking; while Ella hurried hither and thither, with almost noiseless activity, to prepare the evening repast. A bright fire was soon kindled in the chimney, over which was suspended a kettle for boiling water; while in front, nearly perpendicular, was placed a large corn loaf, whose savory odor, as it began to cook, was far from being disagreeable to the olfactory organs of the lookers on. The table, of which we have previously given a description, was next drawn into the middle of the apartment and covered with a home-made cloth of linen; on which were placed a medley of dishes of various sizes and materials--some of wood, some of pewter, some of earthern, and one of stone--with knives and forks to correspond. Three of these dishes were occupied--one with clean, fresh butter, another with rich old cheese, and the third with a quantity of cold venison steak. In the course of another half hour, the cake was baked and on the table--Isaac and his mother had entered with the milk--the announcement was made by Ella that all was ready; and the whole party, taking seats around the humble board, proceeded to do justice to the fare before them.
A light, placed in the center of the table, threw its gleams upon the faces of each, and exhibited a singular variety of expressions. That of the stranger was downcast, sinister, and suspicious, combined with an evident desire of appearing exactly the reverse. Occasionally, when he thought no eye was on him, he would steal a glance at Ella; and some times gaze steadily--like one who is resolved upon a certain event, without being decided as to the exact manner of its accomplishment--until he found himself observed, when his glance would fall to his plate, or be directed to some other object, with the seeming embarrassment of one caught in some guilty act. This was noticed more than once by Algernon; who, perhaps, more than either of the others, felt from the first that strong dislike, that suspicious repugnance to the stranger, which can only be explained as one of the mysteries of nature, whereby we are sometimes warned of whom we should shun, as the instinct of an animal makes known to it its inveterate foe; and though he strove to think there was nothing of evil meant by a circumstance apparently so trifling--that the glance of the stranger was simply one of admiration or curiosity--yet the thought that it might be otherwise--that he might be planning something wicked to the fair being before him--haunted his mind like some hideous vision, made him for the time more distrustful, more watchful than ever, and was afterward reverted to with a painful sensation. The features of Algernon also exhibited an expression of remorse and hopeless melancholy; the reason whereof the reader, who has now been made acquainted with the secret, will readily understand. The face of Ella, too, was paler than usual--more sad and thoughtful--so much so, that it was remarked by Mrs. Younker, who immediately instituted the necessary inquiries concerning her health, and explained to her at some length the most approved method of curing a cold, in case that were the cause. In striking contrast to the sober looks of the others--for Younker himself was a man who seldom exhibited other than a sedate expression--was the general appearance and manner of Isaac. He seemed exceedingly exhilarated in spirits, yet kept his eyes down, and appeared at times very absent minded. Whatever his thoughts were, it was evident they were pleasing ones; for he would smile to himself, and occasionally display a comical nervousness, as though he had some very important secret to make known, yet was not ready to communicate it. This had been observed in him through the day; and was so different from his usual manner, and so much beyond any conjecture his mother could form of the cause, that at last her curiosity became so excited, that to restrain it longer was like holding down the safety-valve to an over-heated steam boiler; and, accordingly, taking advantage of another mysterious smile, which Isaac chanced to display while looking at a large piece of corn bread, already on its way to his capacious jaws, she exclaimed: "Why, what on yarth _is_ the matter with you, Isaac, that you keep a grinning, and grinning, and fidgetting about all to yourself so much like a plaguy nateral born fool for?"
So loudly, suddenly and unexpectedly was this question put--for all had been silent some minutes previous--that Isaac started, blushed, dropped the bread--already near enough to his teeth to have felt uncomfortable, had it been capable of feeling--endeavored to catch it--blundered--and finally upset his plate and contents into his lap, in a manner so truly ridiculous, that Ella and Mrs. Younker, unable to restrain their mirth, laughed heartily, while the stranger and Algernon smiled, and the stern features of the father relaxed into an expression of quiet humor seldom seen on his countenance. " 'Pon my word," continued Mrs. Younker, so soon as she could collect breath enough after laughing to go on; "I do raley believe as how the boy's ayther crazy, or in love, for sartin. What does ail ye, Isaac? --do tell!"
"Perhaps he was thinking of his dear Peggy," said Ella, archly; who was, by the way, very fond of teasing him whenever opportunity presented; and could not even now, despite her previous low spirits, forbear a little innocent raillery--her temperament being such, that wit and humor were ever ready on the slightest provocation to take the ascendancy, as old wine when stirred ever sends its sparkling beads upward. "I wonder, Isaac, if you looked as amiable and interesting in the eyes of dear Peggy, and made as graceful an appearance, when you popped the question?"
"Why, how in the name o' all Christen nater did you find out I'd done it?" asked Isaac, in reply; who having, meantime, regained his former position, and restored the plate, minus some of its contents, now sat a perfect picture of comical surprise, with his mouth slightly ajar, and his small eyes strained to their utmost and fastened seriously upon the querist as he awaited her answer.
"Murder will out, dear Isaac," replied Ella, with a ringing laugh; in which she was joined by most of the others; and particularly by the subject of the joke; who perceiving, too late for retreat, that he had been betrayed into an acknowledgment of his secret, deemed this his wisest course for defence.
"And so, Isaac, you have really proposed to darling Peggy, then? and we are to have a wedding shortly?" continued his tormentor. "And pray which did look the most foolish of the two? --or was it a drawn-game, as we sometimes say of draughts?"
"Why," rejoined Isaac, changing color as rapidly as an aurora borealis, and evidently much embarrassed; "I 'spect I mought as well own up, being's I've got cotched in my own trap; and besides, it won't make no great difference, only as I war intending it for a surprise. You see I axed Peggy the question last night; and it's all settled; and we're going to be married in less nor a week, ef nothing unforeseen don't happen; and as Mr. Reynolds ar a stranger in these diggins, I thought prehaps as how he'd like a little amusement like, and so I've fixed on him for my groomsman."
"I am much obliged for your kind intentions, and the honor you would confer on me," answered Reynolds, sadly; "but I am sorry to say, I shall be under the necessity of declining your invitation; as on the morrow I design taking a farewell leave of you all, and quitting this part of the country forever."
Mr. Younker, his wife, and son, all started, with looks of surprise, at this announcement, while Ella again grew deadly pale; and rising, with some little trepidation, retired from the table. The stranger was the only one unmoved.
"To-morrow!" ejaculated Mrs. Younker.
"Take leave o' us!" said the host.
"Quit the country forever!" repeated Isaac.
"Such, I assure you, is my determination," rejoined Algernon.
"But your wound, Mr. Reynolds?" suggested Younker.
"Is not entirely healed," returned Algernon; "yet I trust sufficiently so to allow me to pursue my journey. The wound, as you are aware, was only a flesh one--the ball having entered the right side, glanced on the lower rib, and passed out nearly in front--and though very dangerous at the time from excessive hemorrhage, has of late been rapidly healing, and now troubles me but little if any."
"Well, now, Mr. Reynolds," rejoined Mrs. Younker, "I'm a considerable older woman nor you ar--that is, I mean to say, I'm a much older individule--and I 'spect I've had in my time some lettle experience in matters that you don't know nothing about; and so you musn't go to thinking hard o' me, ef I give you a lettle advice, and tell you to stay right whar you ar, and not stir a single step away for three weeks;--'cause ef you do, your wound may get rupturous agin, and in some lone place jest carry you right straight off into the shader o' the valley of death--as our good old Rev. Mr. Allprayer used to say, when he wanted to comfort the sick. O, dear good man he war, Preacher Allprayer,"--continued the voluble old lady, with a sigh, her mind now wholly occupied with his virtues--"dear good man he war! I jest remember--Lor bless ye, I'll never forgit it--how he come'd to me when I war sick--with tears a running out o' his eyes like he'd been eating raw inyuns, poor man--and told me that I war going to die right straight away, and never need to hope to be no better; and that I'd most likely go right straight to that orful place whar all bad folks goes to. O, the dear man! I never could help always liking him arter that--it made me feel so orful narvous and religious like. Why, what on yarth be you grinning at agin, Isaac? --jest for all the world like a monkey for?"
"Nothing, mother," answered Isaac, nearly choking with smothered laughter; "only I war jest kind o' thinking what a kind comforter Mr. Allprayer war, to tell you you couldn't live any longer; and that when you died you'd jest go right straight to--to--" "Silence! you irrelevant boy, you!" (irreverent was doubtless meant) interrupted the dame, angrily: "How dare you to go making fun o' the pious Rev. Mr. Allprayer? --him as used to preach all Sunday long, and pray all Sunday night, and never did nothing wrong--though he did git turned out o' the meeting house arterward for getting drunk and swearing; but then the poor man cried and said it were nothing but a accident, which hadn't happened more nor ten times to him sence he'd bin a preacher of the everlasting gospel. Thar, thar, the crazy head's a giggling agin! I do wish, Ben, you'd see to Isaac, and make him behave himself--for he's got so tittery like, sence he's axed Peggy, thar's no use o' trying to do nothing with him."
"Isaac! Isaac!" said his father with a reproving glance; and, as though that voice and look possessed a spell, the features of the young man instantly became grave, almost solemn. Then turning to Algernon, the old man continued: "As to leaving us, Mr. Reynolds, you of course know your own business best, and it arn't my desire to interfere; but ef you could put up with our humble fare, say a week or ten days longer, I think as how it would be much better for you, and would give us a deal of pleasure besides."
"Why, I'll jest tell you what tis," put in Isaac: "I've fixed on you for groomsman, and I arn't a going to gin in no how; so unless you want to quarrel; you'll have to stay; and more'n that, it's spected you'll see to takin Ella thar; for I know she don't like to go with any o' the fellers round here; and I shall gin out she's going with you; which may be won't hurt your feelings none--at any rate, I know it won't hers."
At the mention of Ella, Algernon crimsoned to the eyes, and became so exceedingly confused, that he could with difficulty stammer forth, by way of reply, the query as to the time when the important event was expected to take place.
"Let me see," answered Isaac, telling off the days on his fingers: "to-morrow's Friday; then Saturday's one, Sunday's two, Monday's three, and Tuesday's four--only four days from to-morrow morning, Mr. Reynolds."
"Then, as you so urgently insist upon it," rejoined Reynolds, "I will postpone my departure till after the wedding."
Isaac thanked him cordially, and the father and mother looked gratified at the result; Ella he could not see--she having withdrawn from the table, as previously noted. Some further conversation ensued relative to the manner in which weddings were conducted in that country, and the design of proceeding with the one in question; but as we intend the reader to be present at the wedding itself, we shall not detail it. We will remark here, by the way, that the stranger seemed to take a singular interest in all that was said concerning the residence of the intended bride, the road the party were expected to take to reach there, their probable number, manner of travel, and the time when they would be likely to set forth and return. In all this it was observed by Algernon, that whenever he asked a question direct, it was put in such a careless manner as would lead one not otherwise suspicious to suppose him perfectly indifferent as to whether it were answered or not; but he somehow fancied, he scarce knew why, that there was a strong under current to this outward seeming. And furthermore he observed, that the stranger in general avoided putting a question at all--rather seeking his information by conjecturing or supposing what would immediately be contradicted or confirmed. This mode of interrogation, so closely followed up to every particular, yet apparently with such indifference, together with the stranger's treacherous look and several minor things all bearing a suspicious cast, more than half convinced Algernon that the other was a spy, and that some foul play was assuredly meditated; though what, and to whom, or for what purpose, he was at a loss to determine.
From the particulars of the coming wedding, the stranger, after a little, adroitly turned the conversation upon the wound of Reynolds; asked a number of questions, and appeared deeply interested in the whole narration concerning it--the attack upon him by the Indians and his providential escape through the assistance of Boone--all of which was detailed by Isaac in his own peculiar way. From this case in particular, the conversation gradually changed to other cases that had happened in the vicinity; and also to the state of the country, with regard to what it had been and now was--its settlements--its increase of inhabitants--the many Indian invasions and massacres that had occurred within the last five years on the borders--and the present supposed population of the frontiers.
"As to myself," said Younker, in reply to some observation of the stranger, "as to myself and family, we've been extremely fortunate in 'scaping the red foe--though I've bin daily fearful that when I went away to my work in the morning, I'd may be come back agin at noon or night and find my women folks gone, or murdered, and my cot in ashes; but, thank the Lord! I've been so far spared sech a heart rending sight."
"And had you no personal fears?" asked the stranger.
"I don't know's I understand you."
"Had you no fears for yourself individually?"
"Well, I can't say's I had," answered the other. "I'm an old man--or at least I'm in my second half century--and I've so endeavored to live, as not to fear to go at any moment when God sees fit, and by whatsomever means he may choose to take me."
"I suppose you now consider yourself in a measure safe from Indian encroachments?" observed the other.
"No man, stranger--I beg pardon, but I'd like to know your name!"
"Certainly, sir," answered the other, a little embarrassed. "My name is--is--Williams."
"Thank you! No man, Mr. Williams, ar justified in considering himself safe from Injens, in a country like this; but to tell the truth, I don't feel so fearful of 'em, as when I first come out here with my family, two year ago; though thar's no telling what may hap in the course o' two year more."
"And did you venture here at once on your arrival in this western country?"
"Not exactly; for the land laws o' Virginna, passed the year I come out, made it rayther difficult gitting hold o' land, about which thar war a great deal o' disputing; and which war kept up till the commissioners came out and settled the matter; and so while this war agitating, I took my family to Boonesborough, whar they remained, excepting Isaac, who went along with me, until we'd got all matters fixed for moving 'em here. But as you've axed considerable many questions, pray may I know ef you're from the east? --And ef so, what news thar is with respect to this here war with the Britishers?" "Why," replied the other, hesitatingly, "though not strictly speaking from the east, yet I've been eastward the past season, and have some news of the war; and, as far as I am able to judge, think it will result in the total subjugation of the colonies."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Younker.
"Heaven forefend!" said Reynolds, with a start.
"Lord presarve us! --marsy on us!" cried Mrs. Younker, with vehemence. "What on yarth shall we do, ef them plaguy Britishers git uppermost? They'll take away all our lands, for sartin! --and Ben's bin and bought four hundred acres, poor man, at forty cents a acre, under the new laws of Varginna[4]--which comes to one hundred and sixty dollars, hard money; and now maybe he'll have to lose it all, and not git nothing for it; and then what in the name o' the whole univarsal creation will become on us?"
"Well, well, Dorothy--don't fret about it till it happens--thar'll be plenty o' time then," said Younker, gravely; "and perhaps it won't happen at all."
"Don't talk to me about fretting, Mr. Younker!" rejoined the now irritated dame, a la Caudle: "I reckon I don't fret no easier nor you do, nor half so much nother; but I'd like to know who wouldn't fret, when they know they're going to lose all thar property by them thar good for nothing red-coated Britishers, who I do believe is jest as mean as Injens, and they're too mean to live, that's sartin. Fret, indeed! I reckon it wouldn't do for you to be letting Preacher Allprayer hear ye say so; for he said one time with his own mouth--and to me too, mind that! --that I'd got the bestest disposition in the whole universal yarth o' creation under the sun!" and the voluble old lady paused to take breath.
"It's my opine, that ef Preacher Allprayer had lived with you as long as I have, he wouldn't repeat that thar sentence under oath," returned Younker, quietly. Then perceiving that a storm was brewing, he hastened to change the conversation, by addressing the stranger: "What cause have you, Mr. Williams, for speaking so discourageous o' the war?"
"The failure of the American arms in battle, the weakness of their resources, and the strength of their opponents," replied the other. "I presume you have heard of the battles of Guilford and Camden, in both of which General Greene was defeated?"
"General _Gates_ commanded at Camden, sir!" interposed Reynolds somewhat haughtily.
"I beg pardon, sir!" retorted the other, in a sneering, sarcastic tone; "but I was speaking of the defeat of General _Greene! _" "At Camden?"
"At Camden, sir!"
"I am sorry you are no better informed," rejoined Algernon, with flashing eyes. "I repeat that General Gates commanded at Camden; and as, unfortunately, I chanced to be in the fight, I claim the privilege of being positive."
"The youth is doubtless speaking of the battle fought a year or two ago," rejoined Williams, turning to Younker, in a manner the most insulting to Reynolds; who clenched his hand, and pressed his nether lip with his teeth until the blood sprang through, but said nothing. "I have reference to the two engagements which took place at Guilford Court House and Camden, in March and April last; whereby, as I said before, General Greene, who commanded at both, was twice defeated, and retreated with great loss; although in the former action his forces outnumbered those of his opponent, Lord Cornwallis, as two to one; and in the latter, far exceeded those of Lord Rawdon, his opponent also."
"This is indeed startling news," answered Younker, "and I'm fearful o' the result!"
"You may depend on't, them thar four-hundred acres is all gone clean to smash," observed Mrs. Younker; "and its my opine, Ben, you'd better sell right straight out immediately, afore the news gits about any further, for fear o' accidents and them things."
"I suppose in reality the present war with England does not trouble you here?" said the stranger, interrogatively.
"Why not in reality," answered Younker, "only so far as the Britishers and thar accursed renegade agents set on the Injens agin us."
"To what renegade agents do you allude?" inquired the other, with a degree of interest he had not before exhibited.
"Why, to the Girtys, McKee, and Elliot--and perticularly to that thar scoundrel, Simon Girty the worst o' all on 'em."
"Ha! Simon Girty," said the other, with a slight start and change of countenance; "what know you of him?"
"Nothing that's good, you may be sartin, and every thing that's evil. He's leagued with the Injens, purposely to excite 'em agin his own white brethren--to have them murder women and children, that he may feast his eyes on thar innocent blood. I'm not given to be o' a revengeful speret, Mr. Williams; but I never think o' that thar renegade, Simon Girty, but I inwardly pray for the curse o' an avenging God to light upon him; and come it will, ayther soon or late, you may depend on't!"
"Amen to that thar sentiment!" responded the dame; while the stranger became very much agitated, on account, as he said, of a violent pain in his side, to which he was subject.
Mrs. Younker was on the point of bringing down her invectives on the head of the renegade in a speech of some considerable length, when, perceiving the distressful look of the other, the kind-hearted woman suddenly forgot her animosity in sympathy for her suffering guest; and forthwith proceeded, with all the eloquence of which she was master, to recommend a certain essence that chanced to be in the house, as a never failing remedy for all griping and other pains with which unfortunate humanity was oftentimes afflicted.
"It's one o' the bestest things as ever war invented," continued the good woman, in her eulogy of the article in question; "and has did more good in it's time, nor all the doctors on the univarsal yarth put together could do, in the way of curing sprains, and bruises, and stomach-pains, and them things; and ef you don't believe it, Mr. Williams, you can see it all in print, ef you can read, and I spect you can, on the bottle itself, jest as plain as any thing; and besides, I've got the testament (testimony, doubtless) of the good and pious Rev. Mr. Allprayer, who tuk some on't once for the gout; and he said as how the contracting (counteracting?) pains war so many, that he didn't no more feel the gout for a long time to come afterwards. I've no doubt it'll sarve you jest the same way, and I'll go and fetch it right straight off."
But the mission of the good woman was prevented by the complainant's insisting that he was much better, would presently be well, and wished to retire for the night. His request was granted--but little more was said--and all shortly after betook themselves to bed--to think, or sleep, or dream, as the case might be with each.
When the family arose on the following morning, they found the stranger had departed; but when or whither none could tell.
[Footnote 4: It may be proper to note here, for the benefit of those unfamiliar with the early history of Kentucky, that, at the period of which we write, it was claimed and held by Virginia as a portion of her territory, for which she legislated accordingly.]
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{
"id": "15424"
}
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5
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THE WEDDING.
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The year 1781 was remarkable in the history of Kentucky for the immense emigration from the east into its territory of unmarried females. It appears, in looking over the records of the time, as though some mighty barrier had hitherto kept them in check, which, being removed, allowed them to rush forward in overwhelming force, like to the pent up waters of some stream when its obstruction suddenly gives way. Whatever this hitherto obstruction or barrier may have been, we do not pretend to say; but the fact itself we record as we find it chronicled in history. The result of this influx of females into a region almost wholly populated by the opposite sex was one, as will readily be perceived, of great importance to the well-being of the embryo state; and was duly celebrated by the rising generation, in a general jubilee of marriages--one following fast upon another, like drops of rain in a genial summer shower; and, to extend the simile, with an effect by no means less productive of fertility, in a long run, to the country round about.
A wedding in those days was an affair of great importance to the neighborhood of its location; and was looked forward to by old and young--the latter in particular--as a grand holiday of feasting, dancing, and general rejoicing. Nor can this be wondered at, when we take into consideration the fact, that, in the early settlement of the country, a wedding was almost the only gathering, as they were called, which was not accompanied with some laborious employment--such as harvesting, log-rolling, and the like. Occasionally there might be some dissatisfaction felt and expressed by some, who, from some cause or another, chanced to be left out of the almost general invitation; in which case a special resentment not unfrequently followed. This was accomplished in various ways--sometimes by felling trees, or placing other obstacles across some narrow portion of the horse-path by which the wedding party were advancing, thereby causing considerable delay for their removal--sometimes by ambushing and firing a volley of blank cartridges at the party in question, so as to frighten the horses, by which means more or less were frequently injured, by being thrown to the ground--and sometimes by shearing the manes and tails of the horses themselves, while their owners were being occupied with the feast, and the dance, and the gay carousal of the occasion. But to proceed.
The morning of the day set apart by Isaac Younker, as the one which was to see him duly united to Peggy Wilson, came in due time--as many an important one has both before and since--without one visible sign in the heavens, or otherwise, to denote that any thing remarkable was about to happen. In fact it might be put down to the reverse of all this; for, unlike the generality of wished-for days, it was exceedingly fair, balmy, and beautiful. The sun rose at the expected time, large and red, and saluted the hills and tree-tops, and anon the vales, with a smiling light, as though he felt exceedingly happy to greet them again after a calm night's repose. The dew sparkled on blade and leaf, as if with delight at his appearance; a few flowers modestly uncovered their blooming heads; a few warblers of the forest--for although autumn had nearly half advanced, some had delayed their journey to the sunny south--sung gleesome songs; and altogether the morning in question was really a delightful one.
The family of the Younkers were stirring betimes, making the necessary preparations for their departure, and looking out for the expected guests; who, according to the custom of the period, first assembled at the residence of the groom, to proceed thence in company with him to the mansion of the bride, which place they must always reach in time to have the ceremony performed before partaking of the dinner prepared for the occasion. For this purpose, as the distance to the house of the fair intended was not unfrequently considerable, they generally came at an early hour; and as Isaac's fair Peggy was not likely to be visible short of a ten miles' ride, his companions for the journey accordingly began to appear in couples before his father's dwelling, ere the sun was an hour above the hills.
Isaac, on the present occasion, stood ready to receive them as they rode up, arrayed in his wedding garments; which--save a few trifling exceptions in some minor articles, and the addition of five or six metal buttons displayed on his hunting frock in a very singular manner, and a couple of knee buckles, all old family relics--presented the same appearance as those worn by him during his ordinary labors. And this, by the way, exhibits another feature of the extreme simplicity of the time--and one too highly praise-worthy--when the individual was sought for himself alone, and not for the tinsel gew-gaws, comparatively speaking, he might chance to exhibit. Necessity forced all to be plain and substantial in the matter of dress; and consequently comfort and convenience were looked to, rather than ostentatious display. All at that day were habited much alike--so that a description of the costume of one of either sex, as in the case of their habitations, previously noted, would describe that of a whole community.
"Let the reader," says a historian, in speaking of the manners and dress of those noble pioneers, "imagine an assemblage of people, without a store, tailor, or mantuamaker within an hundred miles; and an assemblage of horses, without a blacksmith or saddler within an equal distance. The gentlemen dressed in shoepacks, moccasins, leather breeches, leggins, linsey hunting-shirts, and all home-made. The ladies dressed in linsey petticoats, and linsey or linen bed-gowns, coarse shoes, stockings, handkerchiefs, and buckskin gloves, if any. If there were any buckles, rings, buttons or ruffles, they were the relics of old times--family pieces from parents or grandparents. The horses were caparisoned with old saddles, old bridles or halters, and packsaddles, with a bag or blanket thrown over them--a rope or string as often constituting the girth as a piece of leather."
But to our story: Since leaving Isaac in the preceding chapter, after his important announcement, as therein recorded, he had been by no means idle. The two days immediately following had been spent by him in riding post-haste through the surrounding country, to inform his friends that he was on the point of becoming a married man, and require their presence at the appointed hour and place of ceremony. The rest of the time (Sunday of course exempted) had been carefully husbanded by him in making all due preparation; and he now stood before his expected guests with the air one, to use a common phrase, who has not been caught napping. For each, as they rode up, he had a friendly salutation and familiar word; and inviting them to dismount and enter, until the whole number should be arrived, he led away and secured their horses to the neighboring trees.
In due time the last couple made their appearance; and having partaken of some refreshment, which was highly recommended and presented by Mrs. Younker herself--whose tongue, by the way, had seen no rest for at least two hours--the whole party, in gleeful spirits, prepared to mount and set forth on their journey. Even Algernon, as he assisted the graceful Ella into her saddle, and then sprung lightly himself upon the back of a high mettled, beautiful steed by her side, could not avoid exhibiting a look of cheerfulness, almost gaiety, in striking contrast to his habitual gloom. And this too produced a like effect upon Ella; who, mounted upon a fine spirited, noble animal, and displaying all the ease and grace of an accomplished rider, with her flushed cheek and sparkling eyes, seemed the personification of loveliness. Her dress was exceedingly neat, of the fashion and quality worn in the east--being one she had brought with her on her removal hither. A neat hood, to which was attached a green veil, now thrown carelessly back and floating down behind, covered her head and partially concealed a profusion of beautiful ringlets.
The company at length being all mounted, Isaac took it upon himself to lead the way; for the reason, as he alleged, that having traveled the ground oftener than either of the others, he of course knew the best and nearest path to the abode of Peggy Wilson. Algernon as groomsman rode next with Ella; followed in turn by the father and mother of the groom; and then in double file by the whole company--talking, laughing and full of glee--to the number of some fifteen couples. Turning the corner of the house, they forded the streamlet previously mentioned, crossed the valley, and ascended by a narrow horse-path the opposite hill, leaving the canebrake some distance away to the left.
In those days a road--or at least such a highway as we of the present so denominate--was a something unknown; a few horse-paths, so termed, traversing the country in various directions--narrow, oftentimes obstructed, and sometimes dangerous. Over one of this latter class, as before said, our wedding party now wended their way, in high spirits; sometimes riding at a brisk trot or gallop, where their course lay open and clear, sometimes walking their horses very slow, in single file, where the path, winding across craggy bluffs, among rocks and trees, became very narrow and unsafe. Twice, on this latter account, did the gentlemen of the company dismount and lead the horses of their partners for some considerable distance past the stony and dangerous defile, by which means all accidents were avoided. When they had reached within a mile of their destination, Isaac drew rein and all came to a halt. Turning upon his saddle, with the air of a commander of some important expedition, he sang out in a loud, shrill voice; "Well, boys and gals, here we ar--this here's the spot--who's agoing to run for the bottle?"
"Whoop! yaho! give way thar!" was the answer from a couple of voices in the rear; and at the same instant, two young men, separating from their partners, came bounding forward, on two blood horses, at break-neck speed.
"Stop!" thundered Isaac, as they came tearing up to where he was sitting astride his beast; and obedient to his command, the two individuals in question reined in their impatient steeds, hard abreast, close by his side. "Well, ef you arn't a couple o' beauties, then jest put it down that I don't know," continued Isaac, eying them coolly from head to heel, with a quizzical, comical look. "You'd both on ye average two decent looking fellars--for whar Seth Stokes is too long, Sam Switcher arn't long enough; and whar Sam Switcher's got too much, Seth Stokes han't got nothing."
A roar of laughter, in which both Seth and Sam joined, followed Isaac's closing remarks; for besides partaking of the ludicrous, none could deny that his description was correct. The two worthies in question were certainly two very singular looking beings to be brought together for a race, and presented a most laughable appearance. The one bearing the poetical appellation of Seth Stokes, was long, thin and bony, with sharp features, and legs that reminded one of a carpenter's compass; while his companion, Sam Switcher, was round-favored, short in limbs and stature, and fat almost to corpulency--thus forming a contrast to the other of the most striking kind.
As soon as the laugh at their expense had subsided, Isaac again sang out: "Squar your hosses' heads thar--get ready, boys--now clippet, and don't keep us long waiting the bottle! for I reckon as how some on us is gitting dry. Yehep! yahoa!" and ere the sound of his voice had died away, down came the switches, accompanied by a terrible yell, and off went horses and bottle-riders--over stumps, logs and rocks--past trees and brush, and whatever obstacle might lie in their course--with a speed that threatened them with death at every moment; while the others remained quietly seated on their ponies, enjoying the sport, and sometimes shouting after them such words of encouragement as, "Go it, Seth!" "Up to him, Sammy!" "Pull up, legs!" "Jump it, fatty!" so long as the racers were in sight.
This race for the bottle, as it was called, was a peculiar feature for displaying the horsemanship and hardy recklessness of the early settlers; as a more dangerous one, to both horse and rider, could not well be imagined. That the reader may form a clear conception of what it was in reality--and also to destroy the idea if any such may have been formed, that it existed only in our imagination--we shall take the liberty of giving a short extract from the author already quoted. In speaking of the foregoing, he says: "The worse the path--the more logs, brush, and deep hollows, the better--as these obstacles afforded an opportunity for the greater display of intrepidity and horsemanship. The English fox-chase, in point of danger to the riders and their horses, is nothing to this race for the bottle. The start was announced by an Indian yell; when logs, brush, muddy hollows, hill and glen, were speedily passed by the rival ponies. The bottle was always filled for the occasion, so that there was no use for judges; for the first who reached the door was presented with the prize, with which he returned in triumph to the company. On approaching them, he announced his victory over his rival by a shrill whoop. At the head of the troop he gave the bottle first to the groom and his attendants, and then to each pair in succession to the rear of the line, giving each a drachm; and then putting the bottle in the bosom of his hunting shirt, took his station in the company."
In something like a quarter of an hour, the clatter of horses' feet was heard by the company, the rival-racers presently appeared in sight, and all became anxious to learn who was the successful runner. They were not long kept in suspense; for advancing at a fast gallop, the riders were, soon within speaking distance; when a loud, shrill whoop from Seth Stokes, announced that in this case success had at least been with the long, if not with the strong.
"How's this, Sammy?" cried a dozen voices, as the rivals rode up to the party.
"I don't exactly know," answered the individual addressed, shaking his head with a serio-comical expression; "but stifle me with the night-mar, if ever I'm cotched riding a race with death on horseback agin."
This allusion to the bony appearance of his companion, caused a roar of laughter at the expense of the winner, in which he good-humoredly joined. According to custom, as previously mentioned, the bottle was presented first to Isaac, and then passed in regular order through the lines--Algernon and Ella merely putting it to their lips without drinking. When this ceremony was over, the party resumed their journey--no less merry on account of the whiskey--and by half an hour past eleven o'clock, all drew rein before the door of Abijah Wilson, the father of the fair intended.
Here another party, the friends of the bride, were waiting to receive them; and after some few introductions, much shaking of hands, and other demonstrations of joy, the announcement was made, that the squire was ready to perform the ceremony. Instantly all talking was suspended, the company proceeded to form into a half circle, and then all became silent and solemn as the house of death. Isaac presently appeared from behind a coarse, temporary screen of cloth, hung up for the occasion--the house having no division save a chamber over head--leading the blushing Peggy by the hand, (a rosy cheeked, buxom lass of eighteen) both looking as frightened and foolish as could reasonably be expected. Behind the bride and groom came Algernon, in company with a dark-eyed, pretty brunette, who performed the part of bridesmaid. Taking their several places, the Squire, as he was termed--a man of forty--stepped forward, and said a few words concerning the importance of the present event, asked the necessary questions, joined their hands, and pronounced them man and wife. Then followed the usual amount of congratulations, good wishes for the future happiness of the married pair, kissing of the bride, and so forth, in all of which proceedings they differed not materially from their successors of the present day.
About half an hour from the close of the ceremony, the guests were invited to partake of a sumptuous dinner, prepared expressly for the occasion. It was placed on rough tables made of large slabs, supported by small, round legs, set in auger holes; and though there was a scantiness of dishes--and these in the main consisting of a few pewter-plates, several wooden trenchers, with spoons of like material, interspersed with some of horn--and though the scarcity of knives required many of the gentlemen to make use of those carried in their belts--yet the food itself was such as might have rejoiced an epicure. It consisted of beef, roasted and boiled--pork, roasted and fried--together with chicken, turkey, partridge, and venison--well flanked on every side by bread, butter, and cheese, potatoes, cabbage, and various other vegetables. That it was both acceptable and palatable, was sufficiently proved by the hearty, joyous manner, in which each individual performed his or her part, and the rapidity with which it disappeared. The dessert was composed of two or three kinds of pies and puddings, washed down (at least by those who chose so to do) with whiskey. Great hilarity prevailed--particularly after the introduction of the bottle. Immediately dinner was over, the tables were removed, the fiddler was called for, and the dance commenced, which was to last till the following morning. The dance was opened by Isaac and the bridesmaid, with another couple--beginning with a square four, and ending with what was termed a jig. From this time forth, until the party separated, the poor fiddler experienced but little relaxation or comfort--unless in being encouraged, occasionally, by a refreshing salute from the lips of Black Betty; a being of no greater intellect, reader, than a bottle of whiskey.
Some two hours after dinner, the father and mother of Isaac announced their intention of forthwith returning home; and, although seriously pressed to tarry longer, shortly after took their leave of the company--Mrs. Younker adding, as a farewell speech, "That she hoped to gracious Peggy'd jest make Isaac as good a wife nor she had Ben, and then thar wouldn't never be no need o' having trouble;" and wound up by quoting the Rev. Mr. Allprayer as the best authority on the subject. Younker stood by her side, calmly heard her through, and then shrugging his shoulders with a very significant expression, walked away without saying a word, to the great amusement of the whole assemblage.
As to Algernon, he seemed to take no delight in what was going forward; and though he participated somewhat in the dance, yet it was evident to all observers that his mind went not with his body, and that what he did was done more with a design of concealing his real feelings, than for any amusement it afforded himself. When not occupied in this manner, or in conversation, he would steal away, seat himself where he was least likely to be observed, and fall into a gloomy, abstracted mood; from which, when suddenly roused by some loud peal of laughter, or by the touch and voice of some person near, he would sometimes start and look around as one just awakened from a frightful vision. This gloomy abstraction, too, appeared to grow upon him more and more, as the day settled into night and the night wore on, as though he felt some dreaded calamity had been hanging over, and was now about to fall upon him. So apparent was this toward the last, that even the most careless began to observe, and make remarks, and ask questions concerning him; and some even proceeded to inquire of him regarding the state of his health. His answers to all interrogatives now became so brief and abrupt, that but few ventured to address him the second time. Whatever the cause of his present gloomy state of mind, it was evidently not the ordinary one--at least not wholly that--for never before had Ella (who was in the habit, since their acquaintance, of observing him narrowly) seen him in such a mood as now. It was, perhaps, one of those strange mental foresights, peculiar to certain temperaments, whereby the individual is sometimes warned of impending danger, and feels oppressed by a weight of despondency impossible to shake off.
This serious change in the appearance of Algernon, was not without its effect upon Ella. Naturally of a tender, affectionate, and sympathetic disposition, she could not feel at ease when another was suffering, and particularly when that other was one standing so high in her estimation as Algernon Reynolds. Naturally, too, possessing light and buoyant spirits--fond of gaiety where all were gay--she exhibited on the present occasion the effect of two strong but counteracting passions. Her features, if we may be allowed the comparison, were like the noon-day heavens, when filled with the broken clouds of a passing storm. Now all would be bright and cheerful, and the sun of mirth would sparkle in her eyes; and anon some dark cloud of dejection would sweep along, shut out the merry light, and cast its shadow drearily over the whole countenance,--or, to use language without simile, she would one moment be merry and another sad. Toward the last, however, the latter feeling gained the ascendancy; she appeared to take no further share in the merriment of the dance; and had any watched her closely, they might have guessed the cause, from the manner in which she from time to time gazed at the pale face of Algernon.
Meantime the dance went bravely on, Black Betty circulated somewhat freely, and the mirth of the revelers grew more and more boisterous. Taking advantage of a slight cessation in the general hilarity, about nine o'clock in the evening, and while the fiddler with some of the party were engaged in partaking of refreshment, Seth Stokes, encouraged doubtless by the inspiration he had received from the whiskey, stepped boldly into the middle of the apartment with the bottle in his hand, and said: "Jest allow me, my jollies, to give a toast."
"Harken all! A toast--a toast--from the long man o' the bony frame!" cried the voice of Sam Switcher. A laugh, and then silence followed.
"Here's to--to Isaac and Peggy Younker--two beauties!" continued Seth. "May thar union be duly acknowledged by the rising generation o' old Kaintuck;" and the speaker gravely proceeded to drink.
"Bravo! bravo!" cried a dozen voices, with a merry shout, accompanied with great clapping of bands; while Isaac, who was sitting by his new wife, arose, blushed, bowed rather awkwardly, and then sat down again.
"Isaac! Isaac! --A toast from Isaac!" shouted a chorus of voices.
Isaac at first looked very much confused--scratched his head and twisted around in a very fidgetty manner,--but presently his countenance flushed, and a smile of triumph crossing his sharp features, announced that he had been suddenly favored with an idea apropos. This was instantly perceived by some of the wags standing near, one of whom exclaimed: "I see it--it's coming!"
"He's got it!" said a second.
"I knew it--I'd ha' bet a bar-skin he'd fetch it," cried a third.
"Out with it, Ike, afore you forget it," shouted the fourth.
"Hold your jabbering tongues--!" cried Isaac, in vexation. "You're enough to bother a feller to death. I'd like to see some o' the rest on ye cramped up fur a toast, jest to see how _you'd_ feel with all on 'em hollering like." A hearty laugh at his expense was all the sympathy poor Isaac received.
"Give us the bottle!" resumed Isaac. "Now here goes," continued he, rising and holding Black Betty by the neck. "Here's to the gals o' old Kaintuck--Heaven bless 'em! May they bloom like clover heads, be plentier nor bar-skins, and follow the example o' Peggy, every mother's daughter on 'em! --hooray!" And having drank, the speaker resumed his seat, amid roars of laughter and three rounds of applause.
By the time this mirth had subsided, the fiddler struck up, and the dance again went on as before. Some two hours later the bridesmaid, with two or three others, managed to steal away the bride unobserved; and proceeding to a ladder at one end of the apartment, ascended to the chamber above, and saw her safely lodged in bed. In the course of another half hour the same number of gentlemen performed a like service for Isaac--such being customary at all weddings of that period.
During the night Black Betty, in company with more substantial refreshment, was sent up to the newly married pair some two or three times; and always returned (Black Betty we mean) considerable lighter than she went; thus proving, that if lovers can live on air, the married ones do not always partake of things less spiritual. About three o'clock in the morning, Algernon and Ella took leave of the company and set out upon their return--he pleading illness as an apology for withdrawing thus early. The remainder of the party keep together until five, when they gradually began to separate; and by six the dancing had ceased, and the greater portion of them had taken their departure. Thus ended the wedding of Isaac Younker--a fair specimen, by the way, of a backwood's wedding in the early settlement of the west.
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{
"id": "15424"
}
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6
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THE PRESENTIMENT.
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Deep and gloomy were the meditations of Algernon Reynolds, as, in company with Ella Barnwell, he rode slowly along the narrow path which he had traversed, if not with buoyant, at least with far lighter spirits than now, the morning before. From some, latent cause, he felt oppressed with a weight of despondency, as previously mentioned, that served to prostrate in a measure both his mental powers and physical system. He felt, though he could give no reason why, that some calamity was about to befall himself and the fair being by his side; and he strove to arouse himself and shake off the gloomy thoughts; but if he succeeded, it was only momentary, and they would again rush back with an increased power. He had been subject, since his unfortunate quarrel with his cousin, to gloomy reveries and depressions of spirits--but never before had he felt exactly as now; and though in all former cases the event referred to had been the cause of his sad abstractions, yet in the present instance it scarcely held a place in his thoughts. Could it be a presentiment, he asked himself, sent to warn him of danger and prepare him to meet it? But the question he could not answer.
The night, or rather the morning, though clear overhead, was uncommonly dark; and the stars, what few could be discerned, shed only pale, faint gleams, as though their lights were about to be extinguished. For some time both Algernon and Ella continued their journey without exchanging a syllable--she too, as well as himself, being deeply absorbed in no very pleasant reflections. She thought of him, of his hard fate, to meet with so many bitter disappointments at an age so young; and at last, for no premeditated, no intentional crime, be forced to fly from home and friends, and all he held dear, to wander in a far off land, among strangers--or worse, among the solitudes of the wilderness--exposed to a thousand dangers from wild savage beasts, and wilder and more savage human beings; and perhaps, withal, be branded as a felon and fugitive from justice. She thought what must be his feelings, his sense of utter desolation, with none around to sympathize--no sweet being by his side to whisper a single word of encouragement and hope; or, should the worst prove true, to share his painful lot, and endeavor to render less burdensome his remorseful thoughts, by smiles of endearment and looks of love. She thought, too, that to-morrow--perhaps today--he would take his departure, peradventure never to behold her again; and this was the saddest of the train. Until she saw him, Ella had never known what it was to love--perchance she did not now--but at least she had experienced those fluttering sensations, those deep and strange emotions, those involuntary yearnings of the heart toward some object in his presence, that aching void in his absence, which the more experienced would doubtless put down to that cause, and which no other being had ever even for a moment awakened in her breast. For something like half an hour the two rode on together, buried in their own sad reflections, when Ella broke the silence, by saying, in a low, touching voice: "You seem sad to-night, Algernon."
Algernon started, sighed heavily, and turning slightly on his saddle, said: "I am sad, Ella--very, very sad."
"May I ask the cause?" rejoined Ella, gently.
"Doubtless you will think it strange, Ella, but the cause I believe to have originated in a waking vision or presentiment."
"That does seem strange!" observed Ella, in return.
"Did it never strike you, dear Ella, that we are all strange beings, subject to strange influences, and destined, many of us, to strange ends?" inquired Reynolds, solemnly.
"Perhaps I do not understand you," replied Ella; "but with regard to destiny, I am inclined to think that we in a measure shape our own. As to our being strange, there are many things relating to us that we may not understand, and therefore look upon them in the light of which you speak."
"Are there any we do understand, Ella?" rejoined Algernon. "When I say understand, I mean the word to be used in its minutest and broadest sense. You say there are many things we may not understand concerning ourselves--what ones, I pray you, do we fully comprehend? We are here upon the earth--so much we know. We shall die and pass away--so much we know also. But how came we here, and why? How do we exist? How do we think, reason, speak, feel, move, see, hear, smell, taste? All these we do, we know; but yet not one--not a single one of them can we comprehend. You wish to raise your hand; and forthwith, by some extraordinary power--extraordinary because you cannot tell where it is, nor how it is--you raise it. Why cannot a dead person do the same? Strange question you will say to yourself with a smile--but one easily answered! Why, because in such a person life is extinct--there is no vital principle--the heart is stopped--the blood has ceased to flow in its regular channels! Ay! but let me ask you _why_ that life is extinct? --why that breath has stopped? --and why that blood has ceased to flow? There was just the same amount of air when the person died as before! There were the same ingredients still left to stimulate that blood to action! Then wherefore should both cease? --and with them the power of thought, reason, speech, and all the other senses? It was not by a design of the individual himself; for he strove to his utmost to breathe longer; he was not ready to die--he did not want to quit this earth so soon; and yet with all his efforts to the contrary, reason fled, the breath stopped, the blood ceased, the limbs became palsied and cold, and corruption, decay and dust stood ready to follow. Now why was this? There is but one answer: 'God willed it!' If then one question resolves itself into one answer,--'the will of God'--so may all of the same species; and we come out, after a long train of analytical reasoning, exactly where we started--with this difference--that when we set out, we believed in being able to explain the wherefore; but when we came to the end, we could only assert it as a wonderful fact, whereof not a single iota could we understand."
Algernon spoke in a clear, distinct, earnest tone--in a manner that showed the subject was not new to his thoughts; and after a short pause, during which Ella made no reply, he again proceeded.
"In this grand organ of man--where all things are strange and incomprehensible--to me the combination of the physical and mental is strangest of all. The soul and the body are united and yet divided. Each is distinct from and acts without the other at times, and yet both act in concert with a wonderful power. The soul plans and the body executes. The body exercises the soul--the soul the body. The one is visible--the other invisible; the one is mortal--the other immortal. Now why do they act together here? Why was not each placed in its separate sphere of action? Again: What is the soul? Men tell us it is a spirit. What is a spirit? An invisible something that never dies. Who can comprehend it? None. Whither does it go when separated forever from the body? None can answer, save in language of Scripture: 'It returns to God who gave it.'"
"I have never heard the proposition advanced by another," continued Algernon, after another slight pause, "but I have sometimes thought myself, that the soul departs from the body, for a brief season, and wanders at will among scenes either near or remote, and returns with its impressions, either clouded or clear, to communicate them to the corporeal or not, as the case may be: hence dreams or visions, and strong impressions when we wake, that something bright and good has refreshed our sleep, or something dark and evil has made it troubled and feverish. Again I have sometimes thought that this soul--this invisible and immortal something within us--has power at times to look into the future, and see events about to transpire; which events being sometimes of a dark and terrible nature, leave upon it like impressions; and hence gloomy and melancholy forebodings. This may be all sophistry--as much of our better reasoning on things we know nothing about often is--but if it be true, then may I trust to account for my present sadness."
"Have you really, then, sad forebodings?" inquired Ella, quickly and earnestly.
"Against my will and sober reason, dear Ella, I must own I have. Perchance, however, the feeling was only called up by a train of melancholy meditations. While sitting there to-night, gazing upon the many bounding forms--some full of beauty and grace, and some of strength--noting their joyous faces, and listening occasionally to the lightsome jest, and merry, ringing laugh--I could not avoid contrasting with the present the time when I was as happy and full full of mirth as they. I pictured to myself how they would stare and shudder and draw away from me, did they know my hand was stained with the blood of my own kin. Then I began, involuntarily as it were, to picture to myself the fate of each; and they came up before me in the form of a vision, (though if such, it was a waking one) but in regular order; and I saw them pass on one after another--some gliding smoothly down the stream of time to old age--some wretched and crippled, groping their way along over barren wastes, without water or food, though nearly dying for the want of both--some wading through streams of blood, with fierce and angry looks--and some with pale faces, red eyes, and hollow cheeks, roving amid coffins, sepulchres and bones; but of all, the very fewest number happy."
"Oh! it was an awful vision!" exclaimed Ella, with a shudder.
"It was awful enough," rejoined Algernon; "and despite of me, it made me more and more sad as I thought upon it. Could it indeed be a dream? But no! I was--seemingly at least--as wide awake and conscious as at the present moment. I saw the dance going on as ever--I saw the merry smiles, and heard the jest and laugh as before. Could it be some strange hallucination of the brain--some wild imagining--caused by my previous exercise and over heat? I pondered upon it long and seriously, but could not determine. Suddenly--I know not how nor why--that ill-looking stranger who lodged one night at your uncle's, and departed so mysteriously, came up in my mind; and almost at the same moment, I fancied myself riding with you, dear Ella, through a dark and lonely wood--when all of a sudden there came a fierce yell--several dark, hideous forms, with him among them, swam around me--I heard you shriek for aid--and then all became darkness and confusion; from which I was aroused by some one inquiring if I were ill? What I answered I know not; but the querist immediately took his leave."
"It all seems very strange, Algernon," observed Ella, thoughtfully; "but it was probably nothing more than a feverish dream, brought about by your exercise acting too suddenly and powerfully upon your nervous system, which doubtless has not as yet recovered from the prostration caused by your wound."
"So I tried to think, dear Ella," returned Algernon, with a sigh; "but I have not even yet been able to shake off the gloomy impression, that, whatever the cause, it was sent as a warning of danger. But I am foolish, perhaps, to think as I do; and so let us change the subject. You spoke a few moments since of destiny. You said, if I mistake not, you believed each individual capable of shaping his own."
"I did," answered Ella; "with the exception, that I qualified it by saying in a measure. No person, I think, has the power of moulding himself to an end which is contrary to the law of nature and his own physical organization; but at the same time he has many ways, some good and some evil, left open for him to choose; else he were not a free agent."
"Ay," rejoined Algernon, "by-paths all to the same great end. I look upon every one here, Ella, as a traveler placed upon the great highway called destiny--with a secret power within that impels him forward, but allows no pause nor retrograde. Along this highway are flowers, and briars, and thistles, and weeds, and shady woods, and barren rocks, and sterile bluffs, and glassy plots; but proportioned differently to each, as the Maker of all designs his path to be pleasant or otherwise. Beside this highway are perhaps a dozen minor paths, all running a similar course, and all finally merging into it--either near or far, as the case may be--before its termination at the great gate of death. The free agency you speak of, is in choosing of these lesser paths--some of which are full of the snares of temptation, the chasms of ruin, and the pitfalls of destruction; and some of the flowers of peace, the bowers of plenty, and the green woods of contentment. But how to follow the proper one is the difficulty; for they run into one another--cross and recross in a thousand different ways--so that the best disposed as often hit the wrong as the right one, and are entrapped before they are aware of their dangerous course. Worldly wisdom is here put at fault, and the fool as often goes right as the wise man of lore--thus showing, notwithstanding our free agency, that circumstances govern us; and that what many put down as crime, is, in fact, oftentimes, neither more nor less than error of judgment."
"Then you consider free agency only a chance game, depending, as it were, upon the throw of a die?" observed Ella, inquiringly.
"I believe this much of free agency, that a train of circumstances often forces some to evil and others to good; and that we should look upon the former, in many cases--mind I do not say all--as unfortunate rather than criminal--with pity rather than scorn; and so endeavor to reclaim them. Were this doctrine more practiced by Christians--by those whom the world terms good, (but whom circumstances alone have made better than their fellows,) there would be far less of sin, misery, and crime abounding for them to deplore. Let the creed of churches only be to ameliorate the condition of the poor, relieve the distressed, remove temptations from youth, encourage the virtuous, and endeavor, by gently means, to reclaim the erring--and the holy design of Him who died to save would nobly progress, prisons would be turned into asylums, and scaffolds be things known only by tradition."
Algernon spoke with an easy, earnest eloquence, and a force of emphasis, that made each word tell with proper effect upon his fair hearer. To Ella the ideas he advanced were, many of them, entirely new; and she mused thoughtfully upon them, as they rode along, without reply; while he, becoming warm upon a subject that evidently occupied no inferior place in his mind, went on to speak of the wrongs and abuses which society in general heaped upon the unfortunate, as he termed them--contrasted the charity of professing Christians of the eighteenth century with that of Christ himself--and pointed out what he considered the most effectual means of remedy. To show that a train of circumstances would frequently force persons against their own will and reason to be what society terms criminal, he referred to himself, and his own so far eventful destiny; and Ella could not but admit to herself, that, in his case at least, his arguments were well grounded, and she shaped her replies accordingly.
Thus conversing, they continued upon their course, until they came to the brow of a steep descent, down which the path ran in a zigzag manner, through a dark, gloomy ravine, now rendered intensely so to our travelers, by the hour, their thoughts, the wildness of the scenery around, and the dense growth of cedars covering the hollow, whose untrimmed branches, growing even to the ground, overreached and partly obstructed their way. By this time only one or two stars were visible in the heavens; and they shone with pale, faint gleams; while in the east the beautiful gray and crimson tints of Aurora announced that day was already breaking on the slumbering world. Drawing rein, Algernon and Ella paused as if to contemplate the scene. Below and around them each object presented that misty, indistinct appearance, which leaves the imagination power to give it either a pleasing or hideous shape. In the immediate vicinity, the country was uneven; rocky, and covered with cedars; but far off to the right could be discerned the even surface of the cane-brake, previously mentioned, now stretching away in the distance like the unruffled bosom of some beautiful lake. A light breeze slightly rustled the leaves of the trees, among whose branches an occasional songster piped forth his morning lay of rejoicing.
"How lovely is nature in all her varieties!" exclaimed Ella, with animation, as she glanced over the scene.
"Ay, and in that variety lies her loveliness," answered Algernon. "It is the constant and eternal change going forward that interests us, and gives to nature her undying charm. Man--high-souled, contemplative man--was not born to sameness. Variety is to his mind what food is to his body; and as the latter, deprived of its usual nourishment, sinks to decay--so the former, from like deprivation of its strengthening power, becomes weak and imbecile. Again: as coarse, plain food and hardy exercise add health and vigor to the physical--so does the contemplation of nature in her wildness and grandeur give to the mental a powerful and lofty tone. Of all writers for poetical and vigorous intellects, give me those who have been reared among cloud-capped hills, and craggy steeps, and rushing streams, and roaring cataracts; for their conceptions are grand, their comparisons beautiful, and the founts from which they draw, as exhaustless almost as nature herself."
"I have often thought the same myself," returned Ella; "for I never gaze upon a beautiful scene in nature, that I do not feel refreshed. To me the two most delightful are morning and evening. I love to stand upon some eminence, and mark, as now, the first gray, crimson and golden streaks that rush up in the eastern sky; and catch the first rays of old Sol, as he, surrounded by a reddened halo, shows his welcome face above the hills; or at calm eve watch his departure, as with a last, fond, lingering look he takes his leave, as 'twere in sorrow that he could not longer tarry; while earth, not thus to be outdone in point of grief, puts on her sable dress to mourn his absence."
"Ah! Ella," said Algernon, turning to her with a gentle smile, "methinks morning and evening are somewhat indebted to you for a touch of poetry in their behalf."
"Rather say I am indebted to them for a thousand fine feelings I have not even power to express," rejoined Ella.
Algernon was on the point of returning an answer, when, casting his eyes down into the ravine, he slightly started, his gaze became fixed, and his features grew a shade more pale. Ella noticed this sudden change, and in a voice slightly tremulous inquired the cause. For nearly a minute Algernon made no reply, but kept his eyes steadily bent in the same direction, apparently riveted on some object below. Ella also looked down; but seeing nothing worthy of note, and growing somewhat alarmed at his silence, was on the point of addressing him again, when, slightly turning his head, and rubbing his eyes with his hand, he said: "Methought I saw a dark object move in the hollow below; but I think I must have been mistaken, for all appears quiet there now--not even a limb or so much as a leaf stirs. Lest there should be danger, however, dear Ella, I will ride down first and ascertain. If I give an alarm, turn your horse and do not spare him till you reach Wilson's."
"No, no, no!" exclaimed Ella, with vehemence, laying her hand upon his arm, as he was about starting forward, her own features now growing very pale. "If you go, Algernon, you go not alone! If there is danger, I will share it with you."
Algernon turned towards her a face that, one moment crimsoned with animation and the next became deadly pale; while his whole frame quivered with intense emotion, and he seemed vainly struggling to command contending feelings. Suddenly clasping her hand in his, he pressed it warmly, raised it to his lips, and in a trembling tone said: "Ella--dear Ella--God bless you! If ever--but--no--no--no;" and covering his face with his hands, he wept convulsively; while she, no less deeply affected, could scarcely sit her horse.
At length Algernon withdrew his hands, and exhibited features pale but calm. Drawing forth his pistols, he carefully examined their priming, and then replaced them in his belt. During this proceeding, he failed not to urge Ella to alter her design and remain, while he went forward; but finding her determined on keeping him company, he signified his readiness to proceed, and both started slowly down the hill together. They reached the ravine in safety, and advanced some twenty yards further, when suddenly there arose a terrific Indian yell, followed instantly by the sharp report of several fire-arms, a wild, piercing shriek, some two or three heavy groans, a rustling among the trees, and then by a stillness as deep and awfully solemn as that which pervades the narrow house appointed for all living.
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{
"id": "15424"
}
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7
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THE OLD WOODSMAN AND HIS DOG.
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The sun was perhaps an hour above the mountain tops, when a solitary hunter, in the direction of the cane-brake, might have been seen shaping his course toward the hill whereon Algernon and Ella had so lately paused to contemplate the dawning day. Upon his shoulder rested a long rifle, and a dog of the Newfoundland species followed in his steps or trotted along by his side. In a few minutes he reached the place referred to; when the snuffling of his canine companion causing him to look down, his attention instantly became fixed upon the foot-prints of the horses which had passed there the day before, and particularly on the two that had repassed there so lately.
"What is it, Cæsar?" said he, addressing the brute. "Nothing wrong here, I reckon." Cæsar, as if conscious of his master's language, raised his head, and looking down into the ravine, appeared to snuff the air; then darting forward, he was quickly lost among the branching cedars. Scarcely thirty seconds elapsed, ere a long, low howl came up from the valley; and starting like one suddenly surprised by some disagreeable occurrence, the hunter, with a cheek slightly blanched, hurried down the crooked path, muttering as he went, "Thar's something wrong, for sartin--for Cæsar never lies."
In less than a minute the hunter came in sight of his dog, which he found standing with his hind feet on the ground and his fore-paws resting on the carcass of a horse, that had apparently been dead but a short time. As Cæsar perceived his master approach, he uttered another of those peculiar, long, low, mournful howls, which the superstitious not unfrequently interpret as omens of evil.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed the hunter, as he came up; "thar's been foul play here, Cæsar--foul play, for sartin. D'ye think, dog, it war Indians as done it?"
The brute looked up into the speaker's face, with one of those expressions of intelligence or sagacity, which seem to speak what the tongue has not power to utter, and then wagging his tail, gave a sharp, fierce bark.
"Right, dog!" continued the other, as, stooping to the ground, he began to examine with great care the prints left there by human feet. "Right, dog, they're the rale varmints, and no mistake. Ef all folks war as sensible and knowing as you, thar would'nt be many fools about, I reckon."
Having finished his examination of the ground, the hunter again turned to look at the carcass of the horse, which was lying on its left side, some two feet from the path, and had apparently fallen dead from a shot in the forehead, between the eyes. An old saddle, devoid of straps, lay just concealed under the branching cedars. The ground around was trodden as if from a scuffle, and the limbs of the trees were broken in many places--while in two or three others could be seen spots of blood, not even yet dry--none of which informants of the recent struggle escaped the keen observation of the woodsman. Suddenly the dog, which had been watching his master's motions intently, put his nose to the ground, darted along the path further into the ravine, and presently resounded another of those mournful howls.
"Ha! another diskivery!" exclaimed the hunter, as he started after his companion.
About thirty yards further on, he came upon the carcass of another horse, which had been killed by a ball in the right side, and the blow of some weapon, probably a tomahawk, on the head. By its side also lay a lady's saddle, stripped like the former of its trappings. This the woodsman now proceeded to examine attentively, for something like a minute, during which time a troubled expression rested on his dark, sunburnt features.
"I'm either mightily mistaken," said he at length, with a grave look, "or that thar horse and saddle is the property of Ben Younker; and I reckon it's the same critter as is rid by Ella Barnwell. Heaven forbid, sweet lady, that it be thou as met with this terrible misfortune! --but ef it be, by the Power that made me, I swar to follow on thy trail; and ef I meet any of thy captors, then, Betsey, I'll just call on you for a backwoods sentiment."
As he concluded, the hunter turned with a look of affection towards his rifle, which he firmly grasped with a nervous motion. At this moment, the dog, which had been busying himself by running to and fro with his nose to the ground, suddenly paused, and laying back his ears, uttered a low, fierce growl. The hunter cast toward him a quick glance; and dropping upon his knees, applied his ear to the earth, where he remained some fifteen seconds; then rising to his feet, he made a motion with his hand, and together with Cæsar withdrew into the thicket.
For some time no sound was heard to justify this precaution of the woodsman; but at length a slight jarring of the ground became apparent, followed by a noise at some distance, resembling the clatter of horses' feet, which, gradually growing louder as the cause drew nearer, soon became sufficiently so to put all doubts on the matter at rest. In less than five minutes from the disappearance of the hunter, some eight or ten horses, bearing as many riders, approached the hill from the direction of Wilson's, and began to descend into the ravine. The party, composed of both sexes, were in high glee--some jesting, some singing, and some laughing uproariously. Nothing occurred to interrupt their merriment, until they began to lose themselves among the cedars of the hollow, when the foremost horse suddenly gave a snort and bounded to one side--a movement which his companion, close behind, imitated--while the rider of the latter, a female, uttered a loud, piercing scream of fright. In a moment the whole party was in confusion--some turning their horses to the right about and riding back towards Wilson's, at headlong speed--and some pausing in fear, undecided what to do. The two foremost horses now became very refractory, rearing and plunging in a manner that threatened to unseat their riders every moment. Of the two, the one ridden by the lady was the most ungovernable; and in spite of her efforts to quiet or hold him, he seized the bit in his teeth, and, rearing on his hind legs, plunged madly forward, until he came to where the other carcass was lying, when, giving another snort of fear, he again reared, and turning aside into the thicket, left his rider almost senseless in the path he had just quitted. Fortunately the beast shaped his course to where the hunter was concealed, who, with a sudden spring, as he was rushing past, seized upon the bridle near the bit, and succeeded, after a struggle, in mastering and leading him back to the path.
By this time the companion of the lady had come up; and seeing her condition, was dismounting to render her assistance; when his eye falling upon the stranger, he started, and placed his hand quickly to his belt, as if in search of some weapon of defence. The hunter saw the movement, and said, with a gesture of command: "Hold! young man; don't do any thing rash!"
"Who are you, sir?"
"A friend."
"Your name!" continued the other, as he sprang to the ground.
"Names don't matter, stranger, in cases sech as this. I said I war a friend."
"By what may I know you as such."
"My deeds," returned the other, laconically. "Think you, stranger, ef I wanted to harm ye, I couldn't have done it without you seeing me?" and as he spoke, he glanced significantly toward his rifle.
"True," returned the other; "but what's the meaning of this?" and he pointed toward the dead horse.
"It means Indians, as nigh as I can come at it," replied the hunter. "But look to the living afore the dead!" And the woodsman in turn pointed toward the lady.
"Right!" said the other; and springing to her side, he raised her in his arms.
She was not injured, other than slightly stunned by the fall, and she quickly regained her senses. At first she was somewhat alarmed; but perceiving who supported her, and nothing in the mild, noble, benevolent countenance of the stranger, who was still holding her horse by the bridle, of a sinister nature, she anxiously inquired what had happened.
"I can only guess by what I see;" answered the hunter, "that some o' your company have been less fortunate than you. Didn't two o' them set out in advance?"
"Gracious heavens!" cried the young man supporting the lady; "it is Ella Barnwell and the stranger Reynolds!"
"Then they must be quickly trailed!" rejoined the hunter briefly. "Go, young man, take your lady back agin, and raise an armed party for pursuit. Be quick in your operations, and I'll wait and join you here. Leave your horses thar, for we must take it afoot; and besides, gather as much provision as you can all easily carry, for Heaven only knows whar or when our journey'll end."
"But do you think they're still living?"
"I hope so."
"Then let us return, Henry," said the lady, "as quick as possible, so that a party for pursuit may be collected before the wedding guests have all separated."
"I fear it will be difficult, Mary, but we must try it," replied the young man, as he assisted her to mount. Then, turning to the stranger, he added: "But won't you accompany us, sir?"
"No, it can do no good; besides I'm afoot, and would only cause delay, and thar's been too much o' that already."
"At least, sir, favor me with your name."
"The first white hunter o' old Kaintuck," answered the other, stroking the neck of the fiery beast on which the lady was now sitting.
"What!" exclaimed the other, in a tone of surprise: "Boone! Colonel Daniel Boone?"
"Why, I'm sometimes called colonel," returned the hunter, dryly, still stroking the horse's neck; "but Daniel's the older title, and a little the most familiar one besides."
"I crave pardon for my former rudeness, Colonel," said the other, advancing and offering his hand; "but you were a stranger to me you know."
"Well, well, it's all right--I'd have done exactly so myself," answered Boone, grasping the young man's hand with a cordiality that showed no offence had been taken. "And now--a--how do you call yourself?"
"Henry Millbanks."
"Now, Master Millbanks, pray be speedy; for while we talk, our friends may die, and it goes agin nater to think on't," said Boone, anxiously.
As he spoke, he led forward the lady's horse past the other carcass; while Henry, springing upon his own beast, followed after. Having seen them safely out of the ravine, the noble hunter turned back to wait the arrival of the expected assistance. He had just gained the center of the thicket, when he was slightly startled again by the growl of his dog, and the tramp of what appeared to be another horse, coming from the direction of Younker's. Hastily secreting himself, he awaited in silence the approach of the new comer, whom he soon discovered to be an old acquaintance, who was riding at a fast gallop, bearing some heavy weight in his arms. As he came up to the carcass of Ella's horse, he slackened his speed, looked at it earnestly, then gazed cautiously around, and was about to spur his boast onward again, when the sound of Boone's voice reached, his ear; requesting him to pause; and at the same time, to his astonishment, Boone himself emerged into the path before him.
"Ha! Colonel Boone," said the horsemen, quickly; "I'm glad to meet ye; for now is a time when every true man's wanted."
"What's the news, David Billings?" inquired Boone, anxiously, as he noticed a troubled, earnest expression on the countenance of the other.
"Bad!" answered Billings, emphatically. "The Injens have been down upon us agin in a shocking manner."
"Heaven forbid thar be many victims!" ejaculated Boone, unconsciously tightening the grasp on his rifle.
"Too many--too many!" rejoined Billings, shaking his head sadly. "Thar's my neighbor Millbanks' family--" "Well? well?" cried Boone, impatiently, as the other seemed to hesitate.
"Have all been murdered, and his house burnt to ashes."
"All?" echoed Boone.
"All but young Harry, who's fortunately away to a wedding at Wilson's."
"Why, the one you speak of war just now here," said Boone, with a start; "and I sent him back to raise a party to trail the red varmints, who've been operating as you see yonder: Good heavens! what awful news for poor Harry, who seems so likely a lad."
"Yes, likely you may well say," returned the other; "and so war the whole family--God ha' mercy on 'em! But what's been done here?"
"Why, I suppose Ella Barnwell--Younker's niece, you know--and a likely young stranger who war along with her, called Reynolds, have been captured."
"Ha! well it's supposed Younker and his wife are captives too, or else that thar bones lie white among the ashes of thar own ruins."
"Good heavens!" cried Boone. "Any more, David?"
"Yes, thar's Absalom Switcher and his wife, and a young gal of twelve; and Ephraim Stokes' wife and a young boy of five; who war left by themselves, (Stokes himself being away, and his son Seth at the wedding, as was a son o' Switcher's also) have all bin foully mardered--besides Johnny Long's family, Peter Pierson's, and a young child of Fred Mason's that happened to be at Pierson's house, and one or two others whose names I disremember."
"But when did this happen, David?"
"Last night," replied the other. "It's suspected that the Injens ha bin warting round here, and took advantage of this wedding, when the greater part on 'em war away. It's thought too that thar war a white spy out, who gin 'em information, and led 'em on--as a villainous looking chap war seed about the vicinity not long ago."
"Do they suspicion who war the spy?" asked Boone.
"Why some thinks as how it war that thar accussed renegade, Simon Girty."
"Wretch!" muttered Boone, grasping his rifle almost fiercely; "I'd like to have old Bess, here, hold a short conflab with him. But what have you got thar in your arms, that seems so heavy, David?"
"Rifles, Colonel. I've bin riding round and collecting on 'em for this mad party of Younker's, who went off without any precaution; and I'm now on my way to deliver 'em, that they may start instanter arter the cussed red skins, and punish 'em according to the Mosaic law."
"Spur on then, David, and you may perhaps overtake some o' them; and all that you do, arm and send 'em here as quick as possible--for I'm dreadful impatient to be off."
The colloquy between the two thus concluded, the horseman--a strongly-built, hard-favored, muscular man of forty--set spurs to his horse; and bounding onward toward Wilson's (distant some five miles--the ravine being about half way between the residence of the groom and bride,) he was quickly lost to the sight of the other, who quietly seated himself to await the reinforcement.
In the course of half an hour, Boone was joined by some three or four of the wedding party, who bad been overtaken by Billings, learned the news, accepted a rifle each, bidden their fair companions adieu, and sent them and the horses back to the house of the bride, while they moved forward to meet danger, rescue the living, and seek revenge.
In the course of an hour and a half, Billings himself returned, accompanied by some seven or eight stout hearts; among whom were young Switcher, Stokes, Millbanks, and, lastly, Isaac Younker, who had been roused from the nuptial bed to hear of the terrible calamity that had befallen his friends. Isaac, on the present occasion, did not disgrace his training, the land which gave him birth, nor the country he now inhabited. When the messenger came with the direful news, although somewhat late in the morning, Isaac had been found in his bed, closely folded in the arms of the god of sleep. On being awakened and told of what had taken place, he slowly rose up into a sitting posture, rubbed his eyes, stared searchingly at his informant, gathered himself upon his feet, threw on his wedding garments, and made all haste to descend below; where he at once sought out his new wife, Peggy, who had risen an hour before; and grasping her by the hand, in a voice slightly tremulous, but with a firm, determined expression on his features, said: "Peggy, dear, I 'spect you've heard the whole on't. Father, mother, Ella and Reynolds--all gone, and our house in ashes, I'm going to follow, Peggy. Good bye--God bless you! Ef I don't never come back, Peggy"--and the tears started into his eyes--"you may jest put it down I've been clean sarcumvented, skinned, and eat up by them thar ripscallious Injens;" and turning upon his heel, as his tender-hearted spouse burst into tears, he seized upon same provisions that had graced the last night's entertainment, gave Black Betty a long and cordial salute with his lips, shook hands with his wife's father and mother, kissed Peggy once again, pulled his cap over his eyes, and, without another word, set forth with rapid strides on the eastern path leading to the rendezvous of Daniel Boone.
On the faces of those now assembled, who had lost their best and dearest friends, could be seen the intense workings of the strong passions of grief and revenge, while their fingers clutched their faithful rifles with a nervous power. The greatest change was apparent in the features of Henry Millbanks. He was a fine-favored, good-looking youth of eighteen, with light hair and a florid complexion. The natural expression of his handsome countenance was an easy, dignified smile, which was rendered extremely fascinating by a broad, noble forehead, and a clear, expressive, gray eye; but now the floridity had given place to a pale, almost sallow hue, the forehead was wrinkled with grief, the lips were compressed, and the smile had been succeeded by a look of great fierceness, aided by the eye; which was more than usually sunken and bloodshot.
But little was said by any of the party; for all felt the chilling gloom of the present, so strongly contrasted with the bright hours and merry jests which had so lately been apportioned to each. Boone called to Cæsar and bade him seek the Indian trail; a task which the noble brute flew to execute; and in a few minutes the whole company were on their way; with the exception of Billings; who, by the unanimous request of all, returned to Wilson's; to cheer, console and protect the females; and, if thought advisable, to conduct them to Bryan's Station--a strong fort a few miles distant--where they might remain in comparative security.
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{
"id": "15424"
}
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8
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THE INDIANS AND THEIR PRISONERS.
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While the events just chronicled were enacting in one part of the country, others, of a different nature, but somewhat connected with them, were taking place in another. In a dark, lonely pass or gorge of the hills, some ten miles to the north of the scene of the preceding chapter, where the surrounding trees grew so thick with branches and leaves that they almost entirely excluded the sunlight from the waters of a stream which there rolled foaming and roaring between the hills and over and against the rocks of its precipitous bed, or, plunging down some frightful precipice, lay as if stunned or exhausted by the fall in the chasm below, mirroring in its still bosom with a gloomy reflection the craggy steeps rising majestically above it--in this dark and lonely pass, we say, was a party of human beings, to whom the proper development of our story now calls us.
The company in question was composed of eight persons, five of whom were Indians of the Seneca tribe;[5] the others--a thin-faced, gaunt, stoop-shouldered man past the middle age--a rather corpulent, masculine looking woman, a few years his junior--a little fair-haired, blue-eyed, pretty-faced girl of six--were white captives. Four of the Indians were seated or partly reclining on the ground, with their guns beside them, ready for instant use if necessary, engaged in roasting slices of deer meat before a fire that had been kindled for the purpose. The fifth savage was pacing to and fro, with his rifle on his arm, performing the double duty of sentinel and guard over the prisoners, who were kept in durance by strong cords some ten paces distant. The old man was secured by a stick passing across his back horizontally, to which both wrists and arms were tightly bound with thongs of deer skin. To prevent the possibility of escape, both legs were fastened together by the same material, and a long, stout rope, encircling his neck, was attached to a tree hard by. This latter precaution, and much of the former, seemed unnecessary; for there was a mild look of resigned dejection on his features, as they bent toward the earth, with his chin resting on his bosom, that appeared strongly at variance with any thing like flight or strife. His female companion was fastened in like manner to the tree, but in other respects only bound by a stout thong around the wrists in front. The third member of the white party, the little girl, was seated at the feet of the old man, with her small wrists also bound until they had swollen so as to pain her, looking up from time to time into his face with a heart-rending expression of grief, fear and anxiety.
Of the Indians themselves, we presume it would be difficult to find, among all the tribes of America, five more blood-thirsty, villainous looking beings than the ones in question. They were only partially dressed, after the manner of their tribe, with skins around their loins, extending down to their knees, and moccasins on their feet, leaving the rest of their bodies and limbs bare. Around their waists were belts, for the tomahawk and scalping knife, at three of which now hung freshly taken scalps. Their faces had been hideously painted for the war-path; but heat and perspiration had since out done the artist, by running the composition into streaks, in such a way as to give them the most diabolical appearance imaginable. On each of their heads was a tuft of feathers, some of which had the appearance of having recently been scorched and blackened by fire, while their arms and bodies were here and there besmeared with blood.
The four around the fire were in high glee, as they roasted and devoured their meat, judging from their nods, and grins, and grunts of approbation, whenever their eyes glanced in the direction of their prisoners--the effect of which was far from consoling to the matron of the latter; who, having eyed them for some time in indignant silence, at length burst forth with angry vehemence: "Well, now, jest grin, and jabber, and grin, like a pesky set o' natural born monkeys, that's ten times better nor you is any day of your good for nothing, sneaking lives. Goodness, gracious, marsy on me alive!" continued the dame, whom the reader has doubtless recognized as Mrs. Younker; "I only jest wish you had to change places with me and Ben here for about five minutes; and ef I didn't make your old daubed, nasty, villainous, unyarthly looking faces grin to another tune, I hope I may never be blessed with liberty agin in creation, as long as I live on the face o' this univarsal yarth!"
"Ugh!" ejaculated the sentinel, turning towards the speaker, as she concluded her fierce tirade, at the same time placing his hand on the tomahawk in his belt with an angry gesture: "Ugh! me squaw kill--she no stop much talky!"
"You'd kill me, would ye? you mean, dirty, ripscallious looking varmint of the woods you, that don't know a pin from a powder horn!" rejoined the undaunted Mrs. Younker, in a vehement tone: "You'd kill me for using the freedom of tongue, as these blessed Colonies is this moment fighting for with the tarnal Britishers? You'd kill me, would ye? Well, it's jest my first nateral come at opinion, as I tolled Ben here, not more'n a quarter o' an hour ago, that you war jest mean enough for any thing, as ever war invented, in the whole univarsal yarth o' creation--so ef you do kill me, I won't be in the leastest grain disappinted, no how."
"Don't, Dorothy--don't irritate the savage for nothing at all!" said her husband, who, raising his head at the first remark of the Indian, now saw in his fierce, flashing eyes, angry gestures, and awful contortions of visage, that which boded the sudden fulfillment of his threat: "Don't irritate him, and git murdered for your pains, Dorothy! Why can't you be more quiet?"
"Don't talk to me about being quiet, Benjamin Younker, away out here in the woods, a captive to such imps an them thar, with our house all burnt to nothing like, and our cows and sheeps and hosses destructed, and--" Here the speech of the good woman was suddenly cut short by the whizzing of a tomahawk past her head, which slightly grazed her cheek, and lodged in the tree a few feet beyond. Whether it was aimed at her life and missed its mark, or whether it was merely done to frighten her, does not appear; though the manner of the savage, after the weapon was thrown, inclines us to the latter supposition; for instead of rushing upon her with his knife, he walked deliberately to the tree, withdrew the tomahawk, and then turning to her, and brandishing it over her head, said: "Squaw, still be! Speak much, me killum!"
Be the design of the Indian what it might, the whole proceeding certainly produced one result, which nothing had ever been known to do before--it awed to silence the tongue of Mrs. Younker, just at a moment when talking would have been such a relief to her overcharged spirit; and merely muttering, in an under tone, "I do jest believe the ripscallious varmint is in arnest, sure enough!" she held her speech for the extraordinary space of half an hour.
Meantime the other savages finished their repast; and having offered a portion of it to the prisoners, which the latter refused, they proceeded to destroy their fire, by casting the burning brands into the rushing waters of the stream below. This done, they extended their circle somewhat--each placing himself by a tree or rock--and then in the most profound silence stood like bronzed statuary, apparently awaiting the arrival of another party. At last--and just as the sun was beginning to peep over the brow of the steep above them, and let his rays struggle with the matted foliage of the trees, for a glimpse of the roaring waters underneath--one of the Indians started, looked cautiously around, dropped flat upon the earth; and then rising, and motioning with his hand for all to be silent, glided noiselessly away, like the shadow of some evil spirit, into the surrounding thicket. He had scarcely been absent three minutes, when a slight crackling among the brush was heard near at hand; and immediately after he rejoined his companions, followed by a party of eight Indian warriors, and two white prisoners, headed by a low browed, sinister, blood-thirsty looking white man, in a garb resembling that worn by a subordinate British officer. His coat was red, with facings of another color, underneath which was partially displayed a handsome vest and ruffled shirt. About his waist passed a broad wampum belt, in which were confined a brace of silver mounted pistols, another pair of less finish and value, a silver handled dirk, a scalping knife and tomahawk, on whose blades could be seen traces of blood. Around his neck was a neatly tied cravat, and dangling in front of his vest a gold chain, which connected with a watch hid in a pocket of his breeches, whence depended a larger chain of steel, supporting in turn three splendid gold seals and two keys. His nether garments were breeches, leggins, and moccasins, all of deer skin, and without ornament. His hat, not unlike those of the present day, was on this occasion graced with a red feather, which protruded above the crown, and corresponded well with his general appearance.
The Indian companions of this individual were not remarkable for any thing, unless it might be ferocity of expression. They were habited, with but one exception, like those previously described, and evidently belonged to the same tribe. This exception was a large, athletic, powerful Indian, rather rising of six feet, around whose waist was a finely worked wampum belt, over whose right shoulder, in a transverse direction, extended a red scarf, carelessly tied under the left arm, and in whose nose and ears were large, heavy rings, denoting him to be either a chief or one in command. His age was about thirty; and his features, though perhaps less ferocious than some of his companions, were still enough so to make him an object of dread and fear. His forehead was low, his eye black and piercing, and his nose rather flat and widely distended at the nostrils. He was called Peshewa: Anglice, Wild cat.
As the prisoners of the latter party came in sight of those of the former, there was a general start and exclamation of surprise; while the sad faces of each showed how little pleasure they felt in meeting each other under such painful circumstances. The last comers, as the reader has doubtless conjectured, were Algernon and Ella. Immediately on their entering the ravine, as previously recorded, they had been set upon by savages, their horses shot from under them, and themselves made captives. This result, however, as regards Algernon, had not been effected without considerable effort on the part of his numerous enemies. At the first fire, his horse fell; but disentangling himself, and drawing his pistols, he sprung upon the side of his dying beast, and discharged them both at his nearest foes--one of which took effect, and sent a warrior to his last account. Then leaping in among them, he drew his knife and cut madly about him until secured; though doubtless he would have been tomahawked on the spot, only that he might be reserved for the tortures, when his brutal captors should arrive at their destination. Meantime the animal which bore the lovely Ella, being wounded by the same fire which killed her companion's, bounded forward some twenty paces, when a blow on the head with a tomahawk laid him prostrate, and she was secured also. The party then proceeded to bury the dead, at some little distance, and start upon their journey, to join their companions--which latter we have just seen accomplished.
As soon as mutual recognitions had passed between the prisoners, the individual habited in the British uniform stepped forward, and said, jocosely: "So, friends, we all meet again, do we, eh? --ha, ha, ha!"
At the sound of his voice, the old man and his wife, both of whom had been too intently occupied with Algernon and Ella to notice him before, started, and turning their eyes suddenly upon him, simultaneously exclaimed: "Mr. Williams!" " _Sometimes_ Mr. Williams," answered the other, with a strong emphasis on the first word, accompanying it with a horrible oath; "but now, when disguise is no longer necessary, Simon Girty, the renegade, by ----! --ha, ha, ha!"
As he uttered these words, in a coarse, ruffianly tone, a visible shudder of fear or disgust, or both combined, passed through the frame of each of the prisoners; and Algernon turning to him, with an expression of loathing contempt, said: "I more than half suspected as much, when I sometime since contemplated your low-browed, hang-dog countenance. Of course we can expect no mercy at such hands."
"Mercy!" cried Girty, turning fiercely upon him, his eyes gleaming savagely, his mouth twisting into a shape intended to express the most withering contempt, while his words fairly hissed from between his tightly set teeth: "Mercy? dog! No, by h----l! for none like you! Hark ye, Mr. Reynolds! Were you in the damnable cells of the Inquisition, accused of heresy, and about to be put to the tortures, you might think yourself in Paradise compared to what you shall yet undergo!"
As he uttered these words, Ella shrieked and fell fainting to the earth. Springing to her, Girty raised her in his arms; and pointing to her pale features, as he did so, continued: "See! Mr. Reynolds, this girl loves you; I love her; we are rivals; and you, my rival, are in my power: and, by ----! and all the powers of darkness, you shall feel my vengeance!"
"You love her?" broke in Mrs. Younker, who, in spite of her previous dangerous warning, could hold her peace no longer: "You love her! you mean, contemptible, red headed puppy! I don't believe as how you knows enough to love nothing! And so you're Simon Girty, hey? that thar sneaking, red-coat renegade? Well, I reckon as how you've told the truth once; for I've hearn tell that he war an orful mean looking imp o' Satan; and I jest don't believe as how a meaner one nor yourself could be skeer'd up in the whole universal yarth o' creation."
"Rail on, old woman!" replied Girty, as he chafed the temples of Ella with his hands; "but in a little lower key; or I shall be under the necessity of ordering a stopper to your mouth; which, saving the tortures of the stake, is the worst punishment for you I can now invent. As for you, Mr. Younker," continued he, turning his face to the old man, with a peculiar expression; "you seem to have nothing to say to an old friend--ha, ha, ha!"
"Whensomever I mention the name o' Simon Girty," replied Younker, in a deliberate and startlingly solemn tone, "I al'ays call down God's curse upon the fiendish renegade--and I do so now."
"By ----! old man," cried Girty, casting Ella roughly from him, and starting upright, the perfect picture of a fiend in human shape; "another word, and your brains shall be scattered to the four winds of heaven!"
As he spoke, he brandished his tomahawk over the other's head; while the child, before noticed, uttered a wild scream, and sprung to Mrs. Younker, at whose side she crouched in absolute terror.
"Strike!" answered Younker, mildly, with an unchanged countenance, his eye resting steadily upon the other, who could not meet his gaze in the same manner. "Strike! Simon Girty; for I'm a man that's never feared death, and don't now; besides, I reiterate all I've said, and with my dying breath pray God to curse ye!"
"Not yet!" rejoined Girty, smothering his rage, as he replaced his weapon. "Not yet, Ben Younker; for you take death too easy; and by ----! I'll make it have terrors for you! But what child is this?" continued he, grasping the little girl fiercely by the arm, causing her to utter a cry of pain and fear. "By heavens! what do we with squalling children? Here, Oshasqua, I give her in your charge; and if she yelp again, brain her, by ----!" and he closed with an oath.
The Indian whom we have previously noticed as the sentinel, stepped forward, with a demoniac gleam of satisfaction on his ugly countenance, and taking the child by the hand, led her away some ten paces, where he amused himself by stripping her of such apparel as he fancied might ornament his own person; while she, poor little thing, afraid to cry aloud, could only sob forth the bitterness of her heart.
Meantime Girty turning to Ella, and finding her gradually recovering, assisted her to rise; and then motioning the chief aside, he held a short consultation with him, in the Indian dialect, regarding their next proceedings, and the disposal of the prisoners.
"Were it not, Peshewa, for his own base words," said the renegade, in reply to some remark of his Indian ally, "I would have spared him; but now," and his features exhibited a concentrated expression of infernal hate and revenge; "but now, Peshewa, he dies! with all the horrors of the stake, that you, a noble master of the art of torture, can invent and inflict. The Long Knife[6] must not curse the red man's friend in his own camp and go unpunished. I commend him to your mercy, Peshewa--ha, ha, ha!" and he ended with a hoarse, fiend-like laugh.
"Ugh!" returned Wild-cat, giving a gutteral grunt of satisfaction, although not a muscle of his rigid features moved, and, save a peculiar gleam of his dark eye, nothing to show that he felt uncommon interest in the sentence of Younker: "Peshewa a chief! The Great Spirit give him memory--the Great Spirit give him invention. He will remember what he has done to prisoners at the stake,--he can invent new tortures. But the squaw?"
"Ay, the squaw!" answered the renegade, musingly; "the old man's wife--she must be disposed of also. Ha! a thought strikes me, Peshewa: You have no wife--(the savage gave a grunt)--suppose you take her?"
Peshewa started, and his eyes flashed fire, as he said, with great energy: "Does the wolf mate with his hunter, that you ask a chief of the Great Spirit's red children to mate with their white destroyer?"
"Then do with her what you ---- please," rejoined Girty, throwing in an oath. "I was only jesting, Peshewa. But come, we must be on the move! for this last job will not be long a secret; and then we shall have the Long Knives after us as hot as h----l. We must divide our party. I will take with me these last prisoners and six warriors, and you the others. A quarter of a mile below here we will separate and break our trail in the stream; you and your party by going up a piece--I and mine by going down. This will perplex them, and give us time. Make your trail conspicuous, Peshewa, and I will be careful to leave none whatever, if I can help it; for, by ----! I must be sure to escape with my prisoners. If you are close pressed, you can brain and scalp yours; but for some important reasons, I want mine to live. We will meet, my noble Peshewa, at the first bend of the Big Miama."
The Indian heard him through, without moving a muscle of his seemingly blank features, and then answered, a little haughtily: "Kitchokema[7] plans all, and gives his red brother all the danger; but Peshewa is brave, and fears not."
"And do you think it's through fear?" asked Girty, angrily.
"Peshewa makes no charges against his brother," answered Wild-cat, quietly.
"Perhaps it is as well he don't," rejoined Girty, in an under tone, knitting his brows; and then quickly added: "Come, Peshewa, let us move; for while we tarry, we are giving time to our white foes."
Thus ended the conference; and in a few minutes after the whole party was in motion. Following the course of the waters down to the base of the hills, they came to a sloping hollow of some considerable extent, where the stream ran shallow over a smooth, beautiful bed. Into this latter the whole company now entered, for the purpose of breaking the trail, as previously arranged by Girty; and here they divided, according to his former plan also.
If the unhappy prisoners regretted meeting one another in distress, their parting regrets were an hundred fold more poignant; for to them it seemed evidently the last time they would ever behold on earth each others faces; and this thought alone was enough to dim the eyes of Ella and her adopted mother with burning tears, and shake their frames with heart-rending sobs of anguish; while the old man and Algernon, though both strove to be stoical, could not look on unmoved to a similar show of grief. Since their meeting, the captives had managed to converse together sufficiently to learn the manner of each others capture, and give each other some hope of being successfully followed and released by their friends; but now, when they saw the caution displayed by their enemies in breaking the trail, they began to fear for the result. Just before entering the stream, they passed through a cluster of bushes that skirted the river's bank; and Ella, the only prisoner whose hands were unbound, by a quick and sly movement succeeded in detaching a portion of her dress, which she there left as a sign to those who might follow, that she was still alive, and so encourage them to proceed, in case they were about to falter and turn back.
The separation being now speedily effected, the two parties were quickly lost to each other--Girty and his band going down the bed of the stream some two hundred yards before touching the bank; and the others, headed by Wild-cat, going up about half that distance.
Leaving each to their journey, let us now return to the band already in pursuit.
[Footnote 5: Some historians have stated that the Indians here alluded to were Mingoes, and _not_ Senecas; and that they were a remnant of the celebrated Logan's tribe.]
[Footnote 6: Sometimes Big Knife--first applied to the Virginians by the Indians.]
[Footnote 7: Great Chief--a term sometimes given to Girty by the Indians.]
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{
"id": "15424"
}
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9
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THE PURSUERS.
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About a hundred yards from where Boone and his young companions set forth, the dog, which was running along before them, paused, and with his nose to the ground, set up a fierce bark. When arrived at the spot, the party halted, and perceived the body of an Indian, slightly covered with earth, leaves, and a few dry bushes. Hastily throwing off the covering from his head, they discovered hideous features, wildly distorted by the last throe of death, and bloody from a wound in his forehead made by a ball. His scalp had been taken off also, by those who buried him--from fear, probably, that he would be found by enemies, and this secured as a trophy--a matter of disgrace which the savage, under all circumstances, ever seeks to avoid, both for himself and friends.
"Well done, Master Reynolds!" observed Boone, musingly, spurning the body with his foot, turning away, and resuming his journey: "You're a brave young man; and I'll bet my life to a bar-skin, did your best under the sarcumstances; and ef it's possible, we'll do somewhat for you in return."
"Well, ef he arn't a brave chap--that thar same Algernon Reynolds--then jest put it down as how Isaac Younker don't know nothing 'bout faces," returned the individual in question, in reply to Boone. "I never seed a man with his fore'ed and eye as would run from danger when a friend war by wanting his sarvice."
"Ay, he is indeed a clever youth!" rejoined Boone.
"Well, Colonel, he's all that," again returned Isaac; "and I'll al'ays look 'pon't in the light o' a sarvice, that you jest placed him in my hands, when he war wounded; for to do sech as him a kindness, al'ays carries along its own reward. And Ella--my poor, sweet cousin, as war raised up in good sarcumstances, and lost her all--she too I reckon feels kind o' grateful to you, Colonel, besides."
"As how?" asked Boone.
"Why, I don't know's it's exactly right for me to tell as how," replied Isaac, shrewdly, who was fearful of saying what Ella herself might wish kept a secret.
"I understand ye," said Boone, in a low tone, heard only by Isaac; and the subject was then changed for one more immediately connected with their present journey.
In the course of conversation that followed, it was asked of Boone how he chanced to be in the vicinity, and learned of the calamity that had befallen Algernon and Ella, before any of the others; to which he replied, by stating that he was on his way from Boonesborough to Bryan's Station, and coming into the path just above the ravine, had been indebted to his noble brute companion for the discovery--a circumstance which raised Cæsar in the estimation of the whole party to a wonderful degree. Nor was this estimation lessened by the conduct of Cæsar himself in the present instance; for true to his training, instinct, and great sagacity, he led them forward at a rapid pace, and seemed possessed of reasoning powers that would have done no discredit to an intelligent human being. One instance in point is worthy of note. In passing through a dense thicket on the Indian trail, the noble brute discovered a small fragment of ribbon, which he instantly seized in his mouth, and, turning back to his master, came up to him, wagging his tail, with a look expressive of joy, and dropped it at his feet. On examination it was recognized as a detached portion of a ribbon worn by Ella; and this little incident gave great animation and encouragement to the party--as it proved that she at least was yet alive, and had a hope of being followed by friends.
Some two hours from their leaving the ravine, they came to the dark pass, where we have seen the meeting between the two Indian parties. Here our pursuers halted a few minutes to examine the ground, and form conjectures as to what had taken place--in doing which, all paid the greatest deference to the opinions and judgment of Boone, who was looked upon by all who knew him as a master of the woodman's craft.
After gazing intently for some time at the foot prints, Boone informed his companions that another party had been in waiting, had been joined by the others, and that all had proceeded together down the stream; and moreover, that there was an addition of white prisoners, one of which was a child. This caused a great sensation among his listeners--many of whom had lost their relatives, as the reader already knows--and Hope, the cheering angel, which hovers around us on our pathway through life, began to revive in each breast, that the friends they were mourning as dead, might still be among the living, and so made them more eager than ever to press on to the rescue.
At the river's bank, the sagacious Cæsar discovered another piece of ribbon--dropped there as the reader knows by Ella--which he carried in triumph to his master, and received in turn a few fond caresses.
"Here," said Boone, as himself and companions entered the streamlet, whose clear, bright waters, to the depth of some three inches, rolled merrily over a smooth bed, with a pleasing murmur: "Here, lads, I reckon we'll have difficulty; for the red varmints never enter a stream for nothing; and calculating pretty shrewdly they'd be followed soon, no doubt they've taken good care to puzzle us for the trail. Ef it be as I suspect, we'll divide on the other side, and a part o' us go up, and a part down, till we come agin upon thar track. But then agin," added Boone, musingly, with a troubled expression, "it don't follow, that because they entered the stream they crossed it; and it's just as likely they've come out on the same side they went in; so that we'll have to make four divisions, and start on the sarch."
Accordingly on reaching the other shore, and finding the trail was lost, Boone divided the party--assigning each his place--and separating, six of them recrossed the stream; and dividing again, two, headed by Isaac, went up, and two, led by Henry Millbanks, went down along the bank; while Boone and Seth Stokes, with the rest, proceeded in like manner on the opposite side; and the dog flew hither and yon, to render what service he could also. For something like a quarter of an hour not the least trace of the savages could be found, when at last the voice of Isaac was heard shouting: "I've got it--I've got it! Here it is, jest as plain and nateral as cornstalks--Hooray!"
In a few minutes the whole company was gathered around Isaac, who pointed triumphantly to his discovery.
"That's the trail, sure enough," observed Boone, bending down to scan it closely; "and rather broad it is too. It's not common for the wily varmints to do thar business in so open a manner, and I suspicion it's done for some trickery. Look well to your rifles, lads, and be prepared for an ambush in yon thicket just above thar, while I look carefully along this, for a few rods, just to see ef I can make out thar meaning. They've spread themselves here considerable," continued the old hunter, after examining the trail a few minutes in silence; "but ef they think to deceive one that has been arter 'em as many times as I, they've made quite a mistake; for I can see clean through their tricks, as easy as light comes through greased paper."
"What discovery have you made now?" inquired young Millbanks, who, together with the others, pressed eagerly around Boone to hear his answer.
"Why I've diskivered what I war most afeard on," answered the woodsman. "I've diskivered that the varmints have divided, for the sake of giving us trouble, or leading us astray from them as they cares most about. See here!" and bending down to the ground, Boone pointed out to his young companions, many of whom were entirely ignorant of that ingenious art of wood-craft, whereby the experienced hunter knows his safety or danger in the forest as readily as the sailor knows his on the ocean, and which appears to the uninitiated like a knowledge superhuman--Boone pointed out to them, we say, three distinct foot prints, which he positively asserted were neither made by the Indians nor the captives of the ravine.
"But I'd jest like to know, Colonel Boone, how you can be so sartin o' what you declar, ef it would'nt be for putting you to too much trouble," said one of the party, in surprise.
"Obsarve," replied Boone, who, notwithstanding it would cause some little delay, was willing to gratify his young friends, by imparting to them what information he could regarding an art so important to frontier life: "Obsarve that print thar (pointing with his finger to the largest one of the three;) now that war never made by Master Reynolds, for it's much too big; and this I know from having got the dimension o' his track afore I left the ravine to trail him; and I know it war never made by one o' the red heathen, for it arn't, the shape o' thar feet,; and besides, you'll notice how the toe turns out'ard from the heel--a thing an Indian war never guilty on--for they larn from children to tread straight forward. The next one you'll obsarve turns out in like manner; and though it's smaller nor the first, it arn't exactly the shape of Reynold's, and it's too big for Ella's; and moreover I opine it's a woman's--though for the matter o' that I only guess at it. The third you perceive is the child's; and them thar three are the only ones you can find that arn't Indian's. Now note agin that the trail's spread here, and that here and thar a twig's snapped on the bushes along thar way; which the red-skins have done a purpose to make thar course conspicuous, to draw thar pursuers on arter 'em, prehaps for an ambush, prehaps to keep them from looking arter the others."
"In this perplexity what are we to do?" inquired young Millbanks.
"Why," answered Boone, energetically, "Heaven knows my heart yearns to rescue all my fellow creaters who're in distress; but more particularly, prehaps, them as I know's desarving; and as I set out for Master Reynolds, and his sweet companion, Ella Barnwell, God bless her! I somehow reckon it's my duty to follow them--though I leave the rest o' ye to choose for yourselves. Ef you want to divide, and part go this trail and part follow me, mayhap it'll be as well in the end."
This plan seemed the best that could be adopted under the circumstances; and after some further consultation among themselves, it was finally agreed that Isaac, with six others--two of whom were Switcher and Stokes--should proceed on the present trail; while Millbanks and the remainder should accompany Boone. Isaac was chosen as the most suitable one to lead his party, on account of his foresight and shrewdness, and, withal, some little knowledge which he possessed of the country and the woodsman's art, previously gained in a tour with his father, when seeking a location, together with an expedition of considerable extent shortly after made with Boone himself.
To him, as the leader, the noble old hunter now turned, and in a brief manner imparted some very important advice, regarding his mode of proceeding under various difficulties, particularly cautioned him against any rash act, and concluded by saying, "Wharsomever or howsomever you may be fixed, Isaac, and you his companions, (addressing the young men by his side) don't never forget the injunction o' Daniel Boone, your friend, that you must be cool, steady and firm; and whensomever you fire at a painted varmint, be sure you don't throw away your powder!"
He then proceeded to shake hands with each, bidding them farewell and God speed, in a manner so earnest and touching as to draw tears from many an eye unused to the melting mood. The parting example of Boone was now imitated by the others, and in a few minutes both divisions had resumed their journey.
Dividing his party again as before, Boone proceeded with them to examine closely both banks of the stream for the other trail. Commencing where they had left off on the announcement of Isaac, they moved slowly downward, taking due note of every bush, leaf and blade as they went along--often pausing and bending on their knees, to observe some spot more minutely, where it seemed probable their enemies had withdrawn from the water. Cæsar, too, apparently comprehending the object of their search, ran to and fro, snuffing at every thing he saw, sometimes with his nose to the ground and sometimes elevated in the air. At length he gave a peculiar whine, at a spot about twenty yards below that which had been reached by his master, on the side opposite Isaac's discovery; and hastening to him, Boone immediately communicated to the others the cheering intelligence that the trail had been found.
Each now hurrying forward, the old hunter was soon joined by his young friends; not one of whom, on coming up, failed to express surprise that he should be so positive of what their eyes gave them not the least proof. The place where they were now assembled, was at the base of a hill, which terminated the flat or hollow in that direction, and turned the stream at a short bend off to the left, along whose side its waters ran for some twenty yards, when the arm projection of the ridge ended, and allowed it to turn and almost retrace its path on the opposite side--thus forming an elliptical bow. At the point in question, rose a steep bank of rocks, of limestone formation, against which the stream, during the spring and fall floods had rolled its tide to a height of six or eight feet; and had lodged there, from time to time, various sorts of refuse--such as old leaves, branches and roots of trees, and the like encumbrances to the smooth flow of its waters. On these rocks it was that the eyes of the party were now fixed; while their faces exhibited expressions of astonishment, that the old hunter should be able to distinguish marks of a recent trail, where they could perceive nothing but the undisturbed surface of what perhaps had been ages in forming.
"And so, lads, you don't see no trail thar, eh?" said Boone, with a quiet smile, after having listened to various observations of the party, during which time he had been carelessly leaning on his rifle.
"Why, I must confess I can see nothing of the kind," answered Henry.
"Nor I," rejoined another of the party.
"Well, ef thar be any marks o' a trail here, jest shoot me with red pepper and salt, ef ever I'm cotched bragging on my eyes agin," returned a third.
"That thar observation'll hold good with me too" uttered a fourth.
"Here's in," said the fifth and last.
"You're all young men, and have got a right smart deal to larn yet," resumed Boone, "afore you can be turned out rale ginuine woodsmen and hunters. Now mark that thar small pebble stone, that lies by your feet on the rock. Ef you look at it right close, you'll perceive that on one side on't the dirt looks new and fresh--which proves it's jest been started from its long quietude. Now cast your eyes a little higher up, agin yon dirt ridge which partly kivers them thar larger stones, and you'll see an indent that this here pebble stone just fits. Now something had to throw that down, o' course; and ef you'll just look right sharp above it, you'll see a smaller dent, that war made by the toe of some human foot, in getting up the bank. Agin you'll observe that thar dry twig, just above still, has been lately broke, as ef by the person war climbing up taking hold on't for assistance; but that warn't the reason the climber broke it--it war done purposely; as you'll see by the top part being bent up the hill, as ef to point us on. By the Power that made me!" added Boone, gazing for a moment at the broken twig intently, "ef I arn't wondrously mistaken, thar's a leaf hanging to it in a way nater never fixed it."
"Right, there is!" cried Henry, who, looking up with, the rest, chanced to observe it at the same moment with Boone; and springing forward with a light bound, he soon reached the spot, and returned with it in his hand. It was a fall leaf, which had been fastened in a hasty manner to the twig in question, by a pin through its center. On one side of it was scrawled, in characters difficult to be deciphered: "_Follow--fast--for the love of Heaven! --E._" As Millbanks, after looking at it closely, read off these words, Boone started, clutched his rifle with an iron grasp, and merely saying, in a quiet manner, "Onward, lads--I trust you're now satisfied!" he sprang up the rocks with an agility that threatened to leave his young companions far in the rear.
All now pressed forward with renewed energy; and having gained the summit of the hill, which here rose to the height of eighty feet, they were enabled, by the aid of Cæsar, to come quickly upon the trail of the Indians, who, doubtless supposing themselves now safe from pursuit, had taken little or no pains to conceal their course. Of this their pursuers now took advantage, and hurried onward with long and rapid strides; now through thick dark woods and gloomy hollows; now up steep hills and rocky barren cliffs; now through tangles and over marshy grounds--clearing all obstacles that presented themselves with an ease which showed that notwithstanding some of them might be inferior as woodsmen, none were at all events as travelers in the woods.
By noon the party had advanced some considerable distance, and were probably not far in the rear of the pursued--at least such was the opinion of Boone--when they were again, to their great vexation, put at fault for the trail, by the cunning of the renegade, who, to prevent all accidents, had here once more broken it, by entering another small streamlet--a branch of Eagle river; and although our friends set to with all energy and diligence to find it, yet, from the nature of the ground round about, the darkness of the wood through which the rivulet meandered, and several other causes, they were unable to do so for three good hours.
This delay tended not a little to discourage the younger members of our pursuing party, who, in consequence, began to be low spirited, and less eager than before to press forward when the trail was again found; but a few words from Boone in a chiding manner, telling them that if they faltered at every little obstacle, they would be unfit representatives of border life, served to stimulate them to renewed exertions. To add to the discomfort of all--not excepting Boone himself--the sun, which had thus far shone out warm and brilliant, began to grow more and more dim, as a thick haze spread through the atmosphere overhead, foretokening an approaching storm--an event which might prove entirely disastrous to their hopes, by obliterating all vestiges of the pursued. As the gallant old hunter moved onward with rapid strides--preceded by the faithful brute, which, on the regular trail, greatly facilitated their progress, by saving the company a close scrutiny of their course--he from time to time cast his eyes upward and noted the thickening atmosphere with an anxious and troubled expression.
For some time the sun shone faintly; then his rays became entirely obscured, and his position could only be discerned by a bright spot in the heavens; this, ere he reached the horizon, became obscured also; when the old hunter, who had watched every sign closely, looking anxiously toward the west, observed: "I don't like it, lads; thar's a storm a brewing for sartin, and we shall be drenched afore to-morrow morning. Howsomever," he continued, "it arn't the wetting as I cares any thing about--for I'm used to the elements in all thar stages, and don't fear 'em no more'n a dandy does a feather bed--but the trail will be lost, in arnest this time; and then we'll have to give in, or follow on by guess work. It's this as troubles me; for I'm fearful poor Ella and Reynolds won't get succor in time. But keep stout hearts, lads," he added, as he noticed gloomy expressions sweep over the faces of his followers; "keep stout hearts--don't get melancholy; for in this here world we've got to take things as we find 'em; and no doubt this storm's all for the best, ef we could only see ahead like into futurity."
With this consoling reflection the hunter again quickened his pace, and pressed forward until the shadows of evening warned him to seek out an encampment for the gathering night. Accordingly, sweeping the adjoining country with an experienced eye, his glance soon rested on a rocky ridge, some quarter of a mile to the right, at whose base he judged might be found a comfortable shelter from the coming rain. Communicating his thoughts to his companions, all immediately quitted the trail and advanced toward it, where they arrived in a few minutes, and found, to their delight, that the experienced woodsman had not been wrong in his conjectures. A cave of no mean dimensions was fortunately discovered, after a short search among the rocks, into which all now gathered; and striking a light, they made a small fire near the entrance; around which they assembled and partook of the refreshments brought with them--Boone declaring he had not tasted a morsel of food since leaving Boonsborough early in the morning. The meal over, the young men disposed themselves about the cave in the best manner possible for their own comfort: and being greatly fatigued by their journey, and the revels of the night previous, they very soon gave evidence of being in a sleep too deep for dreams. Boone sat by the fire, apparently in deep contemplation, until a few embers only remained; then pointing Cæsar to his place near the entrance, he threw himself at length upon the ground, and was soon imitating the example of his young comrades.
Early in the evening it came on to blow very hard from the east; and about midnight set in to rain, as Boone had predicted; which it continued to do the rest of the night; nor were there any signs of its abatement, when the party arose to resume their journey on the following morning.
"What can't be cured must be endured," said Boone, quoting an old proverb, as he gazed forth upon the storm. "We must take sech as comes, lads, without grumbling; though I do'nt know's thar's any sin in wishing it war a little more to our liking. Howsomever," he added, "prehaps it won't be so much agin us arter all; for the red varmints mayhap 'll think as how all traces of 'em have been washed away, and, feeling safe from pursuit, be less cautious about their proceedings; and by keeping on the same course, we may chance upon 'em unawares. So come, lads, let's eat and be off."
Accordingly, making a hasty breakfast, and securing the remainder of their provision as well as ammunition in the ample bosoms of their hunting frocks--which were always made large for such and similar purposes--tightening the belts about their bodies, and placing their rifles, locks downward, under the ample skirts of their frocks, to shield them from the rain, the whole party sallied forth upon their second day's adventure. Regaining the spot they had quitted the evening before, Boone took a long look in the direction whence they first approached; and then shaping his course so as to bear as near as possible on a direct line with it, set forward at a quick pace, going a very little west of due north.
In this manner our pursuers continued their journey for some three or four hours, scarcely exchanging a syllable--the storm beating fiercely against their faces and drenching their bodies--when an incident occurred of the most alarming kind.
They had descended a hill, and were crossing an almost open plain of some considerable extent--which was bounded on the right by a wood, and on the left by a cane-brake--and had nearly gained its center, when they were startled by a deep rumbling sound, resembling the mighty rushing of a thousand horse. Nearer and nearer came the rushing sound; while each one paused, and many a pale face was turned with an anxious, inquiring glance upon Boone; whose own, though a shade paler than usual, was composed in every feature, as he gazed, without speaking, in the direction whence the noise proceeded.
"Good heavens! what is it?" cried Henry, in alarm.
"Behold!" answered Boone, pointing calmly toward the cane-brake.
A cry of surprise, despair and horror, escaped every tongue but the old hunter's--as, at that moment, a tremendous herd of buffaloes, numbering thousands, was seen rushing from the brake, and bearing directly toward the spot where our party stood. Escape by flight was impossible; for the animals were scarcely four hundred yards distant, and booming forward with the speed of the frightened wild horse of the prairie. Nothing was apparent but speedy death, and in its most horrible form, that of dying unknown beneath the hoofs of the wild beasts of the wilderness. In this awful moment of suspense, which seemingly but preceded the disuniting of soul and body, each of the young men turned a breathless look of horror upon the old hunter, such as landsmen in a terrible gale at sea would turn upon the commander of the vessel; but, save an almost imperceptible quiver of the lips, not a muscle of the now stern countenance of Boone changed.
"Merciful Heaven! --we are lost!" cried Henry, wildly. "Oh! such a death!"
"Every man's got to die when his time comes--but none afore; and yourn hasn't come yet, Master Harry," replied Boone, quietly; "unless," he added, a moment after, as he raised his rifle to his eye, "Betsey here's forgot her old tricks."
As he spoke, his gun flashed, a report followed, and one of the foremost of the herd, an old bull, which had gained a point within a hundred yards of the marksman, stumbled forward and rolled over on the earth, with a loud bellow of pain His companions, which were pressing close behind, snorted with fear, as they successively came up; and turning aside, on either hand, made a furrow in their ranks; that, gradually widening as they advanced, finally cleared our friends by a space of twenty yards; and so passed they on, making the very earth tremble under their mighty trend. [8] It was a sublime sight--to behold such a tremendous caravan of wild beasts rushing past--and one that filled each of the spectators, even when they knew all danger was over, with a sense of trembling awe; and they stood and gazed in silence, until the last of the herd was lost to their vision; then advancing to the noble hunter, Henry silently grasped his hard, weather-beaten hand, and turned away with tearful eyes--an example that was followed by each of the others, and which was more heart touchingly expressive of their feelings, than would have been a vocabulary of appropriate words.
Our party next proceeded to examine the wounded bull, which was still bellowing with rage and pain; and having carefully approached and despatched him with their knives, they found that the ball of Boone had entered a vital part. Taking from him a few slices of meat, to serve them in case their provisions ran short, they once more resumed their journey--the wind still easterly and the storm raging.
About three hours past noon the storm began to show signs of abatement--the wind blew less hard, and had veered several points to the north--an event which the old hunter noted with great satisfaction. They had now gained a point within ten miles of the beautiful Ohio; when the dog--which, since he had had no trail to guide him, ran where he chose--commenced barking spiritedly, some fifty paces to the left of the party, who immediately set off at a brisk gait to learn the cause.
"I'll wager what you dare, lads, the pup's found the trail," said Boone.
The event proved him in the right; for on coming up, the footsteps of both captors and captives, who had evidently passed there not over three hours before, could be distinctly traced in the soft earth. A shout--not inferior in power and duration to that set up by crazy-headed politicians, on the election of some favorite--was sent away to the hills, announcing the joy of our party; which the hills, as if partakers also of the hilarious feelings, in turn duly echoed.
This new, important, and unexpected discovery, raised the spirits of all our company to a high degree; and they again set forward at a faster gait than ever, so as to overtake the pursued if possible before they crossed the Ohio river. The trail was now broad and distinct; and the footprints of the Indians, as also those of their captives, Algernon and Ella, could be clearly defined wherever the ground chanced to be of a clayey nature. In something like two hours our pursuers succeeded in reaching the river; but unfortunately too late to intercept their enemies and rescue their friends, who had already crossed sometime before. By trailing them to the water's edge, they discovered the very spot where the canoes of the savages had been secreted on the beach, behind some drift-logs, nearly opposite the mouth of the Great Miami.
"Ef we'd only been here a little sooner," observed Boone, musingly, "we'd ha' saved some o' the varmints the trouble of paddling over thar; or ef we only had the means o' crossing now, we'd be upon 'em afore they war aware on't. Howsomever, as it is, I suppose we'll have to make a raft to cross on, and so give the red heathen a little more time."
"Is it not possible, Colonel," answered Millbanks, in a suggestive way, "that the Indians, forming the two parties, may all be of the game tribe, and have crossed here together, when they came over to make the attack? and that the boats of the other division, unless they have recrossed, may still be secreted not far hence?"
"By the Power that made me!" exclaimed Boone, energetically; "a good thought, lad--a good thought, Master Harry--and we'll act on't at once, by sarching along the banks above here; for as the other varmints took off to the east, it am't improbable they've just steered a little round about, to come down on 'em, while these went right straight ahead."
At once proceeding upon this suggestion, Boone and his companions commenced a close examination along the shore; which finally resulted in their finding, as had been premised, not the canoes themselves, but traces of where they had recently been, together with the trail of the other party, who had also arrived at this point and crossed over. This caused no little sensation among our pursuers; who, scanning the footprints eagerly, and perceiving thereby that the prisoners were still along with their captors, scarcely knew whether most to grieve or rejoice. One thing at least was cheering--they were still alive; and could their friends, the present party, succeed in crossing the river during the night, might be rescued. But where was Isaac and his band, was the next important query. If, as they ardently hoped, he and his comrades had not lost the trail, they might be expected to join them soon--a reinforcement which would render them comparatively safe.
Meantime the storm had wholly subsided--the wind blew strong and cold from the northwest--a few broken, dripping clouds sailed slowly onward--while the sun, a little above the horizon, again shone out clear and bright, and painted a beautiful bow on the cloudy ground of the eastern heavens.
"Well, lads, the storm's over, thank God!" said Boone, glancing upward, with an expression of satisfaction; "and now, as day-light'll be scarce presently, we'll improve what there is, in constructing a raft to cross over on; and maybe Isaac and the rest on 'em will join us in time to get a ride."
As the old hunter concluded, he at once applied himself to laying out such drift logs as were thought suitable for the purpose, in which he was assisted by three of the others, the remaining two proceeding into the bushes to cut withes for binding them together; and so energetic and diligent was each in his labors, that, ere twilight had deepened into night, the rude vessel was made, launched, and ready to transport its builders over the waters. They now resolved to take some refreshment, and wait until night had fully set in, in the faint hope that Isaac might possibly make his appearance. With this intent, our party retired up the bank, into the edge of the wood that lined the shore, for the purpose of kindling a fire, that they might dry their garments, and roast some portions of the slaughtered bull.
Scarcely had they succeeded, after several attempts, in effecting a bright, ruddy blaze--which threw from their forms, dark, fantastic shadows, against the earth, trees and neighboring bushes--when Cæsar uttered a low, deep growl; and Boone, grasping his rifle tightly, motioned his companions to follow him in silence into an adjoining thicket. Here, after cautioning them to remain perfectly quiet, unless they heard some alarm, he carefully parted the bushes, and glided noiselessly away, saying, in a low tone, as he departed: "I rather 'spect it's Isaac; but I'd like to be sartin on't, afore I commit myself."
For some five or ten minutes after the old hunter disappeared, all was silent, save the crackling of the fire, the rustling of the leaves, the sighing of the wind among the trees, and the rippling of the now swollen and muddy waters of the Ohio. At length the sound of a voice was heard some fifty paces distant, followed immediately by another in a louder tone.
On hearing this, our friends in the thicket rushed forward, and were soon engaged in shaking the hands of Isaac and his comrades, with a heartiness on both sides that showed the pleasure of meeting was earnest, and unalloyed.
As more important matters are now pressing hard upon us, and as our space is limited, we shall omit the detail of Isaac's adventures, as also the further proceedings of both parties for the present, and substitute a brief summary.
The trail on which Isaac and his party started the day before, being broad and open, they had experienced but little difficulty in following it, until about noon, when they reached a stream where it was broken, which caused them some two hours delay. This, doubtless, prevented them from overtaking the enemy that day; and the night succeeding, not having found quarters as comfortable as Boone's, they had been thoroughly soaked with rain. The trail in the morning was entirely obliterated; but pursuing their course in a manner simitar to that adopted by Boone, the result had happily been the same, and the meeting of the two parties the consequence, at a moment most fortunate to both.
All now gathered around the fire, to dry their garments, refresh themselves with food, tell over to each other their adventures, and consult as to their future course. It was finally agreed to cross the stream that night; in the hope, by following up the Miami, to stumble upon the encampment of their adversaries; who were, doubtless, at no great distance; and who, as they judged, feeling themselves secure, might easily be surprised to advantage. How they succeeded in their perilous undertaking, coming events must show.
[Footnote 8: A similar occurrence to the above is recorded of Boone's first appearance in the Western Wilds. --_See Boone's Life--By Flint_]
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{
"id": "15424"
}
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10
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THE RENEGADE AND HIS PRISONERS.
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The feelings in the breasts of Algernon and Ella, as they reluctantly moved onward, captives to a savage, bloodthirsty foe, are impossible to be described. To what awful end had fate destined them? and in what place were they to drain the last bitter dregs of woe? How much anguish of heart, how much racking of soul, and how much bodily suffering was to be their portion, ere death, almost their only hope, would set them free? True, they might be rescued by friends--such things had been done--but the probability thereof was as ten to one against them; and when they perceived the care with which the renegade sought to destroy all vestiges of their course, their last gleam of hope became nearly extinguished.
We have previously stated that Ella was left unbound; but wherefore, would perhaps be hard to conjecture; unless we suppose that the renegade--feeling for her that selfish affection which pervades the breasts of all beings, however base or criminal, to a greater or less degree--fancied it would be adding unnecessary cruelty to bind heir delicate hands. Whatever the cause, matters but little; but the fact itself was of considerable importance to Ella; who took advantage of her freedom, in passing the bushes before noticed, to snatch a leaf unperceived, whereon, by great adroitness, she managed to trace with a pin a few almost illegible characters; and also, in ascending the bank, which she was allowed to do in her own way, to throw down with her foot the stone, break the twig at the same instant, and pin the leaf to it, in the faint hope that an old hunter might follow on the trail, who, if he came to the spot, would hardly fail to notice it.
The freedom thus given to Ella, and the deference shown her by the renegade and his allies--who appeared to treat her with the same respect they would have done the wife of their chief--were in striking contrast with their manners toward Algernon, on whom they seemed disposed to vent their scorn by petty insults. Believing that his doom was sealed, he became apparently resigned to his fate, nor seemed to notice, save with stoical indifference, any thing that took place around him. This quiet, inoffensive manner, was far from pleasing to Girty, who would much rather have seen him chafing under his bondage, and manifesting a desire to escape its toil. But if this was the outward appearance, not so was the inward feelings of our hero. He knew his fate--unless he could effect an escape, of which he had little hope--and he nerved himself to meet and seem to his captors careless of it; but his soul was already on the rack of torture. This was not for himself alone; for Algernon was a brave man, and in reality feared not death; though, like many another brave man, be had no desire to die at his time of life, especially with all the tortures of the stake, which he knew, from Girty's remark, would be his assignment; but his soul was harrowed at the thought of Ella--her awful doom--and what she might be called upon to undergo: perhaps a punishment a thousand times worse than death--that of being the pretended wife, but in reality the mistress, of the loathsome renegade. This thought to him was torture--almost madness--and it was only by the most powerful struggle with himself, that he could avoid exposing his feelings.
For a time, after ascending the rocky bank of the stream and gaining the hill, the renegade and his Indian allies, with their captives, moved silently onward at a fast pace; but at length, slackening his speed somewhat, Girty approached the side of Algernon, who was bound in a manner similar to Younker, with his wrists corded to a cross bar behind his back; and apparently examining them a moment or two, in a sneering tone, said: "How-comes it that the bully fighter of the British, under the cowardly General Gates, should be so tightly bound, away out in this Indian country, and a captive to a _renegade_ agent? --ha, ha, ha!"
The pale features of Algernon, as he heard this taunt, grew suddenly crimson, and then more deadly white than ever--his fingers fairly worked in their cords, and his respiration seemed almost to stifle him--so powerfully were his passions wrought upon by the cowardly insults of his adversary; but at last all became calm and stoical again; when turning to Girty, he coolly examined him from head to heel, from heel to head; and then moving away his eyes, as if the sight were offensive to him, quietly said: "An honest man would be degraded by condescending to hold discourse with so mean a _thing_ as Simon Girty the renegade."
At these words Girty started, as if bit by a serpent--the aspect of his dark sinister features changed to one concentrated expression of hellish rage--his eyes seemed to turn red--his lips quivered--the nostrils of his flat ugly nose distended--froth issued from his mouth--while his fingers worked convulsively at the handle of his tomahawk, and his whole frame trembled like a tree shaken by a whirlwind. For some time he essayed to speak, in vain; but at last he hissed forth, as he whirled the tomahawk aloft: "Die! --dog! --die!"
Ella uttered a piercing shriek of fear, and sprung forward to arrest the blow; but ere she could have reached the renegade; the axe would have been buried to the helve in the brain of Algernon, had not a tall, powerful Indian suddenly interposed his rifle between it and the victim.
"Is the great chief a child, or in his dotage," he said to Girty, in the Shawanoe dialect, "that he lets passion run away with his reason? Is not the Big Knife already doomed to the tortures? And would the white chief give him the death of a warrior?"
"No, by ----!" cried Girty, with an oath. "He shall have a dog's death! Right! Mugwaha--right! I thank you for your interference--I was beside myself. The stake--the torture--the stake--ha, ha, ha!" added he in English, with a hoarse laugh, which his recent passion made sound fiend-like and unearthly; and as he concluded, he smote Algernon on the cheek with the palm of his hand.
The latter winced somewhat, but mastered his feelings and made no reply; and the renegade resuming his former pace, the party again proceeded in silence.
Toward night, Ella became so fatigued and exhausted by the long day's march, that it was with the greatest difficulty she could move forward at all; and Girty, taking some compassion on her, ordered the party to halt, until a rough kind of litter could be prepared; on which being seated, she was borne forward by four of the Indians. At dark they halted at the base of a hill, where they encamped and found a partial shelter from the wind and rain. At daylight they again resumed their journey; and by four o'clock in the afternoon arrived at the river, which they immediately crossed in their canoes; and, as the water was found in a good stage, did not land until they reached the first bend of the Miami--the place agreed on for the meeting between Girty and Wild-cat.
As the latter chief and his party had not yet made their appearance, Girty and his band went ashore with their prisoners, and took shelter under one of the largest trees in the vicinity, to await their coming. Of this expected meeting, the captives as yet knew nothing; and it was of course not without considerable surprise, mingled with a saddened joy, that they observed the approach, some half an hour later, of their friends and enemies.
Ella, on first perceiving their canoes silently advancing up the stream, started up with a cry of joy, which was the next moment saddened by the thought that she was only welcoming her relatives to a miserable doom. Still it was a joy to know they were yet alive; and as the sinking heart is ever buoyed up with hope, until completely engulfed in the dark billows of despair--so she could not, or would not, altogether banish the animating feeling, that something might yet interfere to save them all from destruction. As the canoes touched the shore, Ella sprung forward to greet her adopted mother and father; but her course was suddenly checked by one of the Indian warriors, who, grasping her somewhat roughly by the arm, with a gutteral grunt and fierce gesture of displeasure, pointed her back to her former place. Ella, downcast and frightened, tremblingly retraced her steps, and could only observe the pale faces and fatigued looks of her relatives and the little girl at a distance; but she saw enough to send a thrill of anguish to her heart; and Girty, who perceived the expressions of agony her sweet features now displayed, at once advanced to her, and, modulating his voice somewhat from its usual tones, said: "Grieve not, Ella. I will endeavor to procure you an interview with your friends."
The kindness manifested in the tones of the speaker, caused Ella to look up with a start of surprise and hope; and thinking he might perhaps be moved to mercy, by a direct appeal to his better feelings, she replied, energetically, with a flush on her now animated countenance: "Oh, sir! I perceive you are not lost to all feelings of humanity." Here the compression of Girty's lips, and a knitting together of his shaggy brows, warned Ella she was treading on dangerous ground, and she quickly added: "All of us are liable to err; and there may be circumstances, unknown to others, that force us to be, or seem to be, that which in our hearts we are not; and to do acts which our calm moments of reason tell us are wrong, and which we afterwards sincerely regret."
"I know not that I understand you," said the renegade, evasively.
"To be more explicit, then," rejoined Ella, "I trust that you, Simon Girty, whose acts hitherto have been such as to draw down reproaches and even curses upon your head, from many of your own race, may now be induced, by the prayer of her before you, to do an act of justice and generosity."
"Speak out your desire!" returned Girty, as Ella, evidently fearful of broaching the subject too suddenly, paused, in order to observe the effect of what had already been said. "Speak out briefly, girl; for yonder stands Wild-cat awaiting me."
"Oh, then, let me implore you to listen, and God grant your heart may be touched by my words!" rejoined Ella, eagerly, as she fancied she saw something of relentment in his stern features. "Look yonder! Behold that poor old man! --whose head is already sprinkled with the silvery threads of over fifty winters--beside whom stands the companion of his sorrows--both of whose lives have been spent in quiet, honest pursuits--whose doors have ever stood open--whose board has ever been free to the needy wayfarer. You yourself have been a partaker of their hospitality, in their own home--which, alas! I have since learned is in ashes--and can testify to their liberality and kindness. Is this a proper return therefor, think you?"
"But did not he, yon gray-headed man, then and there curse me to my face?" returned the renegade, fiercely, in whose eye could be seen the cold, sullen gleam of deadly hate; "and shall I, the outcast of my race--I, whose deeds have made the boldest tremble--I, whose name is a by-word for curses--now spare him, that has defied and called down God's maledictions on me?"
"Oh, yes! yes!" cried Ella, energetically. "Convince him, by your acts of generosity, that you are not deserving of his censure, and he, I assure you, will be eager to do you justice. Oh, return good for evil, where evil has been done you, and God's blessing, instead of His curse, will be yours!"
"It may be the _Christian's_ creed to return good for evil," answered Girty, with a strong emphasis on the word Christian, accompanied with a sneer; "but by ----! such belongs not to me, nor to those I mate with! Hark you, Ella Barnwell! I could be induced to do much for you--for I possess for you a passion stronger than I have ever before felt for any human being--but were I ever so much disposed to grant your request, it is now beyond my power."
"As how?" asked Ella, quickly.
"Listen! I will tell you briefly. When first I saw, I felt I loved you, and from that moment resolved you should be mine. Nay, do not shudder so, and turn away, and look so pale--a worse fate than being the wife of a British agent might have been apportioned you. To win you by fair words, I knew at once was out of the question--for one glance showed me my rival. Besides, I was not handsome, I knew--had not an oily tongue, and did not like the plan of venturing too much among those who have good reasons for fearing and hating me--therefore I resolved on your capture. I had already meditated an attack on some of the settlers in the vicinity, and I resolved that both should be accomplished at one time. The result you know. Younker and his wife became my prisoners. This was done for two purposes. First, to revenge me for the insults heaped upon Simon Girty. Secondly, to spare their lives; for had it not been for my positive injunctions, they would have shared the fate of their neighbors. My design, I say, was to spare their lives and send them back, whenever it could be done with safety, provided they showed any signs of contrition. Did they? No! they again upbraided me to my face. I was again cursed. My blood is hot--my nature revengeful. That moment sealed their doom. I gave them up to Peshewa. They are no longer my prisoners. For their lives you must plead with him. I can do nothing. Have you more to ask?"
Girty, toward the last, spoke rapidly, in short sentences, as one to whom the conversation was disagreeable; and Ella listened breathlessly, with a pale cheek and trembling form; for she saw, alas! there was nothing favorable to be gained. As he concluded, she suddenly started, clasped her hands together, and looked up into his stern countenance, with a wild, thrilling expression, saying, in a trembling voice: "You have said you love me!"
"I repeat it."
"Then, for Heaven's sake! as you are a human being, and hope for peace in this world and salvation in the next--restore me--restore us all to our homes--and to my dying day will I bless and pray for you."
"Umph!" returned the renegade, drily; "I had much rather _hear_ your sweet voice, though in anger, than to merely _think_ you may be praying for me at a distance. But I see Wild-cat is getting impatient;" and as he concluded, he turned abruptly on his heel, and advanced to Peshewa--who was now standing with his warriors and prisoners on the bank of the stream, some fifty paces distant, awaiting a consultation with him--while Ella hid her face in her hands and wept convulsively.
"Welcome, Peshewa!" said Girty, as he approached the chief. "You and your band are here safe, I perceive; and by ----! you have timed it well, too, for we have only headed you by half an hour."
"Ugh!" grunted Wild-cat, with that look and gutteral sound peculiar to the Indian. "Kitchokema has learned Peshewa is here!"
"Come! come!" answered the renegade, in a somewhat nettled manner; "no insinuations! I saw Peshewa when he arrived."
"But could not leave the Big Knife squaw to greet him," added the Indian.
"Why, I am not particularly fond of being hurried in my affairs, you know."
"But there may be that which will not leave Kitchokema slow to act, in safety," rejoined Wild-cat, significantly.
"How, chief! what mean you?" asked Girty, quickly.
"The Shemanoes--"[9] "Well?" said Girty.
"Are on the trail," concluded Wild-cat, briefly.
"Ha!" exclaimed the renegade, with a start, involuntarily placing his hand upon the breech of a pistol in his girdle. "But are you sure, Peshewa?"
"Peshewa speaks only what he knows," returned the chief, quietly.
"Speak out, then--_how_ do you know?" rejoined Girty, in an excited tone.
"Peshewa a chief," answered the Indian, in that somewhat obscure and metaphorical manner peculiar to his race. "He sleeps not soundly on the war-path. He shuts not his eyes when he enters the den of the wolf. He _saw_ the camp-fires of the pale-face."
Such had been the fact. Knowing that his trail was left broad and open, and that in all probability it would soon be followed, Wild-cat had been diligently on the watch and as his course had been shaped in a roundabout, rather than opposite direction (as the reader might at first glance have supposed) from that taken by Boone, he and his band, by reason of this, had encamped, on the night in question, not haif a mile distant from our old hunter, but on the other side of the ridge. Ascending this himself, to note if any signs of an enemy were visible, Peshewa had discovered the light of Boone's fire, and traced it to its source. Without venturing near enough to expose himself, the wily savage had, nevertheless, gone sufficiently close to ascertain they were the foes of his race. His first idea had been to return, collect a part of his warriors, and attack them; but prudence had soon got the better of his valor; from the fact, as he reasoned, that his band were now in the enemy's country, where their late depredations had already aroused the inhabitants to vengeance; and he neither knew the force of Boone's party--for the reader will remember they were concealed in a cave--nor what other of his foes might be in the vicinity;--besides which, his purpose had been accomplished, and he was now on the return with his prisoners;--the whole of which considerations, had decided him to leave them unmolested, and ere daylight resume his journey; so that, even should they accidentally come upon his trail, he would be far enough in advance to reach and cross the river before them. Such was the substance of what Wild-cat, in his own peculiar way, now made known to Girty; and having inquired out the location distinctly, the latter exclaimed: "By heavens! I remember leaving that ridge away to the right, which proves that the white dogs must have been on my trail. I took pains enough to conceal it before that night; but if they got the better of me, I don't think they did of the rain that fell afterwards--so that they have doubtless found themselves on a fool's errand, long ere this, and given up the search. Besides, should they reach the river's bank, they have no means of crossing, and therefore we are safe."
Wild-cat seemed to muse on the remarks of Girty, for a moment or two, and then said: "Why did Mishemenetoc[10] give the chief cunning, but that he might use it against his foes? --why caution, but that he might avoid danger?"
"Why that, of course, is all well enough at times," answered Girty; "but I don't think either particular cunning or caution need be exercised now--from the fact that I don't believe there is any danger. Even should the enemies you saw be fool-hardy enough to follow us, they are not many in number probably, and will only serve to add a few more scalps to our girdles. However, we are safe for to-night, at all events; for if they reach the river, as I said before, they won't be able to cross, unless they make a raft or swim it; and you may rest assured, Peshewa, they will sleep on the other side, if for nothing else than their own safety."
"What, therefore, does my brother propose?" asked Wild-cat.
"Why, I am for encamping, as soon as we can find a suitable spot--say within a mile of here--for by ----! I am not only hungry but cold, and my very bones ache, from traveling in this untimely storm, which I perceive is on the point of clearing up."
"Peshewa likes not sleeping with danger so near," replied the savage.
"Well, I'm not _afraid_," rejoined Girty, laying particular stress on the latter word; "and so suppose you take the prisoners, with a part of the band, and go forward, while myself and the balance remain behind to reconnoitre in the morning; for by ----! that will be time enough to look for the lazy white dogs. Yet stay!" he added, a moment after, as if struck by a new thought. "Suppose you take the two Big Knives, and leave the squaws with me--for being very tired, they will only be a drag upon your party--and then you can have the stakes ready for the others, if you get in first, so that we can have the music of their groans to make us merry on our second meeting."
To this latter proposition, the chief gave a grunt of assent, and the whole matter being speedily arranged, the council ended.
The conversation between these two worthies having been carried on in the Indian dialect, was of course wholly unintelligible to Mrs. Younker and her husband, who were standing near; and trying in vain, for some time, to gain a clue to the discussion, the good lady at last gave evidence, that if her body and limbs were weary, her tongue was not; and that with all the warnings she had received, her old habits of volubility had not as yet been entirely superseded by thoughtful silence.
"I do wonder what on yarth," she said, "that thar read-headed Simon Girty, and that thar ripscallious old varmint, as calls himself a chief, be coniving at? --and why the pesky Injens don't let me and Ella and the rest on 'em come together agin, as we did afore? Thar she stands--the darling--as pale nor a lily, and crying like all nater, jest as if her little heart war a going to break and done with it. I 'spect the varmints is hatching some orful plans to put us out o' the way--prehaps to hitch us to the stake and burn us all to cinder, like they did our housen, and them things. Well, Heaven's will be done! --as Preacher Allprayer said, when they turned him out o' meeting for gitting drunk and swearing--the dear good man! --but I do wish, for gracious sake, I could only jest change places with 'em--ef jest for five minutes--and I reckon as how they'd be glad to quit their gibberish, and talk like Christian folks, once in thar sneaking lives! Thar, they're done now, I do hope to all marcy's sake! and I reckons as how we'll soon have the gist on't."
The foregoing remarks of Mrs. Younker, were made in a low tone, and evidently not intended, like Dickens' Notes, for general circulation--the nearly fatal termination of a former speech of hers, having taught her to be a little cautious in the camp of the enemy. The conclusion was succeeded by a stare of surprise, on being civilly informed by Girty, that she was now at liberty to join Ella as soon as she pleased.
"Well, now, that's something like," returned the dame, with a smile that was intended to be a complimentary one; "and shows, jest as clear as any thing, that thar is a few streaks o' human nater in you arter all."
Then, as if fearful the permission would be countermanded, the good lady at once set off in haste to join her adopted daughter. Subsequent events, however, soon changed the favorable opinion Mrs. Younker had began to entertain of Girty--particularly when she discovered, as she imagined, that the liberty allowed her, had only been as a ruse to withdraw her from her husband--who, as she departed, had been immediately hurried away, without so much as a parting farewell.
Orders now being rapidly given by Girty and Wild-cat, were quickly and silently executed by their swarthy subordinates; and in a few minutes, the latter chief was on his way, with four warriors, the two male prisoners, and the little girl--Oshasqua, to whom the latter had been consigned by Girty, as the reader will remember, and who still continued to accompany Wild-cat, refusing to leave her behind.
When informed by Girty, in an authoritative tone, that he must join the detachment of Wild-cat, Algernon turned toward Ella, and in a trembling voice said: "Farewell, dear Ella! If God wills that we never meet again on earth, let us hope we may in the Land of Spirits;" and ere she, overcome by her emotion, had power to reply, he had passed on beyond the reach of her silvery voice.
Immediately on the departure of Peshewa, Girty ordered the canoes to be drawn ashore and concealed in a thicket near by, where they would be ready in case they should be wanted for another expedition; and then leading the way himself, the party proceeded slowly up the Miami, for about a mile, and encamped for the night, within a hundred yards of the river.
[Footnote 9: Americans, or Big Knives. We would remark here, that we have made use altogether of the Shawanoe dialect; that being most common among all the Ohio tribes, save the Wyandots or Hurons, who spoke an entirely different language.]
[Footnote 10: Great Spirit.]
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{
"id": "15424"
}
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11
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THE ENCAMPMENT OF THE RENEGADE.
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It was about ten o'clock on the evening in question, and Simon Girty was seated by a fire, around which lay stretched at full length some six or eight dark Indian forms, and near him, on the right, two of another sex and race. He was evidently in some deep contemplation; for his hat and rifle were lying by his side, his hands were locked just below his knees, as if for the purpose of balancing his body in an easy position, and his eyes fixed intently on the flame, that, waving to and fro in the wind, threw over his ugly features a ruddy, flickering light, and extended his shadow to the size and shape of some frightful monster. The clouds of the late storm had entirely passed away, and through the checkered openings in the trees overhead could be discerned a few bright stars, which seemed to sparkle with uncommon brilliancy, owing to the clearness of the atmosphere. All beyond the immediate circle lighted by the fire, appeared dark and silent, save the solemn, almost mournful, sighing of the wind, as it swept among the tree-tops and through the branches of the surrounding mighty forest.
What the meditations of the renegade were, we shall not essay to tell; but doubtless they were of a gloomy nature; for after sitting in the position we have described, some moments, without moving, he suddenly started, unclasped his hands, and looked hurriedly around him on every side, as if half expecting, yet fearful of beholding, some frightful phantom; but he apparently saw nothing to confirm his fears; and with a heavy sigh, he resumed his former position.
What were the thoughts of that dark man, as he sat there? --he whose soul had been steeped in crime! --he whose hands had long been made red with the blood of numberless innocent victims! Who shall say what guilty deeds of the past might have been harrowing up his soul to fear and even remorse? Who shall say he was not then and there meditating upon death, and the dread eternity and judgment that must quickly follow dissolution? Who shall say he was not secretly repenting of that life of crime, which had already drawn down the curses of thousands upon his head? Something of the kind, or something equally powerful, must have been at work within him; for his features ever and anon, by their mournful contortions--if we may be allowed the phrase--gave visible tokens of one in deep agony of mind. It would be no pleasant task to analyze and lay bare the secret workings of so dark a spirit, even had we power to do it; and so we will leave his thoughts, whether good or evil, to himself and his God.
By his side, and within two feet of the renegade, lay extended the beautiful form of Ella Barnwell--with nothing but a blanket and her own garments between her and the earth--with none but a similar covering over her--with her head resting upon a stone, and apparently asleep. We say apparently asleep; but the drowsy son of Erebus and Nox had not yet closed her eyelids in slumber; for there were thoughts in her breast more potent than all his persuasive arts of forgetfulness, or those of his prime minister, Morpheus. Was she thinking of her own hard fate--away there in that lonely forest--with not a friend nigh that could render her assistance--with no hope of escape from the awful doom to which she was hastening? Or was she thinking of him, for whom her heart yearned with all the thousand, undefined, indescribable sympathies of affection? --of him who so lately had been her companion? --for the heart of love measures duration, not by the cold mathematical calculation of minutes and hours, and days and weeks, and months and years, but by events and feelings; and the acquaintance of weeks may seem the friend of years, and the acquaintance of years be almost forgotten in weeks;--was she thinking of him, we say--of Algernon? who, even in misery, had been torn from her side, had said perchance his last trembling farewell, and gone to suffer a death at which humanity must shudder! Ay, all these thoughts, and a thousand others, were rushing wildly through her feverish brain. She thought of her own fate--of his--of her relations--pictured out in her imagination the terrible doom of each--and her tender heart became wrung to the most excruciating point of agony.
By the side of Ella, was her adopted mother--buried in that troubled sleep which great fatigue sends to the body, even when the mind is ill at ease, filling it with startling visions--and around the fire, as we said before, lay the dusky forms of the savages, lost to all consciousness of the outer world. The position of Ella was such, that, by slightly turning her head, she could command a view of the features of the renegade; whose strange workings, as before noted, served to fix her attention and divide her thoughts between him, as the cause of her present unhappiness, and that unhappiness itself--and she gazed on his loathsome, contorted countenance, with much the same feeling as one might be supposed to gaze upon a serpent coiling itself around the body, whose deadly fangs, either sooner or later, would assuredly give the fatal stroke of death. She noted the sudden start of Girty, and the wildness with which he peered around him, with feelings of hope and fear--hope, that rescue might be at hand--fear, lest something more dreadful was about to happen. At length Girty started again, and turned his head toward Ella so suddenly, that she had not time to withdraw her eyes ere his were fixed searchingly upon them.
"And are you too awake?" he said, with something resembling a sigh. "I thought the innocent could ever sleep!"
"Not when the guilty are abroad, with deeds of death, and friends exposed," returned Ella, bitterly.
"Ah! true--true!" rejoined Girty, again looking toward the fire, in a musing mood.
"Well may you muse and writhe under the tortures of your guilty acts," continued Ella, in the same bitter tone; "for you have much to answer for, Simon Girty."
"And who told you the past tortured me?" cried Girty, quickly, turning on her a fierce expression.
"Your changing features and guilty starts," answered Ella.
"Ha! then you have been a spy upon me, have you?" said Girty, pressing the words slowly through his clenched teeth, knitting his shaggy brows, and fixing his eye with intensity upon hers, until she quailed and trembled beneath its seeming fiery glance; which the light, whereby it was seen, rendered more demon-like than usual; while it made shadow chase shadow, like waves of the sea, across his face: "You have been a spy upon my actions, eh? Beware! Ella Barnwell--beware! Do not put your head in the lion's mouth too often, or he may think the bait troublesome; and by ----! had other than you told me what I just now heard, he or she had not lived to repeat it."
"Far better an early death and innocence, than a long life of guilt and misery," returned Ella, at once regaining her boldness of speech; "Far better the fate you speak of, than mine."
"And would you prefer being wedded to death, rather than me?" asked Girty, quickly, in surprise.
"Ay, a thousand times!" replied Ella, energetically, rising as she spoke, into a sitting posture, and looking fearlessly upon the renegade, her previously pale features now flushed with excitement. "I fear not death, Simon Girty; I have done no act that should make me fear the change that all must sooner or later undergo; but I could not join my hand to that of a man of blood, without loathing and horror, and feeling criminal in the sight of God and man; and least of all to you, Simon Girty, whose name has become a word of terror to the weak and innocent of my race, and whose deeds of late have been such as to make me join my voice in the general maledictions called down upon you."
During this speech of Ella, Girty sat and gazed upon her with the look of a baffled demon; and, as she concluded, fairly hissed through his teeth: "And so you would prefer death to me, eh? By ----! you shall have your choice!"
As he spoke, he grasped Ella by the wrist with one hand, seized his tomahawk with the other, and sprung upon his feet. His rapid movement and wild manner now really frightened her; and uttering a faint cry of horror, she endeavored to release his hold; while the warriors, aroused by the noise, bounded up from the earth, weapon in hand, with looks of alarm.
Turning to them, Girty now spoke a few words in the Indian tongue; and, with significant glances at Ella, they were just in the act of again encamping, when crack went some five or six rifles, followed by yells little less savage than their own, and four of them rolled upon the earth, groaning with pain; while the others, surprised and bewildered, grasped their weapons and shouted: "The Shemanoes!" "The Long Knives!" not knowing whether to stand or fly.
Girty, meantime, had been left unharmed; although the shivering of the helve of the tomahawk in his hand, in front of his breast, showed him he had been a target for no mean marksman, and that his life had been preserved almost by a miracle. For a moment he stood irresolute--his nostrils fairly dilated with fear and rage, still holding Ella by the wrist, who was too paralyzed with what she had seen to speak or move--straining his eyes in every direction to note, if possible, the number of his foes and whence their approach. The whole glance was momentary; but he saw himself nearly surrounded by his enemies, who were fast closing in toward the center with fierce yells; and pausing no longer in indecision, he encircled Ella's waist with his left arm, raised her from the ground, and keeping her as much as possible between himself and his enemies, to deter them from firing, darted away toward a thicket, some fifty yards distant, pursued by two of the attacking party.
Just as Girty gained the thicket, one of his pursuers made a sudden bound forward and grasped him by the arm; but his hold was the next moment shaken off by the renegade, who, being now rendered desperate, drew a pistol from his belt, with the rapidity of lightning, and laid the bold adventurer dead at his feet. Almost at the same moment, Girty received a blow on the back of his head, from the breech of the rifle of his other antagonist, that staggered him forward; when, releasing his hold of Ella, he turned and darted off in another direction, firing a pistol as he went, the ball of which whizzed close to the head of him for whom it was designed; and in a moment more he was lost in the mazes of the forest.
Meantime the bloody work was going forward in the center; for at the moment when Girty darted away, the report of some three or four rifles again echoed through the wood, two more of the red warriors bit the dust, while the other two fled in opposite directions, leaving Boone and his party sole masters of the field.
Eager, excited, reckless and wild, several of the young men now rushed forward, with yells of triumph, to the wounded Indians, whom they immediately tomahawked without mercy, and began to scalp, when the voice of Boone, who had been more cautious, reached them from a distance: "Beware o' the fire-light, lads! or the red varmints will draw a bead[11] on some of ye."
Scarcely were the words uttered, ere his warning was sadly fulfilled; for the two savages finding they were not pursued, and thirsting for revenge, turned and fired almost simultaneously, with aims so deadly, that one of the young men, by the name of Beecher, fell mortally wounded and expired a moment after; and another, by the name of Morris, had his wrist shattered by a ball. This fatal event produced a panic in the others, who at once fled precipitately into the darkness, leaving Mrs. Younker, who had by this time gained her feet, standing alone by the fire, a bewildered spectator of the terrible tragedies that had so lately been enacted by her side. To her Boone now immediately advanced, notwithstanding the caution he had given the others; and turning to him as he came up, the good lady exclaimed, in a tone of astonishment: "Why, Colonel Boone, be this here you? Why when did you come--and how on yarth did ye git here--and what in the name o' all creation has been happening? For ye see I war jest dosing away thar by the fire, and dreaming all sorts of things, like all nater, when somehow I kind o' thought I'd all at once turned into a man and gone to war a rale soldier; and the battle had opened, and the big guns war blazing away, and the little guns war popping off, and the soldiers war shrieking and groaning and falling around me, like all possessed; and men a trampling, and horses a running like skeered deer; and then I sort o' woke up, and jumped up, and seed all them dead Injen wretches; and then I jest begun to think as how it warn't no dream at all, but a living truth, all 'cept my being a man and a soldier, as you com'd up. Well, ef this arn't a queer world," resumed the good dame, catching breath meanwhile, "as Preacher Allprayer used to say, then maybe as how I don't know nothing at all about it."
"Your dream war a very nateral one, Mrs. Younker," returned Boone, who, during the speech of the other, had been actively employed in scattering the burning brands, to prevent the recurrence of another sad catastrophe; "and I'm rejoiced to see that you've escaped unharmed, amid this bloody work. Allow me to set you free;" and as he spoke, he drew his scalping knife, and severed the thongs that bound her wrists.
"Gracious on me!" cried the dame, chafing the parts which had been swollen by the tightness of the cords; "how clever 'tis to get free agin, and have the use o' one's hands and tongue, to do and say jest what a body pleases; for d'ye know, Colonel Boone, them thar imps of Satan war awfully afeared o' my talking to 'em, to convince 'em they war the meanest varmints in the whole univarsul yarth o' creation; and actually put a peremshus stop to my saying what I thought on 'em; although I told 'em as how it war a liberty as these blessed colonies war this moment fighting for with the hateful red-coated Britishers. But, Lord presarve us! gracious on us! where in marcy's sake is my dear, darling Ella?" concluded Mrs. Younker, with vehemence and alarm, as she now missed her adopted daughter for the first time.
"She's here, mother," answered a voice close behind her; and turning round, the dame uttered a cry of joy, sprung into the arms of her son Isaac, and wept upon his neck--occasionally articulating, in a choked voice: "God bless you, Isaac! God bless you, son! --you're a good boy--the Lord's presarved you through the whole on't--the Lord be praised! --but your father, poor lad--your father!" and with a strong burst of emotion, she buried her face upon his breast, and wept aloud.
"I know it," sobbed forth Isaac, his whole frame shaken with the force of his feelings: "I--I know the whole on't, mother--Ella's told me. I'd rather he'd bin killed a thousand times; but thar's no help for it now!"
"No help for it!" cried Ella in alarm, who, having greeted the old hunter, with tearful eyes, now stood weeping by his side. "No help for it! Heaven have mercy! --say not so! They must--they must be rescued!" Then turning wildly to Boone, she grasped his hand in both of hers, and exclaimed: "Oh! sir, speak! tell me they can be saved--and on my knees will I bless you!"
A few words now rapidly uttered by Isaac, put the old hunter in possession of the facts, concerning the forced march of Younker and Reynolds, of which he had previously heard nothing; and musing on the information a few moments, he shook his head sadly, and said, with a sigh: "I'm sorry for you, Ella--I'm sorry for all o' ye--I'm sorry on my own account--but I'm o' the opinion o' Isaac, that thar's no help for it now. They're too far beyond us--we're in the Indian country--our numbers are few--two or three o' the red varmints have escaped to give 'em information o' what's been done--they'll be thirsty for revenge--and nothing but a special Providence can now alter that prisoners' doom. I had hoped it war to be otherwise; but we must submit to God's decrees;" and raising his hand to his eyes, the old woodsman hastily brushed away a tear, and turned aside to conceal his emotion; while Ella, overcome by her feelings, at the thought of having parted, perhaps for the last time, from Algernon and her uncle, staggered forward and sunk powerless into the arms of Mrs. Younker, whose tears now mingled with her own.
By this time the whole party had gathered silently around their noble leader, and were observing the sad scene as much as the feeble light of the scattered brands would permit, their faces exhibiting a mournfulness of expression in striking contrast to that they had so lately displayed, previous to the death of their comrade. To them Boone now turned, and running his eye slowly over the whole, said, in a sad voice: "Well, lads, one o' our party's gone to his last account, I perceive," and he pointed mournfully to the still body of Beecher, some three or four paces distant; "another I see is wounded, and a third's missing. I hope no harm's befallen him, the noble Master Harry Millbanks!"
"Alas! he's dead, Colonel!" answered Isaac, covering his eyes with his hand.
"Dead?" echoed Boone.
"Dead?" cried the others, simultaneously.
"Yes," rejoined Isaac, with a sigh; "He and I war chasing that thar infernal renegade Girty, who war running away with Ella thar; and he'd jest got up to him, and got him by the arm, when Girty shuk him off like it warn't nothing at all, and then shot him dead on the spot. Ef he hadn't a bin quite so quick about it, I think as how it wouldn't a happened; for the next moment I hit him a rap on the head with the butt-end o' my rifle, that sent him a staggering off, and would ha' fetched him to the ground, ef it hadn't first struck a limb. Howsomever, it made him let go o' Ella, and start up a new trail--jest leaving his compliments for me in the shape of a bullet, which, ef it didn't do me no harm, it warn't 'cause he didn't intend it to. I jest stopped to look at poor Harry; and finding he war dead, I took Ella by the hand and come straight down here."
"Who's that you said war dead, Isaac?" inquired his mother, who had partially overheard the conversation.
"Harry Millbanks, mother."
"Harry Millbanks!" repeated the dame in astonishment. "What, young Harry? --our Harry? --Goodness gracious, marcy on me! what orful mean wretches them Injens is, to kill sech as him. Dear me! then the hull family is gone; for I hearn from Rosetta, that her father and mother and all war killed afore her eyes; and now she's bin taken on to be killed too, the darling."
"Ha! yes," said Boone, as if struck with a new thought; "I remember seeing the foot-prints of a child--war they made by this unfortunate young man's sister?"
"I reckon as how they war," answered Mrs. Younker; "for the poor thing war a prisoner along with us, crying whensomever she dared to, like all nater."
"Well," rejoined the old hunter, musingly, "we've done all we could--I'm sorry it didn't turn out better--but we must now leave their fates in the hands o' Providence, and return to our homes. We must bury our dead first; and I don't know o' any better way than to sink thar bodies in the Ohio."
Accordingly, after some further conversation, four of the party proceeded for the body of Millbanks--with which they soon returned--while Boone conducted the ladies away from the scene of horror, and down to where Ella informed him the canoes were hidden, leaving his younger companions to rifle and scalp the savages if they chose. In a few minutes from his arrival at the point in question, he was joined by the others, who came slowly, in silence, bearing the mortal remains of Millbanks and Beecher. Placing the canoes in the water, the whole party entered them, in the same silent and solemn manner, and pulled slowly down the Miami, into the middle of the Ohio; then leaving the vessels to float with the current, they uncovered their heads, and mournfully consigned the bodies of the deceased to the watery element.
It was a sad and impressive scene--there, on the turbid Ohio, near the midnight hour--to give to the rolling waters the last remains of those who had been their friends and companions, and as full of life and activity as themselves but an hour before;--it was a sad, impressive, and affecting scene--one that was looked upon with weeping eyes--and one which, by those who witnessed it, was never to be forgotten. There were no loud bursts of grief--there were no frantic exclamations of woe--but the place, the hour, and withal the various events which had transpired to call them so soon from a scene of festivity to one of mourning--together with the thoughts of other friends departed, or in terrible captivity--served to render it a most painfully solemn one--and one, as we said before, that was destined never to be forgotten.
For a short space after the river engulphed the bodies, all gazed upon the waters in silence; when Boone said, in a voice slightly trembling.
"They did their duties--they have gone--God rest their souls, and give peace to their bones!" and taking up a paddle, the noble old hunter pulled steadily for the Kentucky shore in silence, followed by the other boats in the same manner. There they landed, placed the canoes in safety, in case they should again be needed, rekindled their fire, and encamped for the night.
On the following morning, they set out upon their homeward journey; where they finally arrived, without any events occurring worthy of note.
[Footnote 11: A hunter's phrase for taking sight.]
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{
"id": "15424"
}
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12
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THE INDIANS AND THEIR PRISONERS.
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As you ascend the Miami from its mouth at the present day, you come almost immediately upon what are termed the Bottoms, or Bottom Lands, which are rich and fertile tracts of country, of miles in extent, and sometimes miles in breadth, almost water level, with the stream in question slowly winding its course through them, like a deep blue ribbon carelessly unrolled upon a dark surface. They are now mostly under culture, and almost entirely devoted to the production of maize, which, in the autumn of the year, presents the goodly sight of a golden harvest. At the time of which we write, there were no such pleasant demonstrations of civilization, but a vast unbroken forest instead, some vestiges of which still remain, in the shape of old decaying trees, standing grim and naked, "To summer's heat and winter's blast," like the ruins of ancient structures, to remind the beholder of former days.
On these Bottoms, about ten miles above the mouth of the Miami, Wild-cat and his party, with their prisoners, encamped on the evening the attack was made upon the renegade, as shown in the preceding chapter. Possessing caution in a great degree, and fearful of the escape of his prisoners, Wild-cat spared no precautions which he thought might enhance the security of Younker and Reynolds. Accordingly, when arrived at the spot where he intended to remain for the night, the chief ordered stakes to be driven deep into the earth, some distance apart, to which the feet of the two in question, after being thrown flat upon their backs, in opposite directions, were tightly bound, with their hands still corded to the crossbars as before. A rope was next fastened around the neck of each, and secured to a neighboring sapling, in which uncomfortable manner they were left to pass the night; while their captors, starting a fire, threw themselves upon the earth around it, and soon to all appearance were sound asleep.
To the tortures of her older companions in captivity, little Rosetta was not subjected; for Oshasqua--the fierce warrior to whom Girty had consigned her, in the expectation, probably, that she would long ere this have been knocked on the head and scalped--had, by one of those strange mysterious phenomena of nature, (so difficult of comprehension, and which have been known to link the rough and bloody with the gentle and innocent,) already begun to feel towards her a sort of affection, and to treat her with great kindness whenever he could do so unobserved by the others. The apparel of which he had at first divested her, to ornament his own person, had been restored, piece by piece; and this, together with the change in his manner, had at length been observed by the child, with feelings of gratitude. Poor little thing! to whom could she look for protection now? Her father and mother were dead--had been murdered before her own eyes--her brother was away, and she herself a captive to an almost merciless foe; could she feel other than grateful for an act of kindness, from one at whose hands she looked for nothing but abuse and death? Nay, more: So strange and complex is the human heart--so singular in its developments--that we see nothing to wonder at, in her feeling for the savage, under the circumstances--loathsome and offensive as he might have been to her under others--a sort of affection--or rather, a yearning toward him as a protector. Such she did feel; and thus between two human beings, as much antagonistical perhaps, in every particular, as Nature ever presented, was already established a kind of magnetic sympathy--or, in other words, a gradual blending together of opposites. The result of all this, as may be imagined, was highly beneficial to Rosetta, who, in consequence, fared as well as circumstances would permit. At night she slept unbound beside Oshasqua, who secured her from escape by passing his brawny arm under her head, which also in a measure served her for a pillow. So slept she on the night in question.
With Younker and Reynolds there was little that could be called sleep--the minds of both being too actively employed with the events which had transpired, and with thoughts of those so dear to them, who had been left behind, for what fate God only knew. Besides, there was little wherewithal to court the drowsy god, in the manner of their repose--each limb being strained and corded in a position the most painful--and if they slept at all, it was that feverish and fitful slumber, which, though it serve in part the design of nature, brings with it nothing refreshing to the individual himself. To both, therefore, the night proved one of torture to body and mind; and bad as was their condition after the encampment, it was destined to be worse ere the gray dawn of morning, by the arrival of Girty and the only two Indians who had escaped the deadly rifles of the Kentuckians.
"Up, warriors!" cried the renegade, with a blasphemous oath, as he came upon the detachment. "Up, warriors! and sharpen your wits to invent the most damnable tortures that the mind of man can conceive!" and at the sound of his voice, which was loud and hoarse, each Indian sprung to his feet, with an anxious and troubled face.
"And you, ye miserable white dogs!" continued Girty, turning to Younker and Reynolds, on whom he bestowed numerous kicks, as if by way of enforcing the truth his assertion; "were you suffering all the torments of hell, you might consider yourselves in perfect bliss, compared to what you shall yet undergo ere death snatches you from me!"
"What new troubles ha' ye got, Simon Girty?" asked Younker, composedly. "But you needn't answer; I can see what's writ on your face; thar's bin a rescue--you've lost your prisoners--for which the Lord be praised! I can die content now, with all your tortures."
"Can you, by ----!" cried the renegade, in a paroxysm of rage; "we shall see!"
As he concluded, he bestowed upon Younker a kick in the face, so violent that a stream of blood followed it. The old man uttered a slight groan, but made no other answer; and Girty turned away to communicate to the others the intelligence of what had transpired since their parting; for although they believed it to be of the utmost consequence, and tragical in all its bearings, yet so far there had not been a question asked nor an event related concerning it on either side--such being the force of habit in all matters of grave importance, and the deference to his superiors shown by the Indian on all similar occasions.
As soon as Girty had made known the sad disaster that had befallen his party, there was one universal yell of rage, accompanied by violent demonstrations of grief and anger--such as beating their bodies, stamping fiercely on the ground, and brandishing their tomahawks over their heads with terrific gestures. They then proceeded to dance around Younker and Reynolds, uttering horrid yells, accompanied with kicks and blows; after which, a consultation was held between Girty and Wild-cat, wherein it was agreed to take them to Piqua, a Shawanoe settlement on the Miami, and there have them put to the tortures. Accordingly, without further delay, they unbound their prisoners, with the exception of their hands, and forced them to set forward at a fast pace--treating them, meanwhile, in the most brutal manner. Oshasqua, however, took good care there should be no violence done to Rosetta; for he kept her closely by his side; and occasionally, when he saw her little limbs growing weary, raised and bore her forward, for a considerable distance, in his arms.
It was a strange, but by no means unpleasing sight, to behold that dark, bloodstained warrior--whose very nature was cruel and ferocious, and who probably had never before loved or sought to protect aught bearing the human form--now exhibiting such tender regard for a weak, trembling prisoner, placed in his hands for a speedy sacrifice. It was withal an affecting sight, to Younker and Reynolds, who looked upon it with moistened eyes, and felt it in the force of a revelation from Heaven, that He, who sees the sparrow fall, was even now moving through the wilderness, and teaching one lesson of mercy at least to the most obdurate heart of the savage race.
To the renegade, however, this conduct of Oshasqua was far from being agreeable; for so much did he delight in cruelty, and so bitterly did he hate all his race--particularly now, after having been foiled by them so lately--that he would a thousand times rather have heard the dying groans of the child, and seen her in the last agonies of death, than in the warrior's arms. At length he advanced to the side of the Indian, and said in the Shawanoe dialect, with a sneer: "Is Oshasqua a squaw, that he should turn nurse?"
Probably from the whole vocabulary of the Indian tongue, a phrase more expressive of contempt, and one that would have been more severely felt by the savage warrior, who abhors any thing of a womanly nature, could not have been selected; and this Girty, who understood well to whom he was speaking, knew, and was prepared to see the hellish design of his heart meet with a ready second from Oshasqua. For a moment after he spoke, the latter looked upon the renegade with flashing eyes; and then seizing Rosetta roughly, he raised her aloft, as if with the intention of dashing her brains out at his feet. She doubtless understood from his fierce movement the murderous intent in his breast, and uttered a heart-rending cry of anguish. In an instant the grim features of the Indian softened; and lowering her again to her former position in his arms, he turned coldly to Girty, and smiting his breast with his hand, said, with dignity: "Oshasqua a warrior above suspicion. He can save and defend with his life whom he loves!"
Girty bit his lips, and uttering a deep malediction in English, turned away to consult with Wild-cat on the matter; but finding the chief would not join him in interfering with the rights of the other, he growled out another dreadful oath, and let the subject drop.
Late at night the party encamped within something like a mile of Piqua; and by daylight a warrior was despatched to convey intelligence of their approach, their prisoners, and the sad disaster they had experienced on their journey. In the course of an hour the messenger returned, bringing with him a vast number of savages of both sexes and all ages, who immediately set up the most horrid yells, danced around Younker and Algernon like madmen, not unfrequently beating and kicking them unmercifully. They then departed for the town, taking the prisoners with them, where their fate was to be decided by the council. [12] But ere sentence should be pronounced, it was the unanimous decision of the savages, that they should have some amusement, by forcing the prisoners to run the gauntlet. This, to the women and children, as well as the warriors themselves, was a most delightful sport, and they at once made the welkin ring with yells of joy.
"It's a hard task we've got to undergo now, Algernon," said Younker, in a low voice; "and God send it may be my last; for I'd much rayther die this way, nor at the stake. I don't at all calculate on escaping--but something tells me you will--and ef you do--" Here the old man was interrupted by Girty, who forced himself between the two and separated them. Younker being the first selected to run the gauntlet, was immediately unbound, and stripped to the skin,[13] preparatory to the race. The assemblage now formed themselves into two lines, facing each other, only a few feet apart, and extending the distance of a hundred yards, terminating near the council-house, which stood in the center of the village. Through these lines, the old man was informed by Girty, he must run; while the savages on either side, armed with clubs, were at liberty to inflict as many blows upon him as they could in passing; and therefore it would stand him in hand to reach the other extremity as soon as possible.
"I'm an old man, Simon Girty," said Younker, in reply, "and can't run as I once could--so you needn't reckon on my gitting through alive."
"But, by ----! you must get through alive, or else not at all; for we can't spare you quite so soon, as we want you to try the pleasures of the stake," answered the renegade, with a laugh.
"God's will be done--not yourn nor mine!" rejoined Younker, solemnly. "But tell me, Simon Girty, as the only favor I'll ever ask o' ye--war my wife and Ella rescued?"
"Why," said Girty, "if it will do you any good to know it, I will tell you they were; but I will add, for your particular benefit, that they will again be in my power; for I will excite every tribe of the Six Nations to the war path; and then, woe to the pioneers of Kentucky! --for desolation, rapine and blood shall mark our trail, until the race become extinct. I have sworn, and will fulfill it. But come--all is ready."
"For the first o' your information, I thank you," returned Younker; "for the last on't, I'll only say, thar's a power above ye. I'm ready--lead on!"
Girty now conducted the old man to the lines; and having cautioned the savages, in a loud voice, to beware of taking his life, gave the signal for him to start. Instantly Younker darted forward, and with such speed, that the nearest Indians neglected to strike until he had passed them, by which means he gained some six or eight paces without receiving a blow; but now they fell hard and fast upon him, accompanied with screams and yells of the most diabolical nature; and ere he had gone thirty yards, he began to stagger, when a heavy stroke on the head laid him senseless on the earth. In a moment the renegade, who had kept him company outside, burst through the lines, just in time to ward off the blow of a powerful warrior, aimed at the skull of Younker, which, without doubt, would have been fatal.
"Fool!" cried Girty, fiercely, to the Indian. "Did I not tell you his life must be spared for the stake?"
The savage drew himself up with dignity, and walked away without reply; while the renegade, examining the bruises of the fallen man for a moment or two, ordered him to be taken to the council-house, and, if possible, restored to consciousness. He then returned to Algernon, who had been left standing a sad spectator of the whole proceedings, and said, in a gruff voice: "Now, by ----! young man, it's your turn; and let me tell you, it will stand you in hand to do your best. Come, let us see what sort of a figure you will cut."
As he concluded, he severed the thongs around the hands of our hero, and unceremoniously began to strip him, in which he was aided by a couple of old squaws.
The features of Algernon were pale, but composed; and he allowed himself to be handled as one who felt an escape from his doom to be impossible, and who had nerved himself to undergo it with as much stoicism as he could command. As his vestments were rent from his body, the wound in his side was discovered to be nearly healed; and would have been entirely so, probably, but for the irritation occasioned it of late by his long marches, exposure and fatigue, which had served to render it at present not a little painful. As his eye for a moment rested upon it, his mind instantly reverted to its cause--recalled, with the rapidity of thought, which is the swiftest comparison we can make, the many and important events that had since transpired up to the present time, wherein the gentle Ella Barnwell held no second place--and he sighed, half aloud: "I would to Heaven it had been mortal! --how much misery had then been spared me?"
As he said this, one of the squaws, who had been observing it intently, struck him thereon a violent blow with her fist, which started it to bleeding afresh, and, in spite of himself, caused Algernon to utter a sharp cry of pain, at which all laughed heartily. Thinking doubtless this species of amusement as interesting as any, the old hag was on the point of repeating the blow, when Girty arrested it, by saying something to her in the Indian tongue, and all three turned aside, as if to consult together, leaving our hero standing alone, unbound.
A wild thought now suddenly thrilled him. He was free, perchance he might escape; at least he could but die in the attempt; and that, at all events, was preferable to a lingering death of torture! He looked hurriedly around. Only the renegade and the squaws were close at hand, and they engaged in conversation. The main body of the Indians were at a distance, awaiting him to run the gauntlet. He needed no second thought to prompt him to the trial; and wheeling about, he placed his hand upon the wound, and bounded away with the fleetness of the deer. In a moment the yells of an hundred savages in pursuit, sounded in his ear, and urged him onward to the utmost of his strength. He was no mean runner at any time; now he was flying to save his life, and every nerve did its duty. Before him was a slope, that stretched away to the river Miami; and down this he fled with a velocity that astonished himself; while yell after yell of the demons behind, now in full chase, were to him only so many death cries, to stimulate him to renewed exertions. At last he gained the river and rushed into the water. It was not deep, and he struggled forward with all his might. On the opposite side was a steep hill and thicket. Could he but gain that, hope whispered he might elude his pursuers and escape. Again he redoubled his exertions; and, joy--joy to his heart--he reached it, just as the foremost of his adversaries, a powerful and fleet young warrior, dashed into the stream from the opposite bank. He now for the first time began to feel weak and fatigued; but his life was yet in danger, and he still pressed onward. Alas! alas! just on the point of escape, his strength was failing him fast, the blood was trickling too from his wound, and a sharp, severe pain afflicted him in his side. Oh God! he thought--what would he not give for the strength and soundness of body he once possessed! The thicket he had entered was dense and dark, so that it was impossible to move through it with much velocity, or see ahead any distance; and as the thought just recorded rushed through his brain, he came suddenly upon a high, steep rock. By this time his nearest pursuer was also entering the thicket; and in a minute or two more he felt capture would be certain, unless he could instantly secrete himself till his strength should be again renewed. Fortune for once now seemed to stand his friend; for stooping down at the base of the rock, he discovered it to be shelving and projecting somewhat over the declivity; so that by dropping upon the ground and crawling up under it, he would, owing to the density and darkness of the thicket, as before mentioned, be wholly concealed from any one standing upright. To do this was the work of a moment; and the next he heard his pursuing foe rush panting by, with much the same sense of relief that one experiences on awakening from a horrible dream, where death seemed inevitable, and finding oneself lying safely and easily in a comfortable bed.
We say Algernon experienced much the same sense of relief as the awakened dreamer; but unlike the latter, his was only momentary; for yell upon yell still sounded in his ear; and plunge after plunge into the stream, followed quickly by a rustling of the bushes around, the trampling of many feet close by, and the war-whoops of his enemies, warned him, that, if he had escaped one, there were hundreds yet to be eluded before he could consider himself as safe. Wildly his heart palpitated, as now one stirred the bushes within reach of his hand, and, slightly pausing, as if to examine the spot of his concealment, uttered a horrid yell, as of discovery, and then, just as he fancied all was lost, to his great relief darted suddenly away.
Thus one after another passed on; and their fierce yells gradually sounding more and more distant, renewed his hope, that he might yet escape their vigilant eyes, and again be free to roam the earth at will. O, potent, joyful thought! --how it made his very heart leap, and the blood course swiftly through his heated veins! --and then, when some sound was heard more near, how his heart sickened at the fear he might again be captured, and forced to a lingering, agonizing death! --how he shuddered as he thought, until his flesh felt chill and clammy, and cold drops of perspiration, wrung forth by mental agony, stood upon his pale features! Even death, before his escape, possessed not half the terrors for him it would have now; for then he had nerved himself to meet it, and prepared himself for the worst; but now he had again had a taste of freedom, and would feel the reverse in a thousand accumulated horrors.
Thus for a few minutes he lay, in painful thought, when he became aware, by the different sounds, that many of the savages were returning. Presently some two or three paused by the rock, and beat back the bushes around it. Then, dropping upon his knees, one of the Indians actually put his head to the ground, and peered up into the cavity. It was a horrible moment of suspense to Algernon, as he beheld the hideous visage of the savage so near, and evidently gazing upon him; and thinking himself discovered, he was on the point of coming forth, when a certain vagueness in the look of the Indian, led him to hope he was not yet perceived; and he lay motionless, with his breath suspended. But, alas! his hope was soon changed to despair; for after gazing a moment longer, the Indian suddenly started, his features expressed satisfaction, he uttered a significant grunt, and, springing to his feet, gave a loud, long, peculiar whoop. The next moment our hero was roughly seized, and, ere he could exert himself at all, dragged forth by the heels, by which means his limbs and body became not a little bruised and lacerated.
The savages now came running towards their prisoner from all quarters, in high glee at his recapture--being attracted hither, probably, by the signal whoop of success made by the one who first discovered him. Among the rest came Girty; who, as he approached Algernon, burst into a loud laugh, saying, in a jocular manner: "Well, my fine bird, so you are caught again, eh? I was most infernally afraid you had got away in earnest; I was, by ----! But we'll soon fix you now, so that you won't run away again in a hurry."
Then turning to the savages around him, the renegade continued his remarks in the Indian tongue, occasionally laughing boisterously, in which they not unfrequently joined. In this manner, the whole party returned in triumph to the village--being met on their way thither by the women and children, who set up yells of delight, sung and danced around their prisoner, whom they beat with their fists and with sticks, until he became sore from head to heel.
The gauntlet was soon again made ready, and Algernon started upon the race; but fatigued in body and mind, from the late events--weak and faint from the bleeding of his wound and bruises--he scarcely reached twenty paces down the lines, ere he sunk overpowered to the earth; from which he was immediately raised, and borne forward to the council-house, where, according to the Indian custom, the chiefs and warriors were to decide upon his fate.
[Footnote 12: Lest there should seem to the reader an inconsistency in one tribe yielding the fate of their prisoners to the decision of another, we would remark here, that at the period of which we write, the Six Nations were allied and fought for one common interest against the Americans, on the British side, and therefore not unfrequently shared each others dangers and partook of each others spoils.]
[Footnote 13: A practice sometimes, but not always, followed.]
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13
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THE TRIAL, SENTENCE, AND EXECUTION.
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The council-house in question, was a building of good size, of larger dimensions than its neighbors, stood on a slight elevation, and, as we before remarked, near the center of the village. Into this the warriors and head men of the Piqua tribe now speedily gathered, and proceeded at once to business. An old chief--whose wrinkled features and slightly-tremulous limbs, denoted extreme age--was allowed, by common consent, to act as chairman; and taking his position near the center of the apartment, with a knife and a small stick in his hand, the warriors and chief men of the nation formed a circle around him.
Among these latter--conspicuous above all for his beautiful and graceful form, his dignified manner, and look of intelligence, to whom all eyes turned with seeming deference--was the celebrated Shawanoe chief, Catahecassa, (Black Hoof) whose name occupies no inferior place on the historic page of the present day, as being at first the inveterate foe, and afterward the warm friend of the whites. In stature he was small, being only about five feet eight inches, lightly made, but strongly put together, with a countenance marked and manly, and one that would be pleasing to a friend, but the reverse to an enemy. He was a great orator, a keen, cunning and sagacious warrior, and one who held the confidence and love of his tribe. At the period referred to, he was far past what is usually termed the middle age; though, as subsequent events have proved, only in his noon of life--for at his death he numbered one hundred and ten years.
Upon the ground, within the circle, and near the old chief in the center, were seated Algernon and Younker--the latter having recovered consciousness--both haggard and bloody from their recent brutal treatment. They were sad spectacles to behold, truly, and would have moved to pity any hearts less obdurate than those by which they were surrounded. Their faces bore those expressions of dejection and wan despair, which may sometimes be perceived in the look of a criminal, when, loth to die, he is assured all hope of pardon is past. Not that either Younker or Reynolds felt criminal, or feared death in its ordinary way; but there were a thousand things to harass their minds, besides the dreadful thought of that lingering, horrible torture, which was enough to make the boldest quail, and which they now had not the faintest hope of escaping. There is ever something solemn and awful in the thought of death, let it come in the mildest form possible--for the individual feels he is hastening to that silent bourne, whence none have e'er returned to tell its mysteries--yet such is as nothing in comparison with the death our prisoners were now silently awaiting, away from friends and all sympathy, in the full vigor of animal life, to be fairly worn out by the most excruciating pains, amid the hootings and revilings of a savage foe. It was enough to have made the stoutest heart faint, trembling and sick; and thus our unfortunate friends felt, as they slowly gazed around and saw nothing but fierce, angry looks bent upon them.
Girty was the first to address the assemblage, in the Indian dialect, in an animated and angry speech of five minutes duration; occasionally turning his sinister visage upon the prisoners, with an expression of mortal hatred; gesticulating the while in that vehement manner which would have left no doubts on their minds as to the nature of his discourse, had they not previously known him to be their determined foe. He narrated to the savages, clearly and briefly, the wrongs which had been done them, as well as himself, by the whites; how, as the ally and friend of the red-man, he had been cursed, defied and treated with much contumely, by those here present; how their friends had followed and slaughtered his braves; how the whites were every day becoming stronger and more aggressive; how that, unless speedily exterminated, they would presently drive the red-men from their hunting grounds, burn their wigwams, and murder their wives and children; referred them, as a proof, to the sacking and burning of the Chillicothe and Piqua villages, on the Little Miami and Mad rivers, the year preceding, by General Clark and his men;[15] and wound up by demanding the death of the prisoners at the stake, and a speedy and bloody retaliation upon the pioneers of Kentucky.
As Girty concluded his speech, which was listened to in breathless silence, there was a great sensation in the house, and an almost unanimous grunt of approval from the chiefs and braves there assembled. It needed but this, to arouse their vindictive passions against the white invader to the extreme; and they bent upon the unfortunate prisoners, eyes which seemed inflamed with rage and revenge. Girty perceived, at a glance, that he had succeeded to the full of his heart's desire; and with a devilish smile of satisfaction on his features, he drew back among the warriors, to listen to the harangues of the others.
Black Hoof was the next to follow the renegade, in a similar but more eloquent strain; during which his countenance became greatly animated; and it was easy for the prisoners to perceive--who could not understand a word he uttered--that he spoke with great enthusiasm. He also pressed upon his companions the vast importance of exterminating the whites, ere they, as he expressed it, became as the leaves of the forest, and covered the red-man's soil; that, for this purpose, they should prepare themselves as soon as possible, to open a deadly, unyielding warfare upon the frontiers; but said, withal, that he was opposed to burning the prisoners--as that was a barbarism which he feared would not be sanctioned by the great Spirit--and urged that they should be put to death in, a quicker and milder form. [14] Black Hoof's speech was warmly received, with the exception of what referred to the prisoners, and this rather coldly. They were excited to a powerful degree--their passions were up for revenge--and they could not bear the idea of sending a prisoner out of the world, without first enjoying the delight of seeing him writhe under the tortures of the stake.
Wild-cat next followed Black Hoof, in a brief speech, in which he but echoed the sentiments of Girty throughout, and received, like his colleague, an almost universal grunt of approbation. He was succeeded by one or two others, to the same effect--each urging the burning of the prisoners--and on their conclusion, no other appearing to speak, the old chief in the center at once proceeded to decide, by vote, the matter at issue. Advancing to the warrior nearest the door, he handed him a war-club, and then resumed his place in the circle, to record the will of each. He who was in favor of burning the prisoners, struck the ground fiercely with the weapon in question, and then passed it to his neighbor; he who was otherwise disposed, passed it quietly, in silence; thus it went through the whole assemblage--the old chief recording the vote of each, by cutting a notch on the stick in his hand; those for mercy being placed on one side, and those for the torture on the opposite. Some three or four only, besides Black Hoof, passed it quietly--consequently the sentence of death was carried by a decided majority. Had there been any doubt in the minds of Younker and Reynolds as to the result, it would have needed only one glance at Girty, who was now grinning upon them like a demon, to assure them their doom was sealed.
The question next came up as to the time and place for executing the sentence; and after some further debate, it was decided that the old man should be burnt forthwith, in the village, that their women and children might have a holiday pastime; but that Algernon must be made a grand national example of, before the assembled tribes at Upper Sandusky, when they should be met to receive presents from the British agent. [16] This latter decision was mainly effected by the eloquence of Black Hoof; who, from some cause, for which it would be impossible to account--only as a mysterious working of an overruling Providence--had secretly determined, if such a thing were possible, to save the life of Algernon; and took this method as the only one likely to aid his purpose by protecting him from immediate death.
The trial concluded, the council now broke up, and Girty was authorized to inform the prisoners of their sentence; while four young braves were selected to take charge of Algernon, and to set off with him, so soon as the burning of Younker should be over, for Upper Sandusky, where he was to be kept in durance until wanted. Advancing directly to the prisoners, the renegade now said, with a sneer: "Well, my beauties, are you ready to die?"
"We don't expect any thing else, Simon Girty," answered the old man mildly.
"Don't you, by ----!" rejoined Girty. "Perhaps it's just as well you don't--ha, ha, ha! Come, old dotard," he continued, "down on your marrow bones and say your prayers; for, by ----! you will never behold the setting of another sun."
"I've said my prayers regular for thirty year," answered Younker; "and I've been ready to die whensomever the Lord should see fit to call me; and therefore don't feel myself no more obligated to pray jest at this particular time, than ef I war told I war going to live twenty year more. It's only them as hain't lived right, that the near coming o' death makes pray, more nor at another time; and so jest allow me, Simon Girty, to return you your advice, which is very good, and which, ef you follow yourself, you'll be likely to make a much better man nor you've ever done afore."
"Fool!" muttered the renegade, with an oath. Then turning to Algernon, he continued: "You, sirrah, are destined to live a little longer--though by no design of mine, I can assure you. Don't flatter yourself, though, that you are going to escape," he added, as he perceived the countenance of Algernon slightly brighten at his intelligence; "for, by ----! if I thought there was a probability of such a thing happening, I would brain you where you sit, if I died for it the next moment. No, young man, there is no escape for you; you are condemned to be burnt, as well as Younker, only at another place; and, by ----! I will follow you myself, to see that the sentence is enforced with all its horrors."
"For all of which you doubtless feel yourself entitled to my thanks," returned Algernon, bitterly. "Do your worst, Simon Girty; but understand me, before you go further, that though life is as dear to me at the present moment as to another, yet so much do I abhor and loathe the very sight of you, that, could I have it for the asking, I would not stoop to beg it of so brutal and cowardly a thing as yourself."
"By ----!" cried Girty, in a transport of rage; "the time will come, when, if you do not sue for life, you will for death, and at my hands; and till then will I forego my revenge for your insolence now. And let me tell you one thing further, that you may muse upon it in my absence. I will raise an army, ere many months are over, and march upon the frontiers of Kentucky; and by all the powers of good and evil, I swear again to get possession of the girl you love, but whom I now hate--hate as the arch-fiend hates Heaven--and she shall thenceforth be my mistress and slave; and to make her feel more happy, I will ever and anon whisper your name in her ear, and tell her how you died, and the part I took in your death; and in the still hours of night, will I picture to her your agonies and dying groans, and repeat your prayers for death to release you. Ha! you may well shudder and grow pale; for again I swear, by all the elements, and by every thing mortal and immortal, I will accomplish the deed! Then, and not till then, will I feel my revenge complete."
The countenance of Girty, as he said this, was terrible to behold; for so enraged was he, that he fairly foamed at the mouth, and his eyes seemed like two balls of fire. As he concluded, he turned away abruptly; and muttering something in the Indian tongue, to some of the savages who were standing around, immediately quitted the council-house.
As Girty departed, the four young warriors who were to have charge of Algernon, immediately advanced to him; and one of them tapping him on the shoulder, moved away, motioning him to follow. As he prepared to obey, Younker grasped him by the hand, and, with eyes full of tears, in a trembling, pathetic voice, said: "Good-bye, lad! God bless and be with you. Something tells me we won't never meet agin. Keep up as stout a heart as you can, and ef you should escape, tell my (here the old man's voice faltered so that he could scarcely articulate a syllable)--tell my wife, and--and children--that I died happy, a thinking o' them, and praying for 'em--to--to the last. Good-bye! good-bye!" and wringing his hand again, the old man fairly sobbed aloud; while the rough warriors stood looking on in silence, and Algernon could only groan forth a farewell.
So they parted--never to meet again on earth.
Algernon was now conducted, by his guards, to a small building on the outskirts of the village; where, after receiving food and water, and having his clothes restored to him, he was informed by one of the Indians--who could speak a smattering of English--that he might be bound and remain, or accompany them to see the Big Knife tortured. He chose the former without hesitation; and was immediately secured in a manner similar to what he had been the night previously, and then left alone to the anguish of his own thoughts. What the feelings of our hero were, as thus he lay, suffering from his bruises and wound--his mind recurring to the dire events taking place in another part of the village, and his own awful doom--we shall leave to the imagination of the reader: suffice it to say, however, that when his guards returned, some two hours later, he was found in a swooning state, with large cold drops of perspiration standing thickly on his features.
Meantime, Younker was brought forth from the council-house--amid the hootings, revilings, and personal abuse of the savage mob--and then painted black,[17] preparatory to undergoing the awful death-sentence. He was then offered food--probably with the kind intention of strengthening him, and thus prolonging his life and tortures--but this he absolutely refused, and was immediately conducted to the place of execution, which was on the brow of the slope before described as reaching to the river. Here his wrists were immediately bound behind him; and then a rope, fastened to the ligature, was secured to a stake--driven into the earth for the purpose and left sufficiently long for him sit down, stand up, or walk around a circle of some six or eight feet in diameter.
During this proceeding, the Indians failed not to abuse him in various ways--some by pinching, and others by pounding him with their fists, with stones, and with clubs,--all of which he seemed to bear with great patience and resignation.
As soon as all was ready for the more diabolical tortures, Girty made the announcement, in a brief speech to the Indians; and then taking up a rifle, loaded with powder only, discharged it upon the prisoner's naked body. A loud yell of satisfaction, from the excited mob, followed this inhuman act; while several savages, rushing forward with rifles loaded in the same manner, now strove who should be first to imitate the renegade's example; by which means, no less than fifty discharges were made, in quick succession, until the flesh of the old man, from the neck downwards, was completely filled with burnt powder. Younker uttered a few groans, but bore all with manly fortitude, and made no complaints.
This part of the hellish ceremony over, a fire was kindled of hickory poles, placed in a circle round the stake, outside of that which his rope allowed Younker to make, in order that he might feel all the torments of roasting alive, without being sufficiently near to the flame to get a speedy relief by death. To add even more torture, if possible, to this infernal proceeding, the Indians would take up brands, and place the burning parts against the old man's body; and then, as they saw him cringe and writhe under the pain thus inflicted, would burst into horrid laughs, in which they were ever joined by the renegade. The old squaws too, and even the children, not wishing to be outdone in this refinement of cruelty, would take slabs, and having loaded them with live coals and ashes, would throw them upon his head and body, until not only both became covered, but the ground around him, so that there was no cool place for his feet; while at every new infliction of pain, the crowd would break forth in strains of wild, discordant laughter.
Thus passed some three-quarters of an hour of tortures the most horrible, during which the old man bore up under his sufferings with a strength and manliness that not only astonished his tormentors, but excited for himself, even in savage breasts, a feeling of respect. Girty, it may be, was moved to a similar feeling; for at length, advancing to his victim, he said, in a tone of more deference than he had hitherto used: "You bear up well, old man--well. I have seen many a one die, in a similar way, who was thought to be courageous--yet none with that firmness you have thus far displayed."
Younker, who was slowly walking around the stake, with his face bent toward the earth, suddenly paused, as Girty addressed him, and turning his eyes mildly upon the renegade, in a feeble voice, replied: "My firmness is given me from above. I can bear my torments, Simon Girty, for they're arthly, and will soon be over; but yourn--who'll say what yourn'll be, when you come to answer afore Almighty God for this and other crimes! But that arn't for the like o' me to speak of now. I'm a dying man, and trust soon to be in a better world. Ef I ever did you wrong, Simon Girty, I don't remember it now; and I'm very sartin I never did nothing to merit this. You came to my house, and war treated to the best I had, and here am I in return for't. Howsomever, the reckoning's got to come yit atween you and your God; and so I leave you--farewell."
"But say," returned Girty, who now seemed greatly moved by the manner and tone of Younker: "But say, old man, that you forgive me, and I will own that I did you wrong."
"I don't know's I've any enemies, except these round here," replied the other, feebly, "and I'd like to die at peace with all the world; but what you ax, Simon Girty, I can't grant; it's agin my nater and conscience; I can't say I forgive ye, for what you've done, for I don't. I may be wrong--it may not be Christian like--but ef it's a sin, it's one I've got to answer for myself. No, Girty, I can't forgive--pre'aps God will--you must look to him: I can't. Girty, I can't; and so, farewell forever! God be merciful to me a sinner," he added, looking upward devoutly; "and ef I've done wrong, oh! pardon me, for Christ's sake!"
With these words, the lips of Younker were sealed forever.
Girty stood and gazed upon him in silence, for a few minutes, as one whose mind is ill at ease, and then walked slowly away, in a mood of deep abstraction. Younker continued alive some three-quarters of an hour longer--bearing his tortures with great fortitude--and then sunk down with a groan and expired. The Indians then proceeded to scalp him; after which they gradually dispersed, with the apparent satisfaction of wolves that have gorged their fill on some sheep-fold.
When Algernon's guards returned, they found him in a swooning state, as previously recorded; and fearful that his life might be lost, and another day's sport thus spoiled, they immediately called in their great medicine man, who at once set about bandaging his wound, and applying to it such healing remedies as were known by him to be speedily efficacious, and for which the Indians are proverbially remarkable. His bruises were also rubbed with a soothing liquid; and by noon of the day following, he had gained sufficient strength to start upon his journey, accompanied by his guards.
On that journey we shall now leave him, and turn to other, and more important events; merely remarking, by the way, lest the reader should consider the neglect an oversight, that, on entering the Piqua village, Oshasqua had taken care to render the life of little Rosetta Millbanks safe, and had secured to her as much comfort as circumstances would permit.
[Footnote 14: In the action at Piqua here referred to, Simon Girty commanded three hundred Mingoes, whom he withdrew on account of the desperation with which the whites fought.]
[Footnote 15: This was a peculiar characteristic of this great chief, as drawn from the pages of history; and the more peculiar, that he was a fierce, determined warrior, and the very last to hold out against a peace with his white enemy. But there were some noble traits in the man; and when, at last, he was wrought upon to sign the treaty of Greenville, in 1795--twenty-four years after the date of the foregoing events--so keen was his sense of honor, that no entreaty nor persuasion could thenceforth induce him to break his bond; and he remained a firm friend of the Americans to the day of his death. He was opposed to burning prisoners, and to polygamy, and is said to have lived forty years with one wife, rearing a numerous family of children. --_See Drake's Life of Tecumseh_.]
[Footnote 16: The reader will bear in mind, that these events transpired during the American Revolution; that the Indians were, at this time, allies of the British; who paid them, in consequence, regular annuities, at Upper Sandusky.]
[Footnote 17: This was a customary proceeding of the savages at that day, with all prisoners doomed to death.]
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HISTORICAL EVENTS.
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From the first inroads of the whites upon what the Indians considered their lawful possessions, although by them unoccupied--namely, the territory known as Kan-tuck-kee--up to the year which opens our story, there had been scarcely any cessation of hostilities between the two races so antagonistical in their habits and principles. Whenever an opportunity presented itself favorable to their purpose, the savages would steal down from their settlements--generally situated on the Bottom Lands of the principal rivers in the present State of Ohio--cross over _La Belle Riviere_ into Kentucky, and, having committed as many murders and other horrible acts as were thought prudent for their safety, would return in triumph, if successful, to their homes, taking along with them scalps of both sexes and all ages, from the infant to the gray-beard, and not unfrequently a few prisoners for the amusement of burning at the stake.
These flying visits of the savages were generally repaid by similar acts of kindness on the part of the whites; who, on several occasions, marched with large armies into their very midst, destroyed their crops and stores, and burnt their towns. An expedition of this kind was prosecuted by General Clark, in August of the year preceding the events we have detailed, of which mention has been previously made. He had under his command one thousand men, mostly from Kentucky, and marched direct upon old Chillicothe, which the Indians deserted and burnt on his approach. He next moved upon the Piqua towns, on Mad river, where a desperate engagement ensued between the whites and Indians, in which the former proved victorious. Having secured what plunder they could, together with the horses, the Kentuckians destroyed the town, and cut down some two hundred acres of standing corn. They then returned to Chillicothe on their homeward route, where they destroyed other large fields of produce, supposed in all to amount to something like five hundred acres.
We have mentioned this expedition for the purpose of showing why the year which opens our story, 1781, was less disastrous to the frontier settlers than the preceding ones--the Indians being too busily occupied in repairing the damage done them, and in hunting to support their families, to have much thought for the war-path, or time to follow it; consequently the year in question, as regards Kentucky, may be said to have passed away in a comparatively quiet manner, with no events more worthy of note than those we have laid before the reader.
But if the vengeance of the savage slumbered for the time being, it was only like some pent up fire, burning in secret, until opportunity should present for it to burst forth in a manner most appalling, carrying destruction and terror throughout its course; and in consequence of this, the year 1782 was destined to be one most signally marked by bloody deeds in the annals of Kentucky. The winter of '81 and '82 passed quietly away; but early in the ensuing spring hostilities were again renewed, with a zeal which showed that neither faction had forgotten old grudges during the intervening quietude. Girty did all that lay in his power to stir up the vindictive feelings of the Indians, and was aided in his laudable endeavors by one or two others[18] who wore the uniform of British officers. It was the design of the renegade to raise a grand army from the union of the Six Nations, lead them quietly into the heart of Kentucky, and, by a bold move, seize some prominent station, murder the garrison, and thus secure at once a stronghold, from which to sally forth, spread death and desolation in every quarter, and, if possible, depopulate the entire country. Long and ardently did he labor in stirring up the Indians by inflammatory speeches; till at last he succeeded in uniting a grand body for his hellish purpose; which, on the very eve of success, as one may say, was at last frustrated by what seemed a direct Providence, of which more anon, and its proper place.
Previously, however, to the event just referred to, parties of Indians, numbering from five to fifty, prowled about the frontiers, committing at every opportunity all manner of horrid deeds, and thus rousing the whites to defence and retaliation. One of these skirmishes has been more particularly dwelt on, by the historians of Kentucky, than any of the others; on account, probably, of the desperate and sanguinary struggle for mastery between the two contending parties, and the cruel desertion, at a time of need, of a portion of the whites; by which means the Indians had advantage of numbers, that otherwise would have been equally opposed. We allude to what is generally known as Estill's Defeat.
It is not our province in the present work to detail any thing not directly connected with our story; and therefore we shall pass on, after a cursory glance at the main facts in question. Sometime in March, a party of Wyandots made a descent upon Estill's station, which stood near the present site of Richmond; and having killed and scalped a young lady, and captured a Negro slave, were induced, by the exaggerated account which the latter gave of the force within, to an immediate retreat; whereby, probably, the lives of the women and children, almost the only occupants, were saved--Captain Estill himself, with his garrison, and several new recruits, being at the time away, on a search for these very savages, who were known by some unmistakable signs to be in the vicinity. Word being despatched to Estill, of what had transpired in his absence, he immediately sought out the trail of the retreating foes, which he followed with his men, and toward night of the second day overtook them at Hinston's Fork of Licking, where a desperate engagement immediately ensued. At the onset, there were twenty-five Indians, and exactly the same number of whites; but the immediate desertion, in a cowardly manner, of a certain Lieutenant Miller, with six men under his command, left the odds greatly in favor of the Wyandots, who were all picked warriors. Notwithstanding the cowardice of their companions, our little Spartan band fought most heroically for an hour and three-quarters; when the few survivors, on both sides, being almost worn out, ceased hostilities as by mutual consent. In this ever memorable action, Captain Estill, a brave and popular man, together with nine of his gallant companions, fell to rise no more. Four others were badly wounded, leaving only the same number of unharmed survivors. The Indians, it was afterwards ascertained, had seventeen warriors killed on the field, among whom was one of their bravest chiefs, and two others severely wounded; and there has been a tradition since among the Wyandots, that only one survivor ever returned to tell the tale.
The news of the foregoing disastrous skirmish flew like wild fire, to use a common phrase, throughout the borders, and, together with others of less note, served to kindle the fire of vengeance in the bosoms of the settlers, and excite a deeper hostility than ever against the savage foe. Nor was the subsequent conduct of the Indians themselves calculated to soften this bitter feeling against them; for, to use the words of a modern writer, "The woods again teemed with savages, and no one was safe from attack beyond the walls of a station. The influence of the British, and the constant pressure of the Long Knives, upon the red-men, had produced a union of the various tribes of the northwest, who seemed to be gathering again to strike a fatal blow at the frontier settlements; and had they been led by a Phillip, a Pontiac, or a Tecumseh, it is impossible to estimate the injury they might have inflicted."
Whether the foregoing remarks may be deemed by the reader a digression, or otherwise, we have certainly felt ourself justified in making them; from the fact, that our story is designed to be historical in all its bearings; and because many months being supposed to elapse, ere our characters are again brought upon the stage of action, it seemed expedient to give a general view of what was taking place in the interval. Having done so, we will now forthwith resume our narrative.
About five miles from Lexington, a little to the left of the present road leading thence to Maysville, and on a gentle rise of the southern bank of the Elkhorn, at the time of which we write, stood Bryan's Station, to which we must now call the reader's attention. This station was founded in the year 1779, by William Bryan, (a brother-in-law of Daniel Boone,) who had, prior to the events we are now about to describe, been surprised and killed by the Indians in the vicinity of a stream called Cane Run.
This fort, at the period in question, was one of great importance to the early settlers--standing as it did on what was considered at the time of its erection, the extreme frontier, and, by this means, extending their area of security. The station consisted of forty cabins, placed in parallel lines, connected by strong pallisades, forming a parallelogram of thirty rods by twenty, and enclosing something like four acres of ground. Outside of the cabins and pallisades, to render the fort still more secure, were planted heavy pickets, a foot in diameter, and some twelve feet in height above the ground; so that it was impossible for an enemy to scale them, or affect them in the least, with any thing short of fire and cannon ball. To guard against the former, and prevent the besiegers making a lodgment under the walls, at each of the four corners or angles, was erected what was called a block-house--a building which projected beyond the pickets, a few feet above the ground, and enabled the besieged to pour a raking fire across the advanced party of the assailants. Large folding gates, on huge, wooden hinges, in front and rear, opened into the enclosure, through which men, wagons, horses, and domestic cattle, had admittance and exit. In the center, as the reader has doubtless already divined, was a broad space, into which the doors of the cabins opened, and which served the purpose of a regular common, where teams and cattle were oftentimes secured, where wrestling and other athletic sports took place. The cabins were all well constructed, with puncheon floors, the roofs of which sloped inward, to avoid as much as possible their being set on fire by burning arrows, shot by the Indians for the purpose, a practice by no means uncommon during a siege. This fort, at the period referred to, was garrisoned by from forty to fifty men; and though somewhat out of repair, in respect to a few of its pallisades, was still in a condition to resist an overwhelming force, unless taken wholly by surprise. There was one great error, however, connected with its design--and one that seems to have been common to most of the stations of that period--which was, that the spring, supplying the inmates with water, had not been enclosed within the pickets. The reader can at once imagine the misery that must have ensued from this cause, in case of their being suddenly assaulted by a superior enemy, and the siege protracted to any considerable length of time.
Within this fort, on their return from captivity, Mrs. Younker and Ella had taken up their abode, to remain until another cabin should be erected, or it should be thought safe for them to live again in a more exposed manner. Isaac had straightway repaired to his father-in-law's, to behold again the idol of his heart, and pour into her ear his grief for the loss of his father and friend, and receive her sympathy for his affliction in return. The disastrous affair which had called him and his companions so suddenly from a scene of festivity to one of mourning--the loss of so many valuable neighbors, and the result of the expedition in pursuit of the enemy--created at the time no little excitement throughout the frontiers, and caused some of the more timid to resort to the nearest stations for security. But as time wore on, and as nothing serious happened during the fall and winter, confidence and courage gradually became restored; and the affair was almost forgotten, save by the friends and relatives of the deceased and those particularly concerned in it.
Spring, however, revived the alarm of the settlers, by the reappearance of the enemy in all quarters, and the outrages they committed, as before mentioned; so that but very few persons ventured to remain without the walls of a fort; and these, such of them as were fortunate enough to escape death or captivity, were fain to seek refuge therein before the close of summer.
Immediately on the receipt of the alarming intelligence of Estill's defeat, Isaac, his wife, and the family of his father-in-law, Wilson, repaired to Bryan's Station, and joined Mrs. Younker and Ella, who had meantime remained there in security.
[Footnote 18: McKee and Elliot.]
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{
"id": "15424"
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15
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OLD CHARACTERS AND NEW.
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It was toward night of a hot sultry day in the month of August, that Ella Barnwell was seated by the door of a cabin, within the walls of Bryan's Station, gazing forth, with what seemed a vacant stare, upon a group of individuals, who were standing near the center of the common before spoken of, engaged in a very animated conversation. Her features perhaps were no paler than when we saw her last; but there was a tender, melancholy expression on her sweet countenance, of deep abiding grief, and a look of mournfulness in her beautiful eyes, that touched involuntarily the hearts of all who met her gaze.
Since we last beheld her, days of anxious solicitude, and sleepless nights, had been apportioned Ella; for memory--all potent memory--had kept constantly before her mind's eye the images of those who were gone, and mourned as forever lost to the living; and her imagination had a thousand times traced them to the awful stake, seen their terrible tortures, heard their agonizing, dying groans; and her heart had bled for them in secret; and tears of anguish, at their untimely fate, had often dimmed her eyes. Even now, as she apparently gazed upon that group of individuals, whom she saw not, and whose voices, sounding in her ear, she heard not, her mind was occupied with the probable fate of her uncle and Algernon, the still all-absorbing theme of her soul.
While seated thus, Mrs. Younker approached Ella from behind, unperceived by the latter, and now stood gazing upon her with a sorrowful look. The countenance of the good dame had altered less, perhaps, than Ella's, owing to her strong masculine spirit; but still there was an expression of anxiety and sadness thereon, which, until of late, had never been visible--not even when on her march to what, as she then believed, was her final doom--the excitement whereof, and the many events that occurred on the route, having been sufficient to occupy her mind in a different manner from what it had been in brooding over the fate of her husband for months in secret, and in a place of comparative safety. At length a remark, in a loud voice, of one of the individuals of the group before alluded to, arrested the attention of both Mrs. Younker and Ella.
"I tell you," said the speaker, who was evidently much excited, "it was that infernal cut-throat Girty's doings, and no mistake. Heaven's curses on him for a villain! --and I don't think he'll more nor git his just dues, to suffer them hell fires of torment, hereafter, that he's kindled so often around his victims on arth."
At these words Ella started to her feet, and exclaiming wildly, "Who are they--who are Girty's victims?" sprung swiftly towards the group, followed by Mrs. Younker.
All eyes, from all quarters, were now turned upon her, as, like a spirit, she glided noiselessly forward, her sweet countenance radiant with the flush of excitement, her eyes dilated and sparkling, and her glossy ringlets floating on the breeze. Curiosity could no longer remain unsatisfied; and by one spontaneous movement, from every point of compass, women and children now hurried toward the center of the common, to gather the tidings.
The quiet, modest, melancholy air of Ella, had, one time with another, since her first appearance in the Station, attracted the attention, and won the regard of its inmates; most of whom had made inquiries concerning her, and learned the cause of her sadness; and now, as she gained the crowd, each gazed upon her with a look of respect; and at once moving aside to let her pass, she presently stood the central attraction of an excited multitude, of both sexes, all ages and sizes.
"Who are they?" cried she again, turning from one to the other, rapidly, with an anxious look: "who are the victims of the renegade Girty?"
"We were speaking, Miss Barnwell," answered a youth, of genteel appearance, doffing his hat, and making at the same time a polite and respectful bow: "We were speaking of the defeat, capture, and burning of Colonel Crawford, by the Indians, in their own country, in which the notorious Simon Girty is said to have taken an active part[19]--news whereof has just reached us."
At the mention of the name of Crawford, so different from the one she was expecting to hear, the momentary insanity, or delusion of Ella, vanished; she saw her position at a glance, and the hundred eyes that were upon her; and instantly her face became suffused with blushes; while she shrunk back, with a sense of maidenly shame and bashful timidity, almost overpowering to herself, and really painful for others to behold. She now strove to speak--to give an excuse for her singular conduct--but her tongue failed her, and she would have sunk to the earth, only for the support of Mrs. Younker, who at this moment gained her side.
"Never mind it. Miss Barnwell--it don't need any excuse--we understand your feelings for lost friends," were some of the remarks from the crowd, as the throng again made a passage for her to depart.
"Goodness, gracious, marcy on me alive! what a splurge you did make on't, darling!" said Mrs. Younker to Ella, as they moved away by themselves. "Why, you jest kind o' started up, for all the world like a skeered deer; and afore I could get my hands on ye, you war off like an Injen's arrow. Well, thar, thar, poor gal--never mind it!" added the good dame, consolingly, as Ella turned towards her a painful, imploring look; "we all knows your feelings, darling, and so never mind it. Mistakes will happen in the best o' families, as the Rev. Mr. Allprayer used to say, when any body accused him o' doing any thing he hadn't oughter a done."
"Mother," said Ella, feebly, "I feel faint; this shock, I fear, may be too much for my nervous system."
"Oh! my child, darling, don't mind it--every body knows your feelings--and nobody'll think any thing strange on't. In course you war thinking o' your friends--as war nateral you should--and so war I; and when I heerd the name o' that ripscallious renegade, it jest set my hull blood to biling, like it war hot water, and I felt orful revengeful. But the Lord's will be done, child. He knows what's best; and let us pray to him, that ef our friends is among the land of the living, they may be restored to us, or taken straight away to His presence."
As Mrs. Younker said this, she and Ella entered the cottage.
"Poor girl!" said a voice among the crowd, as soon as Ella was out of hearing; "they do say as how she eats but little now, and scarcely takes any rest at all lately, on account of the trouble of her mind. Poor girl! she's not long for this world;" and the speaker shook his head sadly.
"But what is it? --what is it as troubles her so?" inquired an old woman, in a voice tremulous with age, who, being somewhat of a new-comer, had not heard the oft-repeated story.
"I'll tell it ye--I'll tell it ye," answered another gossiping crone, standing beside the querist, who, fearful of being forestalled, now eagerly began her scandalous narration.
Meantime, the male portion of the crowd had resumed their conversation, concerning the unfortunate campaign of Crawford; during which manifold invectives were bestowed upon the savages, and the renegade Girty. Some of the more reckless among them were for raising another army, as soon as possible, to pursue the Indians, even to the death, and spare none that fell into their hands, neither the aged, women, nor children; but these propositions were speedily overruled by cooler and wiser heads; who stated that Kentucky had scarcely fighting men enough to protect one another on their own ground--much less to march into the enemy's country, and leave their wives and children exposed to certain destruction.
While these discussions were in progress, the attention of each was suddenly arrested by the cry of some person from the right hand block-house, looking toward the south, announcing that a single horseman was approaching with a speed which betokened evil tidings. These were times of excitement, when news of disaster and death was borne on almost every breeze; and consequently all now sprung rapidly to the southern pickets, where, through loop-holes and crevices in the partially decayed pallisades, they perceived an individual riding as if for life.
"How he rides! --Who is it? --What can have happened?" were some of the remarks now rapidly uttered, as the horseman was seen bounding forward on his foaming steed. Instantly the nearest gate was thrown open; and, in less than two minutes, horse and rider stood within the enclosure, surrounded by a breathless multitude, eager for his intelligence.
"Arm!" cried the horseman, a good looking youth of eighteen: "Arm--all that can be spared--and on to the rescue!"
"What's happened, Dick Allison?" asked one who had recognized the rider.
"I have it on the best authority," answered Dick, "that Hoy's Station has just been attacked, by a large body of Indians, and Captain Holder and his men defeated."
"But whar d'ye get your news?" inquired another voice; while a look of alarm, and resolute determination to avenge the fallen, could be seen depicted on the upturned countenances of the assemblage.
"I was riding in that direction, when I met a messenger on his way to Lexington for assistance; and turning my horse, I spurred hither with all speed."
"Have the red devils got possession of the fort?" inquired another.
"I am not certain, for I did not wait to hear particulars; but I'm under the impression they have not, and that Holder was defeated outside the walls."
"Well, they must have assistance, and that as soon as it can be got to 'em," rejoined a white-haired veteran, one of the head men of the garrison, whose countenance was remarkable for its noble, benevolent expression, and who, from love and veneration, was generally called Father Albach. "It's too late in the day, though, to muster and march thar to-night," continued the old man; "but we'll have our horses got up and put in here to night, and our guns cleaned, and every thing fixed for to start at daylight to-morrow. Eh! my gallant lads--what say ye?" and he glanced playfully around upon the bystanders.
"Yes--yes--yes--father!" cried a score of voices, in a breath; and the next moment a long, loud cheer, attested the popularity of the old man's decision.
"Another cheer for Father Albach, and three more for licking the ripscallious varmints clean to death!" cried our old acquaintance, Isaac Younker, who, having been otherwise occupied during the discussion concerning Crawford's defeat, had joined the crowd on the arrival of the messenger.
"Good for Ike," shouted one: "Hurray!" and four lusty cheers followed.
All now became bustle and confusion, as each set himself to preparing for the morrow's expedition. Guns were brought out and cleaned, locks examined, new flints put in place of old ones, bullets cast, powder-horns replenished, horses driven within the enclosure, saddles and bridles overhauled, and, in fact, every thing requisite for the journey was made ready as fast as possible.
Isaac, on the present occasion, was by no means indolent; for having examined his rifle, and found it in a good condition, he immediately brought forth an old saddle and bridle, somewhat the worse for wear, and set himself down to repairing them, wherever needed, by thongs of deerskin. While engaged in this laudable occupation, a young lad came running to and informed him, that there was a stranger down by the gate who wished to speak with him immediately.
"A stranger!" replied Isaac, looking up in surprise. "Why, what in the name o' all creation can a stranger be wanting with me? Why don't he come and see me, if he wants to see me, and not put me to all this here trouble, jest when I'm gitting ready to go and lick some o' them red heathen like all nater?"
"Don't know, sir," answered the lad, "what his reasons be for not coming, any more nor you; but he said to the man as opened the gate for him, 'Is Isaac Younker in the fort?' and the man said, 'Yes;' and then he said to me, 'Run, my little lad, and tell him to come here, and I'll gin you some thing;' and that's all I knows about it."
"Well, I 'spose I'll have to go," rejoined Isaac, rising to his feet; "but I don't think much o' the feller as puts a gentleman to all this here trouble, jest for nothing at all, as one may say, when a feller's in a hurry too. Howsomever," continued he, soliloquizing, as he walked forward in the proper direction, "I 'spect it's some chap as wants to hoax me, or else he's putting on the extras; ef so, I'll fix him, so he won't want to do it agin right immediately, I reckon."
Thus muttering to himself, Isaac drew near the front gate, against which, within the pallisades, the stranger in question was leaning, with his hat pressed down over his forehead, as though he desired concealment. His habiliments, after the fashion of the day, were originally of a superior quality to those generally worn on the frontiers, but soiled and torn in several places, as from the wear and tear of a long, fatiguing journey. His features, what portion of them could be seen under his hat, were pale and haggard, denoting one who had experienced many and severe vicissitudes. As Isaac approached, he raised his eyes from the ground, turned them full upon him, and then, taking a step forward, said, in a voice tremulous with emotion: "Thank God! Isaac Younker, I am able to behold you once again."
As a distinct view of his features fell upon the curious gaze of the latter, and his voice sounded in his ear, Isaac paused for a moment, as one stupefied with amazement; the next, he staggered back a pace or two, dropped his hands upon his knees, in a stooping posture, as if to peer more closely into the face of the stranger; and then bounding from the earth, he uttered a wild yell of delight, threw his hat upon the ground in a transport of joy, and rushed into the extended arms of Algernon Reynolds, where he wept like a child upon his neck, neither of them able to utter a syllable for something like a minute.
"The Lord be praised!" were the first articulate words of Isaac, in a voice choked with emotion. "God bless you! Mr. Reynolds;" and again the tears of joy fell fast and long. "Is it you?" resumed he, again starting back and gazing wildly upon the other, as if fearful of some mistake. "Yes! yes! it's you--there's no mistaking that thar face--the dead's come to life again, for sartin;" and once more he sprung upon the other's neck, with all the apparent delight of a mother meeting with a lost child.
"Yes, yes, Isaac, thank God! it is myself you really behold--one who never expected to see you again in this world," rejoined Algernon, affected himself to tears, by the noble, heart-touching, affectionate manner of his companion. "But--but Isaac--our friends here--are they--all--all well, Isaac?" This was said in a voice, which, in spite of the speaker's efforts to be calm, trembled from anxiety and apprehension.
"Why," answered Isaac, in a somewhat hesitating manner, "I don't know's thar's any body exactly sick--but--" "But what, Isaac?" interrupted Algernon, with a start.
"Why, Ella, you know--" "Yes, yes, Isaac--what of her?" and grasping him by the arm, Algernon gazed upon the other's features with a look of alarm.
"Now don't be skeered, Mr. Reynolds--thar han't nothing happened--only I 'spect she's bin a thinking o' you--who every body thought war dead--and she's kind o' grown thin and pale on't, and we war gitting afeared it might end badly; but as you've come now, I know as how it'll all be right agin."
Algernon released the speaker's arm, and for some moments gazed abstractedly upon the ground; while over his countenance swept one of those painful expressions of the deep workings of the soul, to which, from causes known to the reader, he was subject. At length he said, with a sigh: "Well, Isaac, I have come to behold her once again, and then--" He paused, apparently overpowered by some latent feeling.
"And then!" said Isaac, repeating the words, with a look of surprise: "I reckon you arn't a going to leave us agin soon, Mr. Reynolds?"
"There are circumstances, unknown to you, friend Isaac, which I fear will compel me so to do."
"What!" cried the other; "start off agin, and put your scalp into the hands of the infernal, ripscallious, painted Injens? No, by thunder! you shan't do it, Mr. Reynolds; for sting me with a nest o' hornets, ef I don't hang to ye like a tick to a sheep. No, no, Mr. Reynolds; don't--don't think o' sech a thing. But come, go in and see Ella--she'd be crazy ef she knew you war here."
"Ay," answered Algernon, sadly, "that is what I fear. I dare not meet her suddenly, Isaac--the shock might be too much for her nerves. I have sent for you to go first and communicate intelligence of my arrival, in a way to surprise her as little as possible."
"I'll do it, Mr. Reynolds; but--(here Isaac's voice trembled, his features grew pale as death, and his whole frame quivered with intense emotion)--but--but my--my father--what--" He could say no more--his voice had completely failed him.
"Alas! Isaac," replied Algernon, deeply affected, and turning away his face; "think the worst."
"Oh God!" groaned Isaac, covering his face with his hands, and endeavoring to master his feelings. "But--but--he's dead, Mr. Reynolds?"
"He is."
For a few moments Isaac sobbed grievously; then withdrawing his hands, and raising himself to an erect posture, with a look of resignation, he said: "I--I can bear it now--for I know he's in Heaven. Stay here, Mr. Reynolds, till I come back;" and he turned abruptly away.
In a few minutes Isaac returned--his features calm, but very pale--and silently motioned the other to follow him. On their way to the cottage, they had to cross the common, where their progress was greatly impeded by a crowd of persons, who, having heard of Algernon's arrival, were deeply anxious to gather what tidings he might have concerning the movements of the Indians. In reply, he informed them of the threats made by Girty to him while a captive; and that, having since been a prisoner of the British at Detroit, he had learned, from reliable sources, that a grand army of the Indians was forming to march upon the frontiers, attack some stronghold, and, if possible, desolate the entire country of Kentucky; and that he believed they were already on their way.
"More'n that, they're already here," cried a voice; "for it's them, I 'spect, as has attacked Hoy's Station, of which we've just got news, and are gitting ready to march at daylight and attack them in turn. Arm, boys, arm! Don't let us dally here, and be lagging when the time comes to march and fight!"
With this the speaker turned away, and the crowd instantly dispersed to resume their occupations of preparing for the coming expedition, while our hero and Isaac pressed forward to the cottage of Mrs. Younker. At the door they were met by the good dame herself, who, with eyes wet with tears, caught the proffered hand of Reynolds in both of hers, pressed it warmly in silence, and led him into the house. Ella, who was seated at a short distance, on the entrance of Algernon, rose to her feet, took a step forward, staggered back, and the next moment her insensible form was caught in the arms of the being she loved, but had long mourned as dead.
[Footnote 19: This happened in June, 1782. For particulars of Crawford's disastrous campaign, and horrible fate--_See Howe's Ohio_, p. 542.]
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{
"id": "15424"
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16
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THE ALARM AND STRATAGEM.
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It was late at night; but still Algernon Reynolds sat beside Ella Barnwell, relating the sad story of his many hair-breadth escapes and almost intolerable sufferings. A rude sort of light, on a rough table, a few feet distant, threw its faint gleams over the homely apartment, and revealed the persons of Isaac and his mother, his wife and her parents, together with several others, attracted hither by curiosity, grouped around our hero, and listening to his thrilling narrative with breathless attention.
"After being sufficiently recovered from my wound and bruises, to proceed upon my journey, (continued Reynolds, to resume the account of his adventures since leaving him at Piqua) Girty came to me, and inquired what I thought of my fate, and how I felt concerning it; to which I replied, rather briefly, that it was no worse than I had expected, since knowing into whose hands I had fallen. " 'Perhaps you think to escape?' said he, sneeringly. " 'I have no such hope,' I replied. " 'No, and by ----! you needn't have, either,' rejoined he, with a savage grin; 'for I'm determined you shall experience the torture to its fullest extent, if for nothing else than to revenge myself on you for your insults. I have only one thing to regret; and that is, that you didn't suffer in place of Younker, who is the only one whose torments I would I had had no hand in. But you--_you_ I could see tormented forever, and laugh heartily throughout. But I'll wreak my vengeance on you yet; I will by ----!' and with these words he left me to the charge of my guards, with whom he spoke a short time in the Indian tongue--probably giving them instructions of caution regarding myself.
"It was about mid-day, when, with my arms tightly bound, we set off for Upper Sandusky, where, as I had previously been informed by Girty, I was condemned to suffer before the assembled tribes of the different nations, who would there shortly meet to receive their annual presents from the British. Our march, very fatiguing to myself, was without incident worthy of note, until one night we arrived at a small village on the Scioto river, where one of my guards, who could speak a little English, informed me resided the celebrated Mingo chief, Logan. A thought suddenly flashed across my brain. I had often heard of Logan, as the great and good chief, humane in his principles, and friendly to the whites--particularly those who were signally unfortunate--and it occurred to me, that could I gain an interview, I might perhaps prevail upon him to assist me in making my escape; and accordingly I at once expressed to my informant my desire of beholding one so celebrated. To my great delight, he replied that it was in Logan's cabin I was to pass the night--such being the private orders, as I afterwards learned, of Black Hoof--who had, it seems, from some cause unknown to myself, formed the design of saving my life; and had sent by the Indian in question, a verbal request to Logan, to use all his influence to this effect.
"As we entered the village, we were immediately surrounded by men, women and children, who stared hard at me, but offered no violence. In a few minutes we gained Logan's hut, in the door of which I observed standing an old, noble-looking warrior, with a commanding form, and mild, benevolent countenance, who proved to be the chief himself. To him one of my guards now addressed a few words in Indian; and uttering a grunt, and looking closely at me some seconds, he moved aside, and we all passed in. Here I soon had a good supper of homminy provided me, whereof I did not partake lightly, having been from sunrise to sunset without tasting a morsel of food. Immediately after I had finished my repast, Logan approached me, and, in tolerable good English, said: "'White man, where from?'
"I motioned toward the east, and answered: "'From sunrise--away beyond the big mountains.'
"Logan shook his head sadly, and replied, with a sigh: "'Ah! so all come. Poor Indian get run over--he no place lay he head. But how you come all tied so?'
"In answer, I entered into a full explanation of all that had occurred respecting the proceedings of Girty, from first to last. Logan listened throughout with great attention, shook his head, and rejoined: "'Ah! Simon Girty bad man--berry. Me always think so. Me sorry for you. Me do all me can for you. You shall sleep here. Me promise you nothing. Me tell you more sometime--to-morrow mebby!'
"With this he rose and left the cottage, and I saw him no more that night.
"Early in the morning, however, he came to me, and said that I was to remain at his cabin through the day; that he had laid a plan to effect my release from death, but not from captivity--the latter not being in accordance with his principles, nor in his power; that for this purpose he had despatched two young braves to Upper Sandusky, to speak a word in my favor; but that I must not be elated with hope, as it was very doubtful how much they might effect. [21] Notwithstanding his caution to the contrary, my spirits became exceedingly exhilarated; and grasping his hand in both mine, I pressed it to my heart in silence; while my eyes became suffused with tears, and the old chief himself seemed not a little affected.
"Late the night following, the messengers returned; and on the morning succeeding, we resumed our journey. In parting from the noble old chief, he shook my hand cordially, but gave me no intimation of what would probably be my fate.
"When within sight of Upper Sandusky, crowds of warriors, women and children came out to meet us, and, seeing me, set up many a hideous yell, until I again became alarmed for my safety, and fearful that Logan had not succeeded in his magnanimous design. This impression was the more strongly confirmed, shortly after, by one of my guides informing me that I must again run the gauntlet. Accordingly every preparation being speedily effected, I started upon the course; but possessing more strength and activity than before, and a better knowledge of what I had to perform, I succeeded in breaking through the lines, and reaching the council house unharmed. Here I was safe for the present; or until, as I was informed, my fate should once more be decided by a grand council.
"The council in question was speedily convened; and on the opening thereof, a British agent, one Captain Druyer, made his appearance, and requested permission to address the assemblage, which was readily granted. He spoke rapidly, for a few minutes, with great vehemence; and though I understood not a word he uttered, yet something whispered me it was in my favor; for I observed that the glances directed towards me, were milder far than those on my previous trial.
"To sum up briefly, it seems that Logan had despatched his messengers to Druyer, urging him to exert all his influence in obtaining my reprieve; and to effect this humane design, the latter had begun by stating to the Indians that their great white father, of whom he was an humble representative, was at war with the Long Knives; that nothing would please him better, than to hear of his red children having sacrificed all their enemies; but that in war, policy was ofttimes more effectual than personal revenge in accomplishing their destruction; and that he doubted not, if the prisoner present were put in his possession and taken to Detroit, that the great white chiefs of his own nation would there be able to extort from him such valuable information as would make the final conquest of the Long Knives comparatively easy. To this proposition, which was received rather coldly, he had added, that for this privilege he was willing to pay a fair recompense; and that so soon as all the information necessary had been gleaned from the prisoner, he should, if thought advisable, again be returned to them, to be put to death or not, as they might see proper. To this arrangement, all having at last consented, the gallant Captain advanced to me, shook my hand, and said that my life was for the present safe, and that I was to accompany him to Detroit, where I would be treated as a prisoner of war.
"It is impossible to describe my feelings, on hearing this joyful intelligence; therefore I shall leave you to imagine them, aided as you will be by your own experience under similar circumstances. And now let me close my long narrative as briefly as possible; for the hour is already late, and I must rise betimes on the morrow to join this expedition against the savages."
"Surely, Algernon," exclaimed Ella, with pale features, "you are not going to leave us again so soon?"
"Where duty calls, Ella, there is my place; and if I fall in honorable action, in defence of my country and friends, perchance my life may atone for matters whereof _you_ are not ignorant."
Ella buried her face in her hands, to conceal her emotion; and Algernon, with an effort at composure, again proceeded.
"At Detroit I experienced kind treatment, as a prisoner of war; but still it was captivity, and I longed for freedom. Many, many an hour did I employ in planning my escape; yet month upon month rolled on, and still I remained in durance. At last startling rumors reached me, that the Indians of the different tribes were banding together, to march upon the frontiers and depopulate the country; and remembering the savage threat of Girty, I doubted not he was the instigator, and would be leader of the expedition; and I determined, at all hazards, if such a thing were in the province of possibility, to effect my escape, and give the country warning of the impending danger. To be brief, I succeeded, as my presence here tells for itself; but no one knows, save myself, and He who knows all things, the misery I suffered from fatigue, lack of food, and the fear of again being captured by some roving band of savages--the which I shall detail, perhaps, should my life be spared me, at some future period, but not at the present.
"I swam the Ohio, a short distance above the Falls, and made my way, to the best of my judgment, directly towards Boonesborough, where I arrived, a few days since, in a state of complete exhaustion. The noble old hunter received me warmly; from whose lips I heard, with thrilling emotion, the particulars of the pursuit, headed by himself, and the rescue of two of my dearest friends, their present abode, as also many startling events that had transpired during my absence; and in return, I communicated to him the alarming intelligence which I have before alluded to. So soon as I felt myself sufficiently strong for the journey, I left Boonesborough for Bryan's Station, and here I am, and thus my tale."
"And a mighty tough time you've had on't Mr. Reynolds, for sartin, and no mistake," rejoined Mrs. Younker, with a sigh, wiping her eyes. "Ah! me--poor Ben! --poor Ben! --I'm a widder now in arnest. Well, the Lord's will be done. The good Book says, 'The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord;' and them good words, my children and friends, must be our consolation."
But little more was said; for each of the party felt oppressed with a weight of sadness, at the thought of the many mournful events a year had brought forth; and as the hour was late, each and all presently betook themselves to rest.
Meantime, the preparations of the garrison for the morrow had been going forward in every part of the station; lights were moving to and fro; and all within the cabins, and on the common, was bustle and activity. At last the sounds gradually ceased, the lights went out one by one, and all finally became tranquil for the night.
About an hour before day-break, the sleepers began to rouse themselves, and all was soon again in commotion. Horses were led forth, saddled, returned and fed, and every thing got in readiness to throw open the gates and march forth so soon as it should become sufficiently light for the purpose.
At last came the exciting moment of all. Some were standing in groups, and weeping bitterly at the thought of parting, perhaps for the last time, with their fathers, husbands and sons; some were running to and fro with anxious messages; some were clasping each other to their hearts, in agonizing silence, and praying in secret that the Great Ruler of all might preserve and happily restore them again to the idols of their affections; some had mounted their noble steeds, or were leading them forth for the purpose--and all was in Babel-like confusion.
"Farewell, my friends," said Algernon, as he stood in the door of Mrs. Younker's cottage, grasping one after another the proffered hands of its weeping inmates, among whom was the wife and mother-in-law of Isaac. "Farewell, dearest Ella; we may never meet again on earth. Farewell--farewell!" and pressing her hand to his lips, he rushed forth with a heaving heart, not daring to trust himself longer in her presence.
Isaac and his father-in-law followed the example of Reynolds, moved away with weeping eyes, and all were quickly in their saddles.
A few minutes later the roll was called, and the order given by the commanding officer to form in double file and throw open the eastern gate. Scarcely were the words uttered, when there arose a series of terrific Indian yells, accompanied by a volley of firearms, and every face became blanched with surprise and dismay, and looked from one to the other in astonishment.
"By heavens!" cried a voice; "our fighting 'll be at home, I reckon, judging by the specimen before us."
Dismounting from their horses, the garrison, together with many of the women and children, now rushed to the southern pickets, where, through loop-holes and crevices, they beheld, only a few rods distant, about a hundred savages, running to and fro, jumping up and down, whooping, yelling, screeching and firing at the station, accompanied with all the wild, fantastic gestures of loosened madmen.
"Thar's not more nor a hundred o' the varmints, any how," cried Isaac; "and I reckon as how we can jest lick them, and no mistake. Hurray for a fight."
"Hurray for a fight!" echoed a dozen voices, as they rushed back to remount their horses.
"Hold!" cried the deep voice of Father Albach. "Hold! lads; don't do things rash! Them Indians wouldn't be dancing and sky-larking round that way, ef thar warn't some object in it, you may depend on."
"And that's my opinion too," answered another gray-headed veteran. "The fact is, they're only a decoy party, sent our thar from the main body, jest to draw us out, so that the others can rush on and make an easy conquest on't. I tell you, friends, thar's no mistaking it; we're surrounded by a tremendous body o' the red heathen, and we're likely to have warm work on't. I've lived in the woods all my life, and I know the nater of the painted varmints as well as I know my own. Ef them war all thar war on 'em, we'd have seen very different proceedings, I assure you."
"But what's to be done?" cried several voices in consternation.
"I would suggest that we send immediately to Lexington for a reinforcement," spoke up Reynolds, in reply.
"Who'll volunteer to go with me on the dangerous mission?" cried a young man, by the name of Bell.
"I will!" instantly responded another, called Tomlinson.
"Brave lads!" returned Father Albach. "You'll be doing us and your country a service, which we at least will ever gratefully remember. I'd advise your leaving by the western gate, riding round the station, and keeping away to the right, and you'll maybe pass them without trouble. But ef you go, now's your only chance."
As he spoke, the young men in question sprung forward to their horses, and immediately quitted the fort, amid cheers for their gallantry and courage, and prayers for their safety and success.
A council of the leading men was now speedily convened to deliberate upon the best means of insuring the safety of themselves, their wives, and children.
"They'll no doubt attack us on the western side," said Father Albach, "where the pallisades are somewhat out o' kilter; and it's my opinion, that we'd better repair them as soon as possible, and station the main part of the garrison thar, ready to receive 'em with a military salute, while we send out a few o' our young men to fire on them as is in sight, to deceive the others; for I believe with neighbor Nickolson, here, that thar's a large party in ambush close by."
"Ay, and doubtless led by the renegade," said Reynolds; "as I presume this Indian army is the same whose approach I have foretold. Thank God!" added he, with energy and emotion, as his mind reverted to Ella, "that they came as they did; for an hour later, and they would have found the fort defenceless, when all within would have been food for the tomahawk and scalping knife."
He shuddered at the thought, and placed his hand to his eyes.
"Indeed, it seems like a direct Providence in our favor," rejoined another.
"But thar's one thing you've overlooked, in your proposition, Albach," said the old veteran called Nickolson. "Ef the seige be protracted, what are we to do for water?"
Each face of the company blanched, and turned toward the speaker with a startled look. It was a question of the most grave importance, and all felt it to be so. The spring was without the pallisades, as we have previously mentioned, on the northwestern side of the station. The path to it was through a rank growth of tall weeds, wherein the main body of the Indians was supposed to be concealed--so that, should the garrison venture forth in that direction, they would in all probability be cut off, and the fort fall into the possession of the enemy. This of course was not to be thought of. But what was to be done? To be without water in a protected siege, was a dangerous and painful alternative. In this agitating dilemma, one of the council suddenly exclaimed: "I have it! --I have it!" All looked at the speaker in breathless expectation. "I have it!" continued he joyfully. "The women! --the women!"
"The women!" echoed several voices at once.
"Ay! you know they're in the habit of going for water--and this the savages know too--and ef they venture forth by themselves, as usual, the wily scoundrels will be deceived for once--for they won't mistrust thar hiding place is known; and as thar object is to carry the fort by stratagem, they won't unmask till they hear firing on t'other side."
"Good! --good!" exclaimed several voices; and forthwith the council proceeded to summon all the women of the station, and make known their plan for procuring a supply of water.
Not a little consternation was expressed in the faces of the latter, when informed of the perilous undertaking required of them.
"What! go right straight in among the Injen warmints--them male critters?" cried an old maid, holding up her hands in horror.
"Do you think we're invisible, and they can't see us?" said a second.
"Or bullet proof?" added a third.
"Or that our scalps arn't worth as much as yourn?" rejoined a fourth.
"Or of so little account you arn't afeared to lose us?" put in a fifth.
"We don't think any thing o' the kind," returned the spokesman on the part of the council; "but we do think, as I before explained, that you can go and come in safety; and that ef we don't have a supply o' water, we're likely to perish any how, and might as well throw open the gates and be butchered at once."
This last brief speech produced the desired effect, and a few words from Mrs. Younker completely carried the day.
"Is this here a time," she cried, with enthusiasm, her eyes flashing as she spoke, "to be hanging back, till the all important moment's gone by, and then choke to death for want o'water? What's our lives any more'n the men's, that we should be so orful skeered about a few ripscallious, painted varmints, as arn't o' no account, no how? Han't I bin amongst 'em once? --and didn't the Lord preserve me? --and shall I doubt His protection now, when a hundred lives is at stake? No! no! I'm not skeered; and I'll go, too, ef I has to go alone. Who'll follow me?"
"I will!" cried one.
"And I!" said a second.
"We'll all go!" exclaimed several voices.
Dispersing in every direction, each flew to her own cabin, and seizing upon a bucket, hurried to the rear gate, where, all being assembled, they were at once given exit. [20] Perhaps in the whole annals of history, a more singular proceeding than this--of men allowing their wives and daughters to deliberately put themselves into the power of a ferocious, blood-thirsty enemy, and women with nerve and courage to dare all so bravely--can not be found. But these were times of stern necessity, when each individual--man, woman or child--was called upon to dare and do that which would surprise and startle their descendants. Still it must not be supposed that they, on either side, were without fears, and those of the most alarming kind. Many a palpitating heart moved over the ground to the spring, and many a pale face was reflected in its placid waters; while many a courageous soul within the fort trembled at the thought of the venture, and what might be its result, as they had never done before--even with death staring them in the face--and as they probably would never do again. Each party, however, knew the step taken to be a serious alternative; and the women believed that on their caution and presence of mind, their own lives, and those of their fathers, husbands, and children were depending; and in consequence of this, they assumed an indifference and gaiety the most foreign to their present feelings. As for Algernon, we leave the task to lovers of imagining his feelings, when he saw the lovely Ella depart with the rest. It was indeed a most anxious time for all; but the stratagem succeeded to a charm; and, to use the words of a historian on the subject, "Although their steps became quicker and quicker on their return, and, when near the gate of the fort, degenerated into a rather unmilitary celerity, attended with some little crowding in passing the aperture, yet not more than one-fifth of the water was spilled, and the eyes of the youngest had not dilated to more than double their ordinary size."
[Footnote 20: In both the foregoing and subsequent details, we have followed history to the letter.]
[Footnote 21: The reader, familiar with the history of the early pioneers of Kentucky, will doubtless observe a similarity between the account given by Reynolds of his escape from captivity, and that of Gen. Simon Kenton, as narrated by his biographer, Col. John McDonald.]
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{
"id": "15424"
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17
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THE ATTACK AND RESULT.
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Meantime the repairing of the pallisades had been going bravely forward, every moment rendering the garrison more and more secure, which served not a little to revive their spirits; and when at length the women had all entered, the gate been barred, and they had seen themselves well supplied with water, they could restrain their feelings no longer, and one grand, simultaneous cheer burst from their lips.
"Now then," said Father Albach, "let 'em come, and I reckon as how they'll meet with a warm reception. But to draw 'em on, we must send out a party to make a feint to fight the others."
Thirteen young men, among whom was Isaac, were accordingly selected, to pass out by the eastern gate and commence firing rapidly; while the remainder, with loaded muskets, were to range themselves along the western pickets, and be ready to pour their deadly contents into the swarthy horde of besiegers, in case their attack should be made in that quarter. As the young men departed, all relapsed into a solemn silence of anxious suspense; which was presently broken by the rapid discharge of firearms, outside the fort, accompanied with cheers and yells from both the whites and Indians. Now was the all important moment--the war sounds were gradually growing more and more distant--and every eye of the inner garrison was strained in breathless expectation, in the direction of the spring, while every rifle was cocked and in rest, ready for any emergency.
Suddenly the tall weeds--which a moment before had been quietly waving in the morning breeze--became dreadfully agitated; and the next instant, as if by magic, the ground was peopled by some five hundred hideous savages; who, led on by the notorious renegade, now rushed forward, with wild frantic yells, to the western pallisades, where our gallant little band stood drawn up ready to receive them. They had advanced in a tremendous body, to within a few feet of the fort, when the word "Fire," uttered in a clear, manly voice, resounded above their own frightful yells, and was followed the next moment by a terrible volley of leaden balls, that carried death and terror into their serried ranks. With one simultaneous yell of rage, consternation, and disappointment, they halted a moment in indecision; when another death-dealing volley, from the gallant Kentuckians, decided their course of action; and again yelling fearfully, they parted to the right and left, and bearing their dead and wounded with them, rushed for the covert of a neighboring forest. At the same moment, the party which had sallied forth upon the Lexington road, to make a feint of attacking their decoys, entered the fort by the eastern gate, in high spirits at the success of their maneuver.
The warfare was now carried on in the usual manner, after the failure of stratagem, for several hours, with but little success on either side. The block-houses were immediately manned by the garrison, who by this means could command every point of compass; and whenever an Indian came in sight, he was at once made the target for three or four keen riflemen, who rarely missed their mark. In consequence of this, the wily savage rarely showed himself in an open manner; but would creep stealthily among the tall weeds, or among the tall standing corn, that covered about an hundred acres of ground on the southern side of the station, or ensconce himself behind some stump or trunk of a tree in the vicinity, and discharge his rifle at any mark thought suitable, or let fly his burning arrows upon the roofs of the cabins. To avoid, if possible, a conflagration, every boy of ten years and upwards, was ordered upon the roofs of the houses, to throw off these burning missiles; but notwithstanding their great vigilance, so rapidly were they sent at one period, that two of the cabins, being in a very combustible state, took fire, to the great consternation of all, and, before they could be extinguished, were totally consumed. Here again the hand of an overruling Providence was manifest; for a light wind drove the flames from the other buildings, and thus a terrible and fatal calamity was averted.
From the attack in the morning by the main body, a sharp fire was maintained on both sides till towards noon; when it began to slacken considerably; and a little past meridian ceased altogether--the savages having withdrawn for another purpose, as we shall show anon, leaving the garrison in suspense as to whether they had totally abandoned the siege or not.
We have previously stated that Bryan's Station stood on a gentle rise on the southern bunk of the Elkhorn, whereby it commanded a view of much of the surrounding country. A considerable portion of the land in the immediate vicinity had been cleared and was under cultivation; but still, in some places, the forest approached to a close proximity; so that it was impossible, without traversing the ground, to determine whether the foe had withdrawn altogether, or, as was more probable, now lay hidden therein, awaiting an unguarded moment of the besieged to renew hostilities. Where the Maysville and Lexington road now runs, was a long narrow lane, bounded on one side by the large cornfield before alluded to, and on the other by a heavy wood. Through this lane the reinforcements from Lexington must naturally pass, to reach the station; and knowing this, and that they were expected, (for the escape of the two couriers in the morning had not been overlooked) the Indians, to the number of more than three hundred, had concealed themselves in the thicket, within pistol shot of the road, and were now quietly waiting to cut them off.
Notwithstanding the quiet which had succeeded the sounds of warfare, the garrison were still on the lookout, fearful of being surprised. In this manner an hour or two passed away, without any event occurring worth being recorded, when a voice shouted joyfully: "The Lexington reinforcements are at hand!"
In a moment the whole station was in commotion--men, women, and children rushing to the block-houses and pallisades nearest to and overlooking the long lane just mentioned. The force in question numbered some sixteen horsemen, and about twice as many foot; who, not having heard any firing, nor seen any savages thus far, were somewhat carelessly approaching the fort at a leisure pace, thinking, as was not uncommon in those times of danger, when such things were often exaggerated, that perhaps the alarm had been unfounded, or, at the most, based only on slight grounds. They had been overtaken on the road between Lexington and Hoy's station, for which place they had marched on receiving the news of Holder's defeat, and had been informed by Tomlinson and Bell that Bryan's station was surrounded by a large body of Indians, of whose numbers they knew nothing. On hearing this, and knowing the unguarded condition of Lexington, they had instantly turned back, and pressed forward at what speed they could to the assistance of their neighbors, of whom they were now in sight.
"Great Heaven!" cried the voice of the look-out, at this moment, in consternation. "See! --see! --they are ambushed, and will all be cut off!"
As he spoke, a long rolling line of fire could he discerned; and presently was heard the report of a tremendous volley of musketry, followed by a cloud of dust and smoke, which for a time completely hid them from view. In a few minutes, however, the horsemen were seen close at hand, spurring forward with lightning speed. Some three or four individuals instantly sprung to and threw open the eastern gate, and in less than two minutes they reined in their panting steeds in the court of the station. At the first shot of the savages, they had put spurs to their horses, and, as the ground was very dry, a cloud of dust had instantly enveloped them, by which means, fortunately, every one of them had escaped unharmed, although on their way they had drawn the fire of more than three hundred Indian rifles, successively discharged at them while passing the lines of the ambuscade. Not thus easily, however, escaped their companions on foot.
At the commencement of the firing, these latter were advancing toward the station through the cornfield, and, being completely hidden from the savages thereby, they might, had they pressed rapidly forward, have gained the fort in safety. Not so was their conduct. They were brave, hot-blooded, noble men. They could not think of flying and leaving their friends in danger; and more noble and reckless than wise and prudent, they turned and rushed to their assistance. They saw their error, but too late to retrieve it. Their friends had fled, and were safe, but they were now placed within a few paces of three hundred blood-thirsty warriors. On seeing them, the savages uttered the most hideous yells, rushed forward and cut them off from the fort, and then sprung after them, tomahawk in hand. Luckily, however, for our little band of heroes, the Indians had just discharged their rifles, and their own were loaded; by which means, when hard pressed, they turned and kept their foes at bay--the savage, in all cases, being too cautious to rush upon a weapon so deadly, with only a tomahawk wherewith to defend himself. Moreover, the corn was stout and tall, among which they ran and dodged with great agility; and whenever an Indian halted to load his rifle, the fugitive for whom its contents were designed, generally managed, by extra exertion, to gain a safe distance before it was completed, and thus effect his escape. Some five or six, however, were so unfortunate as to be knocked or shot down, when they were immediately tomahawked and scalped; but the remainder, in various directions and by various artifices, succeeded in making their escape. A few reached the fort in a roundabout manner; but the main body of them returned to Lexington; where, had the savages followed them, they would have found an easy conquest. Fortunately for the whites, however, the red men were not so inclined; and pursuing them a few hundred yards only, the latter abandoned the chase as hopeless.
One of the most active and ferocious on the part of the Indians during this skirmish, which lasted nearly an hour, was Simon Girty. Enraged to madness at the failure of his stratagem in the morning, he gnashed his teeth and rushed after the fugitives, with all the fury depicted on his countenance of a demon let loose from the infernal regions of Pluto. Two with his own hand he sent to their last account; and was in hot pursuit of a third--a handsome, active youth--who, being hard pressed, turned round, and raising his rifle to his shoulder, with a scornful smile upon his face, bitterly exclaimed, as he discharged it: "Take that, you ---- renegade, and see how it'll digest!"
As he fired, Girty fell, and perceiving this, the Indians, with a yell of despair, instantly gathered round him, while the man effected his escape. This closed the exciting contest of the cornfield--which had been witnessed throughout from the station with feelings better imagined than described--but, unfortunately for humanity, did not end the career of Girty; for the ball had taken effect in his shot pouch instead of his body; and though wounded, his case was in no wise critical; and he was soon able to take his place at the council fire, to deliberate upon what further should be done. [22] The council alluded to, lasted some two or three hours. The Indians were disheartened at their loss in the morning, and the failure of all their stratagems, even to cutting off the reinforcements of the enemy. They were sufficiently convinced they could not carry the fort by storm; and they also believed it unsafe to longer remain where they were; as the alarm of their presence had spread far and wide, and there was no telling at what moment a force equal to their own might be brought against them; therefore, they were now anxious to abandon the siege and return home. Girty, however, was by no means satisfied with the turn matters had taken. He had with great difficulty and masterly persuasion succeeded in getting them to unite and march in a body (contrary to their usual mode of warfare, which consisted in skirmishing with small parties,) against the whites; and he now felt that his reputation was in a manner staked on the issue; consequently he could illy bear to leave without the trial of one more stratagem. This he made known to the chiefs of the council, and offered, in case of failure, to retreat with them at once.
As this last design of Girty was merely to deceive the whites, and frighten them into capitulation, without any further risk to themselves, the Indians agreed to it, and the council broke up.
It was nearly sundown; and every one in the station had been on the alert, ready to repel another attack should the Indians renew hostilities, as was not unlikely, when a voice cried out: "Hang me to the nearest cross-bar, ef the red sons of Satan hav'nt sent out a flag of truce!"
This at once drew the attention of most of the garrison to a small white flag on a temporary pole, which at no great distance was gradually nearing them, supported in an upright position by some object crawling along on the ground. At length the object gained a stump; and having mounted it, was at once recognized by Reynolds as the renegade--although Girty on this expedition had doffed the British uniform, in which we once described him, and now appeared in a costume not unlike his swarthy companions.
"Halloo the garrison!" he shouted.
"Halloo yourself! --what's wanted?" cried a voice back again.
"Respect this flag of truce, and listen!" rejoined Girty; and waving it from side to side as he spoke, he again proceeded: "Courage can do much in war, and is in all cases a noble trait, which I for one do ever respect; but there may be circumstances where manly courage can avail nothing, and where to practice it only becomes fool-hardy, and is sure to draw down certain destruction on the actor or actors. Such I hasten to assure you, gentlemen, is exactly your case in the present instance. No one admires the heroism which you have, one and all, even to your women and children, this day displayed, more than myself; but I feel it my duty to inform you that henceforth the utmost daring of each and all of you combined can be of no avail whatever. Resistance on your part will henceforth be a crime rather than a virtue. It is to save bloodshed, and you all from a horrible fate, that I have ventured hither at the risk of my life. You are surrounded by an army of six hundred savages. To-morrow there will be a large reinforcement with cannon; when, unless you surrender now, your bulwark will be demolished, and you, gentlemen, with your wives and children, will become victims to an unrelenting, cruel foe. Death will then be the mildest of your punishments. I would save you from this. I am one of your race; and, although on the side of your enemy, would at this time counsel and act toward you a friendly part. Do you not know me? I am Simon Girty--an agent of the British. Take my advice and surrender now your fort into my hands, and I swear to you not a single hair of your heads shall be harmed. But if you hold out until you are carried by storm I can not save you; for the Indians will have become thirsty for your blood, and no commander on earth could then restrain them. Be not hasty in rejecting my friendly offer. It is for your good I have spoken--and so weigh the matter well. I pause for an answer."
The effect of Girty's speech upon the garrison, was to alarm them not a little. His mention of reinforcements with cannon, caused many a stout heart to tremble, and many a face to blanch and turn to its neighbor with an expression of dismay. Against cannon they knew, as Girty stated, resistance would be of no avail; and cannon had, in 1780, advanced up the Licking Valley, and destroyed Riddle's and Martin's stations. If Girty told the truth, their case was truly alarming.
As the renegade concluded, Reynolds--who saw the effect his words had produced, and who, knowing him better than any of the others, believed his whole tale to be false--at once begged leave to reply for the garrison, which was immediately granted. Placing himself in full view of Girty, he answered as follows, in a tone of raillery: "Well done, my old worthy companion! and are you really there, carrying out another of your noble and humane designs? When, O when, I humbly beg to know, will your philanthropic efforts end? I suppose not until death has laid his claim, and the devil has got his due. You ask us if we know you. What! not know the amiable Simon Girty, surnamed the Renegade? Could you indeed for a moment suppose such a thing possible? Know you? Why, we have an untrusty, worthless cur-dog in the fort here, that has been named Simon Girty, in compliment to you--he is so like you in every thing that is ugly, wicked and mean. You say you expect reinforcements of artillery. Well, if you stay in this quarter long, I know of no one that will be more likely to need them than yourself and the cowardly cut-throats who call you chief. We too expect reinforcements; for the country is roused in every direction; and if you remain here twenty-four hours longer, the scalps of yourself and companions will be drying on our cabins. Bring on your cannon and blaze away as soon as you please! We shall fear you not, even then; for if you succeed in entering, along with your naked, rascally companions, we shall set our old women to work, and have you scourged to death with rods, of which we have on hand a goodly stock for the purpose. And now to wind up, allow me to say I believe you to be a liar, and _know_ you to be a most depraved, inhuman villain. This knowledge of your character is not second-hand. I paid dearly for it, by a year's captivity. I defied you when in your power: I spit at and defy you now in behalf of the garrison! My name you may remember. It is Algernon Reynolds. What would you more?" [23] "Would that I had you in my power again," shouted back Girty; "for by ----! I would willingly forego all other vengeance on the whites, to take my revenge on you. I regret the garrison did not choose some one to reply who was not already doomed to death. It was my desire to save bloodshed; but my offer has been rejected from the mouth of one I hate; and now I leave you to your fate. To-morrow morning will see your bulwarks in ruins, and yourselves, your wives and little ones, in the power of a foe that never forgives an injury nor forgets an insult. Farewell till then! I bide my time."
As Girty concluded altogether, he began to ease himself down from the stump, when his progress was not a little accelerated by hearing a voice from the garrison cry out: "Shoot the ---- rascal! --don't let him escape!"
Instantly some five or six rifles were brought to bear upon him; and his fate might then have been decided forever, had not the voice of Nickolson warned them to beware of firing upon a flag of truce. Girty, however, made good his retreat, and the garrison was disturbed no more that night. Before morning the Indians, after having killed all the domestic cattle they could find belonging to the station, began their retreat; and by daylight their camp was deserted; though many of their fires were still burning brightly, and several pieces of meat were found on roasting-sticks around them, all showing a late and hasty departure.
[Footnote 22: The foregoing is strictly authentic.]
[Footnote 23: This celebrated reply of Reynolds to Girty, is published, with but slight variations, in all the historical sketches that we have seen relating to the attack on Bryan's Station and is, perhaps, familiar to the reader.]
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18
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THE FOE PURSUED.
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As Algernon had stated to Girty, the country was indeed roused to a sense of their danger. The news of the storming of Bryan's Station had spread fast and far; and, early on the day succeeding the attack, reinforcements began to come in from all quarters; so that by noon of the fourth day, the station numbered over one hundred and eighty fighting men.
Colonel Daniel Boone, accompanied by his son Israel, and brother Samuel, commanded a considerable force from Boonesborough--Colonel Stephen Trigg, a large company from Harrodsburgh--and Colonel John Todd, the militia from Lexington. A large portion of these forces was composed of commissioned officers, who, having heard of the attack on Bryan's Station by an overwhelming body of Indians, had hurried to the scene of hostilities, and, like brave and gallant soldiers as they were, had at once taken their places in the ranks as privates. Most noted among those who still held command under the rank of Colonel, were Majors Harlan, McGary, McBride, and Levi Todd; and Captains Bulger, Patterson and Gordon.
Of those now assembled, Colonel Todd, as senior officer, was allowed to take command--though, from the tumultuous council of war which was held in the afternoon, it appears that each had a voice, and that but little order was observed. It was well known that Colonel Benjamin Logan was then in the act of raising a large force in Lincoln county; and at the furthest would join them in twenty-four hours; which would render them safe in pursuing the savages; and for this purpose the more prudent, among whom was our old friend, Colonel Boone, advised their delay; stating, as a reason, that the Indians were known to outnumber them all, as three to one; and that to pursue them with a force so small, could only result, should they be overtaken, in a total defeat of the whites. Besides which, Boone stated that the scouts who had been sent out to examine the Indian trail, had reported that it was very broad, and that the trees on either side had been marked with their tomahawks; thereby showing a willingness on the part of the enemy to be pursued, and a design to draw the whites into an ambuscade, the consequences of which must necessarily be terrible. In this view of the case, Colonel Boone was strongly seconded by Major McGary, who, though a hot-headed young officer, eager on almost all occasions for a fight, now gave his voice on the side of prudence.
But these prudent measures were combatted and overruled by Todd; who, being an ambitious man, forsaw that, in waiting for Logan, he would be deprived of his authority as commander-in-chief of the expedition, and the glory which a successful battle would now cast upon him. By him it was urged, in opposition to Boone and McGary, that to await the arrival of Colonel Logan, was only to act the part of cowards, and allow the Indians a safe retreat; that in case they were overtaken and their numbers found to be double their own--which report he believed to be false--the ardor and superior skill of the Kentuckians would more than make them equal, and the victory and glory would be their own. Whereas, should the Indians be allowed to escape without an effort to harass them, the Kentuckians would be held eternally disgraced in the minds of their countrymen.
The dispute on the matter waxed warm, high words ensued, and the discussion was in a fair way of being drawn out to great extent; when Boone, becoming tired and disgusted with the whole proceedings, replied: "Well, I've given my conscientious opinion about the affair, and now you can do as you please. Of course I shall go with the majority, and my seniors in command; and ef the decision's for a fight, why a fight we must venter, though every man o' Kaintuck be laid on his back for the risking. Ef we fail--and its my opine we shall--let them as takes the responsibility bear the blame. I'll give my voice, though, to the last, that we'd better wait the reinforcements o' Colonel Logan."
"Sir!" exclaimed Colonel Todd, turning fiercely to Boone; "if you are not a _coward_, you talk like one! Don't you know, sir, that if we wait for Logan, he will gain all the laurels? --and that if we press forward, we shall gain all the glory?"
"As to my being a coward, Colonel Todd," replied Boone, mildly, with dignity, "when the word's explained so as I know the full meaning on't, prehaps I'll be able to decide ef I be or not. Ef it means prudence in a time o' danger, on which the welfare o' my country and the lives o' my countrymen depends, I'd rather be thought cowardly than rash. Ef it means a fear to risk my own poor body in defence o' others, I reckon as how my past life'll speak for itself; and for the futer, wharsomever Colonel Todd dars to venter, Daniel Boone dars to lead. As to _glory_, we'll talk about that arter the battle's fought."
Thus ended the discussion; and the matter being put to vote, it was carried by an overwhelming majority in favor of Todd's proposition, that the Indians should be pursued without further delay. It was now about three o'clock in the afternoon; and immediately on the final decision being made, the council broke up, and orders were rapidly given to prepare to depart forthwith. All the horses in or about the station were now collected together, on which most of the officers and many of the privates were soon mounted; and by four o'clock the eastern gate was thrown open, the order to march given by Colonel Todd, and the procession, composed of the flower of Kentucky's gallant sons, moved forth, amid sighs and tears from the opposite sex. Reynolds--who, during the past two or three days, since the retreat of the enemy, had employed his leisure moments in the company of the being he loved, and who was now finely mounted on a superb charger which had been presented him by Colonel Boone--turned upon his saddle, as he was leaving the station, and waved another adieu to Ella, who stood in the door of her cottage, gazing upon his noble form, with a pale cheek, tearful eye, and beating heart. She raised her lily hand, and, with a graceful motion, returned his parting salute; and then, to conceal her emotion, retired into the house.
The Indians, it was found, had followed the buffalo trace, and, according to the account given by the scouts, had made their trail obvious as possible, by hacking the trees on either side with their tomahawks. Their camp fires, however, were very few, comparatively speaking, which to Boone seemed plainly evident of a desire to mask their numbers. He had lived in the woods all his life, was the oldest settler on the borders, and had been several times a prisoner of the Indians; so that he was familiar with their artifices for decoying their enemies; and he believed, from what he saw, that it was their desire to be followed by the whites; and that they would probably seek to draw the latter into an ambuscade in the vicinity of the Blue Licks, where the wild country was particularly favorable to their purpose. In imagination he already saw the disastrous result that was destined to follow this hasty expedition; but his counsel to the contrary had been disregarded, and it was not a time now to dampen the ardor of the soldiers, on which alone success could depend, by expressing his fears and laying himself liable to further reproach and contumely. He had said and done all that was consistent in his situation to prevent the present step; and he now saw proper to keep his fears of the result to himself; the more so, as a retreat was out of the question.
About dark the party came to halt, and encamped in the woods for the night. Early on the ensuing morning they resumed their march; and a little before noon reached the southern bluffs of Licking river, opposite the Lower Blue Lick, distant from Bryan's Station some thirty-six miles, and the place where, according to the opinion of Boone, the savages would be likely to lie in wait to give them battle.
The scenery in the vicinity of the Licks, even at the present day, is peculiarly wild and romantic; but at the period in question, it was relieved by nothing in the shape of civilization. The Licks themselves had for ages been the resort of buffalo and other wild animals, which had come there to lick the saline rocks, and had cropped the surrounding hills of every green thing, thereby giving them a barren, desolate, gloomy appearance. On the northern bank--the one opposite our little army--arose a tremendous bluff, entirely destitute of vegetation, the brow of which was trodden hard by the immense herds of buffalo which had passed over it from time immemorial on their way to and from the salt springs at its base. To add to its dismal appearance, the rains of centuries had sloughed deep gullies in its side, and washed the earth from the rocks around its base, which, being blackened in the sun, now rose grim and bare, frowning in their majesty like fettered monsters of the infernal regions. As you ascended this ridge, a hard level trace or road led back for something like a mile--free from tree, stump or bush--when you came to a point where two ravines, one on either hand, met at the top, and, thickly wooded, ran in opposite directions down to the river, which, beginning on the right, went sweeping round a large circuit, in the form of an iron magnet, and made a sort of inland peninsula of the bluff in question. Back from this buffalo trace, on the southern bank of the Licking, dark heavy woods extended for miles in every direction, and made the whole scene impressive with a kind of gloomy grandeur.
As our gallant band of Kentuckians gained the river, they descried some three or four savages leisurely ascending the stony ridge on the opposite side. On perceiving the troops, the Indians paused, gazed at them a few moments in silence, and then, quietly continuing their ascent, disappeared on the other side. A halt was now ordered by Colonel Todd, and a council of war called to deliberate on what was best to be done. The wild gloomy country around them, their distance from any post of succor, and the startling idea that perchance they were in the presence of a body of savages of double or treble their own numbers, was not without its effect upon Todd and those who had seconded his hasty movements, and served much toward cooling their ardor, and inspiring each other with a secret awe.
Immediately on the halt of the troops, some twenty officers assembled in front of the lines for consultation; when, turning to them, Colonel Todd said: "Gentlemen, for aught I know to the contrary we are now in the presence of a superior enemy--superior at least in point of numbers--and I desire to know your minds as to what course we had best pursue. And particularly, Colonel Boone," continued Todd, politely bowing to the veteran woodsman, "would I solicit your views on the matter; believing as I do, notwithstanding any hasty words I may have uttered in the heat of excitement to the contrary, that you are a brave soldier, cool under all circumstances, amply experienced in Indian stratagem, and consequently capable of rendering much valuable advice in the present instance."
Boone was not a revengeful man under any circumstances; and though he had felt more stung and nettled at the implication of Todd the day before than he cared to let others see, yet now that the other had made the apology due him, he showed nothing like haughtiness or triumph in his mild, benevolent countenance, but, bowing slightly, with his characteristic frankness replied: "As you say, Colonel Todd, I've had some little experience with the varmints at different times, not excepting my capter at these same Licks in 1778; and, besides, I've have traversed this here country in every direction, and know every secret hiding-place round about, as well as the rest o' ye know the ground we've jest traveled; and it's on account o' this knowledge partly, and partly on account o' the lazy movements o' them red heathen we've jest seen go over the hill yonder, and the wide trail, and marked trees behind us, that I'm led to opine thar's a tremendous body o' the naked rascals hid in a couple o' ravines, that run down to the river on either side of that ridge, about a mile ahead, who are waiting to take us by surprise. Now I think we'd better do one of two things. Either wait for the reinforcement o' Colonel Logan--who's no doubt on his march by this time to join us--or else divide our party, and let half on 'em go up stream and cross at the rapids, and so get round behind the ravines, ready to attack the savages in the rear; while the rest cross the ford here, and keep straight on along the ridge to attack 'em in front--by which maneuver we may prehaps be able to beat them. But ef you don't see proper, gentlemen, to take up with either o' these proposals--don't, for Heaven's sake! I beg o' ye, venter forward, without first sending on scouts to reconnoitre--else we're likely to be in an ambuscade afore we know it, and prehaps all be cut off."
"Well, all things considered," answered Colonel Todd, who now, becoming aware of the fearful responsibility resting upon him as commander, felt little inclined to press rashly forward, "I think it advisable to wait the reinforcements of Logan before proceeding further. It can delay us but a day or two, and then we shall be sure of a victory; whereas, if we press forward now, and run into an ambuscade, of which Colonel Boone feels certain, we shall doubtless rue the day by a total defeat."
"I'm of the same opinion," rejoined Major Levi Todd.
"And I," said Captain Patterson.
"And I," rejoined several other voices.
"But I'm opposed to waiting for Logan," said Colonel Trigg; "as delays on the point of a battle are rarely ever beneficial. I think we had better take up with Colonel Boone's second proposition--divide our forces, and proceed at once to action; though, for the matter of prudence, it may be advisable to send a couple of scouts ahead, before deciding upon any thing positive."
Majors Harlan and McBride, with two or three others of inferior rank, took sides with Trigg; and the discussion seemed likely to be protracted for some considerable time; when Major Hugh McGary, who had been listening to the proceedings with the utmost impatience, suddenly startled and broke up the council by a loud whoop, resembling that of an Indian; and spurring his high mettled charger forward, he waved his hat over his head, and shouted, in a voice that reached the whole length of the line, these ever memorable words: "Those among you who are not d--d cowards, follow me! I'll soon show you where the Indians are!"
As he spoke he rushed his fiery steed into the river, with all the rash impetuosity of a desperate soldier charging at the cannon's mouth.
The effect of McGary's words and actions were electrical. The troops, mounted and on foot, officers and privates, suddenly became animated with a wild enthusiasm. Whooping and yelling like Indians, more than a hundred of them now sprung forward, and in a tumultuous body rushed into the stream and struggled for the opposite shore. A few lingered around Boone, Todd, and Twigg, to await their orders. But the pause of these commanders was only momentary. They saw their ranks in confusion, and more than two-thirds of their soldiers in the water, struggling after the hot-headed McGary, and most of the other officers. The mischief was already done. To delay was but to doom their enthusiastic comrades to certain destruction; and shouting to those who yet remained to follow, Todd put spurs to his horse, and, together with Trigg and Boone dashed after the main body. It was a wild scene of excitement. Horsemen and footmen, officers and privates, all mixed up together in confusion, and pushing forward in one "rolling and irregular mass."
By violent threats and repeated exertions, with their swords drawn and flashing in the sunlight, Colonels Todd, Trigg and Boone at length succeeded, after reaching the opposite bank, in restoring something like order to the half-crazed troops. On gaining the brow of the buffalo ridge, Todd commanded a halt; then drawing a pistol from the holster of his saddle, he rode to the front of the lines, and, with eyes flashing fire, exclaimed: "Men! we must have order! Without order we are lost. I command a halt; and the first man that moves from the ranks, officer or private, until so commanded, I swear to scatter his brains on the land he disgraces!"
His speech produced the desired effect; not a man ventured, by disobeying, to put his threat to the test; and after gazing on them sternly a few moments in silence, he turned to McGary, who was sitting his horse a few paces distant, and said: "Sir! you have acted unbecoming, both as an officer and a gentleman; and if we two live through an engagement which I fear is near at hand, and which your rashness will have brought about, I will have you put under arrest and tried by court martial."
"As you please, Colonel Todd," replied McGary, with a fierce look. "But you will bear in mind, sir, that at the council yesterday, you scouted at the proposition advanced by Colonel Boone, and seconded by myself and others, of waiting for the reinforcements of Colonel Logan, and insinuated that we were cowards. As _you_, sir, were so _very_ brave, and so eager for a fight when at a distance, I swore that, if we came where a fight could be had, I would either draw you into action, or forever damn you as a coward in the eyes of your soldiers. If I have succeeded, I rest satisfied to let you do your worst."
"Resume your place, sir! and break an order this day at your peril!" cried Todd, sharply, his face flushed with indignation.
As McGary slowly obeyed, Todd called to Boone, Trigg, and one or two others, with whom he held a short consultation as to the propriety of sending forward scouts before advancing with the main army. This being decided in the affirmative, Isaac Younker and another individual were selected from the ranks, and appointed to go on the dangerous mission; with orders to follow the buffalo trace and examine it carefully on both sides--particularly round about the ravines--and if they saw any traces of Indians, to hasten back with all speed; but if not, to continue their examination for a half mile further on, where the great trace gradually became lost in lesser paths, which branched off in every direction.
Immediately on the departure of these two scouts, the troops were drawn up in a long line, ready for action at a moment's notice. Colonel Trigg commanded the Harrodsburgh forces on the right; Colonel Boone the Boonesborough soldiers on the left; and Colonel Todd, assisted by Majors McGary and McBride, the Lexington militia in the center. Major Harlan led the van, and Major Levi Todd brought up the rear. This was the order in which they went into battle.
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19
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THE BATTLE OF BLUE LICKS
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In less than an hour, Isaac and his companions returned, and reported that they had seen no signs of Indians whatever. On the receipt of this intelligence, the order to march was immediately given, and the whole body of soldiers, under the scorching rays of an August sun, moved rapidly forward. Nothing occurred to interrupt their progress, until the van had reached within a few yards of the ravines before mentioned, when the appalling truth of a tremendous ambuscade of the savages suddenly became known, by the pouring therefrom, into their ranks, a terrible volley, which carried with it death, terror and confusion. Never were soldiers taken more by surprise, and at greater disadvantage to themselves, both as to numbers and position. They had relied upon the report of the scouts, who had themselves been deceived by the quiet of everything about the ravines; and now here they were, less than two hundred in number, on an open spot, exposed to the deadly rifles of more than five hundred Indian warriors, who were lying concealed among the dark cedars of the ravines.
The first fire was severely destructive, particularly on the right, where the gallant Colonel Trigg fell mortally wounded, and was soon after tomahawked and scalped. With him went down several officers of inferior grade, and a large portion of the Harrodsburgh troops; but, undaunted, his little band of survivors returned the fire of the Indians, and, assisted by those in the rear, pressed forward like heroes to the support of the center and van, where the work of death and carnage was now becoming terrible.
"Onward!" shouted Colonel Todd, as he rode to and fro, animating his men by his voice and gestures: "Onward, my noble soldiers, and strike for your country and firesides! Oh God!" exclaimed he the next moment, as a ball pierced his breast; "I am mortally wounded; but strike! press on, and mind me not!"
As he spoke, he reeled in his saddle, the rein slipped from his grasp, and his fiery steed rushed away, bearing him to the enemy and his untimely doom.
"Fight, my lads, and falter not!" cried Major Harlan in the van; and the next moment his horse went down, some five or six balls lodged in his body, and he fell to rise no more.
But his men remembered their orders, and fought without faltering, until but three remained alive to tell the fate of the party.
"At 'em, lads! --don't spare the varmints!" said Boone, as he urged the left wing into action; and the immediate report of more than fifty rifles in that quarter, told him he was obeyed. In this wing fought Algernon, Isaac, the brother and son of Boone, with a heroic desperation worthy of Spartans; and at every fire an Indian went down before each of their deadly rifles.
But what could avail heroism here on that ill-fated day? Our brave little band of Kentuckians was opposed by a foe of treble their number; who, on their first terrible fire being expended, rushed forth from their covert, with horrible yells, tomahawk in hand, and, gradually extending their lines down the buffalo trace, on either side, so as to cut off the retreat of the whites, closed in upon them in overwhelming numbers, and the slaughter became immense. Major McGary rushed his horse to and fro among the enemy, and shouted and fought with all the desperate impetuosity of his nature. Major Todd did his best to press on the rear, and Colonel Boone still urged his men to the fight with all the backwoods eloquence in his power. But, alas! of what avail was coolness, impetuosity, or desperation now? The Indians were closing in thicker and thicker. Officers and privates, horsemen and footmen, were falling before the destructive fire of their rifles, or sinking beneath their bloody tomahawks, amid yells and screeches the most diabolical. Cries, groans, and curses, resounded on every hand, from the living, the wounded, and dying. But few now remained in command. Colonels Todd and Trigg, Majors Harlan and McBride, Captains Bulger and Gordon, with a host of other gallant officers, were now no more. Already had the Indians enclosed them as in a net, hemmed them in on all sides, and they were falling as grass before the scythe of the mower. Retreat was almost cut off--in a few minutes it would be entirely. They could hope for nothing against such odds, but a certain and bloody death. There was a possibility of escape. A few minutes and it would be too late. They hesitated--they wavered--they turned and fled; and now it was that a horrible sight presented itself.
The space between the head of the ravines and the ford of the river a distance of more than a mile, suddenly became the scene of a hard and bloody race. As the whites fled, the Indians sprung after them, with whoops and yells that more resembled those of infuriated demons than human beings; and whenever an unfortunate Kentuckian was overtaken, he instantly fell a victim to the tomahawk and scalping knife. Those who were mounted generally escaped; but the foot suffered dreadfully; and the whole distance presented an appalling sight of bloody, mangled corses, strewing the ground in every direction. Girty, the renegade, was now at the height of his hellish enjoyment. With oaths and curses, and horrid laughter, his hands and weapons reeking with blood of the slain, he rushed on after new victims, braining and scalping all that came within his reach.
At the river the carnage was in no wise abated. Horsemen and footmen, victors and vanquished, rushed down the slope, pell-mell, and plunged into the stream--some striving for life and liberty, some for death and vengeance--and the dark rolling waters went sweeping on, colored with the blood of the slaughtered.
An act of heroic gallantry and presence of mind here occurred, which has often been mentioned in history, tending to check somewhat the blood-thirsty savages, and give many of the fugitives time to escape. Some twelve or fifteen horsemen had already passed the ford in safety, and were in the act of spurring forward, regardless of the fate of their unfortunate companions on foot, when one of their number, a man by the name of Netherland, who had previously been accused of cowardice, suddenly shouted, as if giving the word of command: "Halt! Fire on the Indians, and protect the men in the river!"
The order was obeyed, in the same spirit it was given; and the sudden discharge of more than a dozen rifles, made the infuriated savages recoil in dismay, and thereby saved many a poor fellow's life. The reaction, however, speedily followed. Many of the savages now swam the river above and below the ford, and gave chase to the fugitives for fifteen and even twenty miles--though with but little success after crossing the stream--as the latter generally plunged into the neighboring thickets, and so eluded the vigilance of the former.
Such were the general features of the disastrous battle of Blue Licks--a battle of dreadful import to the pioneers of Kentucky--which threw the land into mourning, and made a most solemn and startling impression upon the minds of its inhabitants. Had we space to chronicle individual heroism, we might fill page after page with brave and noble achievements; but as it is, we shall confine ourself to those connected with our most prominent characters.
We have stated previously, that Algernon Reynolds fought in the left wing, under the command of Boone; where, for the few minutes which the action lasted, he sustained himself with great gallantry; and, by his undaunted courage, inspired those immediately around him with like ardor. On the retreat of the whites, he found himself cut off from the river by a large body of Indians, headed by his old foe, Simon Girty, who, having recognized him, was now pressing forward with several stalwart warriors, to again make him prisoner. For the first time since the commencement of the battle, he felt his heart sink. To be taken alive was a thousand times worse than death, and escape seemed impossible. However, there was no time for consideration; another moment might be fatal; his foes were upon him; it was now or never. Luckily he was mounted on a fiery steed--which had thus far escaped a scratch--and had one undischarged pistol in his holster. This he drew forth as his last hope; and, tightening the rein, wheeled his horse and spurred down upon his enemies with tremendous velocity.
"I have you now, by ----!" cried the renegade.
As he spoke, he sprung forward to grasp the bridle of Algernon's horse; but stumbled and fell, and the beast passed over him, unfortunately though without doing him any injury.
But Algernon had not yet got clear of his enemies; for on the fall of Girty, he found himself surrounded by a host of savages, whooping and yelling frightfully, and his direct course to the river cut off by a body of more than a hundred. There was only one point, and that a few yards to his left, where there appeared a possibility of his breaking through their lines. In the twinkling of an eye, and while his horse was yet under full headway, his decision was made. Rushing his steed hard to the right, in order to deceive his foes, he suddenly wheeled him again to the left; and the side of the beast striking against some three or four of the Indians, who were on the point of seizing his rein, staggered them back upon their companions, creating no little confusion. Taking advantage of this, our hero, with the speed of a flying arrow, bore down upon the weakest point; where, after shooting down a powerful savage, who had succeeded in grasping his bridle and was on the point of tomahawking his horse, he passed their lines, amid a volley of rifle balls, which cut his clothes in several places, but left himself and steed unharmed.
The worst of the danger now seemed over; but still his road ahead was beset with Indians, who were killing and scalping all that fell in their power; and behind him were the infuriated renegade and his party now in hot pursuit. His steed, however, was strong and fleet, and he put him to his wind; by which means he not only distanced those behind him, but passed one or two parties in front unharmed. About half way between the ravines and the river, he overtook Major McGary, and some five or six other horsemen, who were dashing forward at a fast gallop; and checking his fiery beast somewhat, he silently joined them. A little further on, Reynolds observed an officer on foot, who, exhausted by his recent exertions, and lame from former wounds, had fallen behind his companions. On coming up, he recognized in the crippled soldier the brave Captain Patterson; and with a magnanimity and self-sacrifice worthy of all imitation, he instantly reined in his horse and dismounted, while the others kept upon their course.
"Sir!" cried he to Patterson; "you are, I perceive, fatigued and weak. Your life is in great danger. Mount, sir--mount! I am fresh and will take my chance on foot."
"God bless you, sir! --God bless you for this noble act!" exclaimed Patterson, as Reynolds assisted him, into the saddle. "If I escape--" "Enough!" said Reynolds, hurriedly, interrupting him. "Fly, sir--fly! God be with you! Adieu!"
And turning away as he spoke, he sprung down the side of the ridge, and running along the edge of the river some little distance, plunged into the water and swam to the opposite shore. Unfortunately for our hero, he had changed his garments at Bryan's Station, and now wore a pair of buckskin breeches, which, in swimming the stream, had become so soaked and heavy that he was obliged to remove them in order to display his usual agility. While seated upon the bank and occupied in this manner, he was startled by a hand being placed upon his shoulder, and the familiar grunt of an Indian sounding in his ear. On looking up, he at once recognized the grim features of Wild-cat, and saw himself in the power of some half a dozen savages.
"Me wanty you," said Wild-cat, quietly. "Kitchokema give much for Long Knife. Come!"
There was no alternative now; and Algernon rose to his feet, and suffered his weapons to be taken from him, with what feelings we leave the reader to imagine. Taking him along, the savages set forward, on the alert for other game; and presently three of them darted away in chase of a party of whites; and directly after, two others, leaving our hero alone with Wild-cat. Hope now revived that he might yet escape; nor was he this time disappointed; for after advancing a short distance, Wild-cat stooped down to tie his moccasin; when Reynolds immediately sprung upon him, knocked him down with his fist, seized his rifle, tomahawk, and knife, fled into the thicket, and reached Bryan's Station, during the night succeeding, unscathed. [24] Throughout the short but severe action at the ravines, Boone maintained his ground with great coolness and courage, animating his soldiers by word and deed, until the rout became general, when he found it necessary, to prevent falling into the hands of the enemy, to have recourse to immediate flight. As he cast his eyes around him for this purpose, he saw himself cut off from the ford by the large body of Indians, through whose lines our hero was even then struggling. At this moment he heard a groan which attracted his attention; and looking down, he perceived his son Israel lying on the ground, scarcely five paces distant, weltering in his blood. With all a father's feelings of affection and alarm, he instantly sprung from his horse, and, raising the youth in his arms, darted into the nearest ravine, and made with all speed for the river. A few of the Indians were herein concealed, who discharged their rifles at him as he passed, without injury, and then joined in pursuit. One, a powerful warrior, having outstripped his companions, was rushing upon the old woodsman with his tomahawk, when the latter, with backwoods celerity, instantly raised his rifle and shot him through the body. Finding himself hard pressed, and that his son was already in the agonies of death, the old hunter strained him for the last time to his heart, with choking emotion, pressed his lips to those already growing cold, and then, with a groan of agony, left him to his fate and the scalping-knife of the savage, while he barely made his own escape by swimming the river below the bend. To him this was a mournful day--never to be forgotten--and one that, even long, long years after, could never be mentioned but with tears.
In this action the brother of Boone was wounded; but in company with Isaac Younker, and some three or four others, he succeeded in making his escape.
On the day of the battle, Colonel Logan arrived at Bryan's Station with a command of four hundred and fifty soldiers. On learning that the garrison with their reinforcements had gone the day preceding in pursuit of the Indians, and fearful of some disaster, he resolved on a forced march to give them assistance as soon as possible. For this purpose he immediately set forward on their trail; but had advanced only a few miles, when he met a party of the fugitives returning from the scene of slaughter. They were alarmed and excited, and of course their account of the battle was greatly exaggerated, believing as they did that they were the only escaped survivors. Their report, to say the least, was very startling, allowing that only the half were true; and in consequence, Logan decided on retracing his steps to the station, until he should be able to collect more definite news concerning the fight. Gradually one party after another came dropping in; and by nine o'clock nearly or quite all of the survivors were assembled in the fortress; when it was ascertained that a little over one-third of the party, or between sixty and seventy of those engaged in the battle, were missing. It was a sad night of wailing, and lamentation, and dreadful excitement in the station; for scarcely a family there, but was mourning the loss of some friend or relation. Algernon and Isaac had returned, to the great joy of those most interested in their welfare; but the father-in-law of the latter came not, and there was mourning in consequence.
A consultation between Colonels Logan and Boone, resulted in the decision to march forthwith to the battle-ground. Accordingly every thing being got in readiness, Colonel Logan set out with his command, at a late hour the same night, accompanied by Boone, and a few of the survivors of the ill-fated engagement. Towards morning a halt of three hours was ordered for rest and refreshment: when the line of march was again taken up; and by noon of the day succeeding the battle, the forces arrived upon the ground, where a most horribly repulsive scene met their view.
The Indians had departed on their homeward route, bearing their killed and wounded away from the field of carnage; but the dead and mutilated bodies of the whites still remained where they had fallen, presenting a spectacle the most hideous and revolting possibly to be conceived. In the edge of the stream, on the banks, up the ridge, and along the buffalo trace to the ravines, were lying the bloody and mangled corses of the gallant heroes--who, the day before, full of ardor and life, had rushed on to the battle and an untimely and inglorious death--now swollen, putrid, and in the first stage of decomposition, from the action of the scorching rays of an August sun--surrounded by vultures and crows, and all species of carrion fowl; many of which, having gorged themselves on the horrid repast, were either sweeping overhead in large flocks, and screeching their funeral dirges, or wiping their bloody bills on the neighboring trees. Some of the bodies in the stream had been gnawed by fishes--others by wolves--and all had been so disfigured, by one means and another, that but very few could be recognized by their friends.
"Great Heaven! what a sight!" exclaimed Colonel Logan, as he ran his eye over the scene.
"A dark and terrible day for Kaintuck," answered Boone, who was standing by his side; and as he spoke, the old hunter turned away his head to conceal his emotion; for his mind reverted to the death of his noble son.
Orders were now given by Colonel Logan, to have the bodies collected, and interred in a manner as decent as circumstances would permit. This being accomplished, he returned with his men to Bryan's Station, and there dismissed them--it not being thought advisable to pursue the enemy further. In this ever memorable battle of Blue Licks, the Kentuckians had sixty killed, twelve wounded, and seven taken prisoners, most of whom were afterwards put to the tortures. As we said before, it was a sad day for Kentucky, and threw the land into mourning and gloom. Colonels Todd and Trigg, and Majors Harlan and McBride, were men beloved and respected in life, and bitterly lamented in death by a long list of true-hearted friends.
The great trace where the battle was fought, is now green with low branching cedars; and a solitary monument near by, informs the curious spectator of the sad disaster of by gone times. The Blue Lick Springs are much resorted to in the summer season by invalids and others, for whose convenience a magnificent hotel stands upon the banks of the lovely and romantic Licking.
A few words more and our general history will be closed. On receiving the intelligence of the battle of Blue Licks, General Clark--who then occupied a fort at the Falls of the Ohio, on the present site of Louisville--resolved upon another expedition to the enemy's country; for which purpose it was proposed to raise an army of one thousand men, who, under their respective commanders, should congregate opposite the mouth of the Licking, on the present site of Cincinnati. The interior and upper country were to rendezvous at Bryan's Station, under the command of Colonels Logan and Floyd; and the lower settlements at the Falls of Ohio, under General Clark; who, on all parties arriving at the grand rendezvous, was to be commander-in-chief of the expedition. One thousand mounted riflemen were raised without a draft, who marched upon the enemy in their own country, destroyed their villages, provisions, and cornfields, took several prisoners, and carried with them so much terror and desolation, that the Indians never sufficiently recovered from the shock to renew hostilities in a formidable body; and the Kentuckians henceforth, save in individual cases, were left unmolested.
On their march they came upon the rear of Girty's party, returning from their successful battle; but an Indian scout gave the renegade and his companions warning in time for them to escape the whites by flight. In this expedition, Colonel Boone volunteered and served as a private; being the last in which the noble old hunter was ever engaged in defence of the settlements of Kentucky. Algernon Reynolds and Isaac Younker were his companions in arms; who, on the dismissal of the troops, returned again to Bryan's Station.
[Footnote 24: It may perhaps add interest to the story, for the reader to know that the foregoing account concerning Reynolds and Captain Patterson, is historically true; as is also the one which follows with regard to Boone and his son.]
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THE FINALE.
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Month upon month rolled away, quiet succeeded to the alarm and commotion of war, hostilities between Great Britain and America ceased, and the country both east and west now began to look up from the depression and gloom which had pervaded it during its long and sanguinary struggle for independence. In Kentucky the effect was really invigorating; and the settlers, who for a year past had been driven from their homes in terror and dismay--who had quitted their peaceable farming implements for the destructive weapons of strife and bloodshed--now ventured to return to their desolate firesides, and renew their honest occupations of tilling the soil. Some, however, more predisposed to financiering than their neighbors, sought only speculation; in consequence whereof the Land Offices of the Virginia Commissioners--which opened in November, after the return of the troops under Clark--were daily thronged with applicants for the best locations; whereby was laid the first grand corner-stone of subsequent litigation, disaffection, and civil discord among the pioneers. But with these, further than to mention the facts as connected with the history of the time, we have nothing to do; and shall now forthwith pass on to the finale of our story.
Month upon month, as we said before, had rolled away, spring had come, and with it had departed many of those who had occupied Bryan's Station during the siege of August; but still, besides the regular garrison and their families, a few of the individuals who had sought refuge therein, yet remained; among whom we may mention Mrs. Younker, Ella, Isaac and his wife, and so forth. Algernon, too--by the entreaty of his friends, and contrary to his previous calculations, and what he considered his duty--had been induced to defer his departure until the opening of spring. Possibly there might have been a secret power, stronger than the mere entreaties of others, which had prevailed over his resolution to depart; but further the records say not. Be that as it may, the extreme limit of time which he had set for remaining, was now nearly expired; and he was, at the moment when we again present him to the reader, engaged in conversation with Ella on the painful subject. Suddenly he was startled by the information that a stranger in the court desired to speak with him.
"A stranger!" exclaimed Algernon, in surprise; and as he spoke, his face became very pale, his lips quivered, and his hands trembled. Turning upon Ella a look of agony, which seemed to say, "I am an arrested felon," he wheeled upon his heel, and followed the messenger in silence; while she, knowing the cause of his agitation, and fearful of the worst, sunk almost lifeless upon a seat.
As Algernon passed out of the cottage, he beheld, in the center of the common, a well dressed, good-looking individual, who was standing on the ground and holding by the bridle a horse, which, as well as the rider himself, appeared both travel-stained and weary. Approaching the stranger with a firm step, but with a pale countenance and throbbing heart, he said: "I understand, sir, you have business with me."
"Your name, then," returned the other, quietly, "I presume to be Algernon Reynolds?"
"The same."
"You are, too, I infer, a native of ----, Connecticut, and son of Albert Reynolds of that place?"
"Again right," answered Algernon, in a voice which, in spite of himself, was a little tremulous.
"Then, sir," rejoined the stranger, with a satisfied air, "I may say that I have business with you, and of vast importance. A long chase you have led me, i' faith; and weeks of travel have you cost me; so you may rest assured that I am happy in finding you at last."
"Proceed!" said Algernon, compressing his lips, as one whose mind is made up for the worst. "Proceed, sir. I know your mission."
"The deuce you do!" replied the other, in astonishment; "then you must have a very remarkable faculty for divining secrets. I rather guess you are mistaken though," he added, as he drew forth a couple of letters from a side pocket; "but these will inform you whether you are or not."
Seizing the proffered letters with trembling eagerness, Algernon hastily glanced at their superscription; then, breaking the seals, he devoured their contents with the utmost avidity; while the stranger stood noting the varying expressions of his handsome countenance, with a quiet smile. At first his pale features seemed flushed with surprise--then became radiant with joy--and then gradually saddened with sorrow; yet a certain cheerfulness prevailed over all--such as he had not exhibited for many a long month. As he finished a hasty perusal of the epistles, he turned to the stranger, grasped his hand, and, shaking it heartily, while tears of joy filled his eyes, exclaimed: "I _was_ mistaken, sir--God be thanked! God bless you too, sir! for being the messenger of peace between myself and conscience. Excuse me. Tarry a moment, sir, and I will send some one to take charge of your weary beast, and show yourself a place of rest and refreshment."
As he spoke, Algernon darted away toward the cottage. Observing Isaac, he ran to and caught him by the hand: "Isaac," he said, in a gay tone, while his eyes sparkled with delight, "wish me joy! I have good news. I--but stay; I forgot; you know nothing of the matter. Oblige me, though, by showing yonder gentleman and his beast due hospitality;" and wringing his hand, he sprung into the apartment where Ella was sitting alone, leaving Isaac staring after him with open mouth, and wondering whether he were in his right senses or not.
"Ella!" he exclaimed, wildly, as he suddenly appeared before her with a flushed countenance: "Ella, God bless you! Listen. I--I am free! I am no longer a criminal, thank God! These, Ella--these!" and he held aloft the letters with one hand, and tapped them nervously with the other.
The next moment his features grew pale, his whole frame quivered, and he sunk upon a seat, completely overcome by the nervous excitement produced by the sudden transition from despair to hope and freedom.
Ella was alarmed; and springing to him, she exclaimed: "For Heaven's sake! Algernon, what is the matter? --what has happened? --are you in your senses? Speak! --speak!"
"Read!" answered he, faintly, placing the letters in her hand: "Read, Ella--read!"
Ella hesitated a moment on the propriety of complying with his request, but a moment only; and the next she turned to one of the epistles. It was from the father of Algernon, and ran as follows: "DEAR SON:--If in the land of the living, return as speedily as possible to your afflicted and anxious parents, who are even now mourning you as dead. You can return in safety; for your cousin, whom you supposed you had fatally wounded, recovered therefrom, and publicly exonerated you from all blame in the matter. He is now, however, no more--having died of late. Elvira, his wife, is also dead. She died insane. As a partial restitution for the injury done you, your cousin has made you heir, by will, to all his property, real estate and personal, amounting, it is said, to over twenty thousand dollars. Your mother is in feeble health, caused by anxiety on your account. For further information, inquire of the messenger who will bear you this.
Your affectionate father, ALBERT REYNOLDS." Nov. 12th, 1782.
The other epistle was from a lawyer, informing Reynolds of his acquisition to a large amount of property, by a will of his late cousin; and that he, the said lawyer, being executor thereof, required the presence of him, the said Reynolds, or his proxy forthwith.
"I knew it: I felt that all would yet be well: I told you to hope for the best!" cried Ella, as she concluded the letter, her eyes moist with tears, and her face beaming like the sun through a summer shower.
"God bless you, dearest Ella--you did indeed!" exclaimed Reynolds, suddenly, bounding from his seat and clasping her in his arms. "You did indeed tell me to hope--and you told me truly;" and he pressed kiss after kiss, again and again, upon her sweet lips, with all the wild, trembling, rapturous feelings of a lover in his first ecstasy of bliss, when he has surmounted all obstacles, and gained the heart of the being he loves.
"Now, dearest Ella," continued Algernon, when the excitement of the moment had been succeeded by a calmer, though not less blissful mood: "Now, dearest Ella, I am free--my sacred oath binds me no longer--and now can I say, with propriety, that I deeply, solemnly, and devotedly love you, and you alone. I am not rich; but I have enough of this world's goods to live in ease, if not in splendor. Will you share with me, and be partner of my lot, be it for good or ill, through life? My heart you have had long--my hand I now offer you. Say, dearest, will you be mine?"
Ella did not speak--she could not; but she looked up into his face, with a sweet, modest, affectionate smile; and her dark, soft, beautiful eyes, suffused with tears, wherein a soul of love lay mirrored, gave answer, with a heart-felt eloquence surpassing words.
"I understand you, Ella," said Algernon, with emotion. "You are mine--mine forever!" and he strained her trembling form to his heart in silence--a deep, joyful and holy silence--that had in it more of Heaven than earth.
* * * * * It was a mild, lovely day in the spring of 1783. Earth had donned her green mantle, and decorated it with flowers of every hue and variety. The trees were in leaf and in bloom; among whose soft, waving branches, gay birds from the sunny south sung most sweetly; and nature seemed every where to rejoice. In the court of Bryan's Station was a large concourse of people--many of whom were from a distance--and all assembled there to witness the solemn ceremony which was to unite Algernon Reynolds and Ella Barnwell forever; for who shall say the holy marriage rite is not eternally binding in the great Hereafter. There were congregated both sexes and all ages, from the infant to the hoary headed veteran of eighty winters. There were assembled youth and manhood, whose names have since graced the historic page, and whose deeds have stamped them benefactors of their race and nation. All were in order, and silent, and the scene was most solemnly impressive. On the right and left of the bride and groom and their attendants, stood, promiscuously, the general spectators of both sexes. In front was drawn up the garrison, in three platoons, under arms, in compliment to the noble bravery of our hero at the battle of Blue Licks.
Never did Algernon appear more noble than now--never did Ella look more beautiful; as, pale and trembling, she seemed to cling to his arm for support. The ceremony was at length begun and ended, amid a deep and breathless silence. As the last words, "_I pronounce you man and wife_," died away upon the air, the first platoon advanced a pace and fired a volley--the second and third followed--and then arose a soft bewitching strain of music; during which the friends of the newly married pair came forward to offer their congratulations, and wishes for their long life and happiness.
Among the party present was Colonel Boone; and approaching Algernon and Ella--who were now seated where the solemn rite had taken place--he took the hand of each, and said, in a voice of some emotion: "My children--for ye seem to me as such--may you both live long and be happy. You've both o' ye had a deal o' trouble since I first saw ye--and that's but a little while ago--but I hope its now over. Don't think I want to flatter, sir, when I say I think you're a brave and honorable young man, and that you've got a wife every way worthy of ye--and she a husband worthy o' her--and that's saying much. God bless ye both! and ef you ever need a friend, call on Daniel Boone."
With this he shook their hands heartily, and strode away.
The next who advanced to them was Captain Patterson--the officer, it will be remembered, whose life Algernon so generously saved at the risk of his own. After the usual congratulations, he took our hero by the hand, and said, with deep feeling: "Sir! I feel that to you, for risking your own life to save mine, I owe a debt I can never cancel; and an attempt to express to you in words my sense of obligation for the noble act, would be worse than vain: therefore accept this, as a slight testimonial of the gratitude of one who will ever remember you in his prayers, and wear your image in his heart."
As he concluded, Captain Patterson placed in the hands of Algernon a sealed packet, and moved away. [25] "Well, its all over," said Mrs. Younker, coming up in turn to wish the young couple joy. "I al'ays 'spected as how it 'ud come to this here. Goodness, gracious, marsy on me alive! what a flustration they has made about ye, sure enough, for sartin--han't they? I never seed the like on't afore in all my born days. Why, it's like you war governor's folks, sure enough. And my own Ella, too; and the stranger as com'd to my house all bleeding to death like! My! my! --what strange doings Providence does! Well, its to be hoped you'll al'ays git bread enough to keep from starving, and that you won't fight nor quarrel more nor is necessitous--as the Reverend Preacher Allprayer said, when he married me and Ben together. Ah! --poor Ben! --poor Ben! --I'm a lone widder now. Well, the Lord's will be done!" And the good dame moved sadly away, to make room for others, and console herself by recounting her afflictions to some patient listener, together with the virtues of her deceased and living friends.
"I don't 'spect it's o' much account my telling you I wish ye joy," said Isaac, "when every body's doing the same thing; but it comes from the heart, and I can't help it. Well, you'll be happy, I know; for thar's nothing like married life; and I speak from experience. I'm sorry you've got to leave us so soon; but you won't git far from me; for I've got you both here;" and placing his hand upon his heart, he bowed, smiled, and passed on.
As soon as the congratulations were over, Algernon and Ella were escorted into the cottage occupied by Mrs. Younker; where a sumptuous dinner was already prepared for them, their relatives, and a few select friends, among whom was Colonel Boone and Captain Patterson. For the remainder, long tables were ranged around the common, where the greatest conviviality prevailed; and toasts were drank, and songs were sung, and all were merry. After dinner there were music and dancing on the common and in the cabins: and the coming night shut in a scene of festivity, such as was but seldom witnessed even in those early times; and which was remembered and spoken of long, long years after, when many of those who were then actors in the scene had sunk beneath the clods of the valley.
Years have rolled away to the dark and unapproachable past since the transpiring of the events which we have chronicled, and vast mutations have marked the steps of all conquering time. Our beloved country, which then weak and oppressed was struggling for her independence against the most powerful nation on the globe, has since nobly won a name and place among the mighty ones of earth, and planted her stars and stripes from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and built cities and towns amid dark and mighty forests, where then roved in freedom the wild, untutored aborigines of America.
Kentucky, too, has since become a rich, populous, and powerful state; and her noble sons, by their courage and generosity, have well maintained that name and fame which was won for them by their fathers, and which shall go down to future ages all green and unfading. Bryan's Station--the theatre of many a scene of gay frolic and sanguinary strife--of festivity and mourning--has long since sunk to ruin and dust; and on its site now stands the private dwelling of a gentleman of fortune. But where are they who once inhabited it? Those hoary headed veterans--those middle aged men--or those fiery and impetuous youths ever ready for either love or war? Where are they now? Gone! Passed away like moving shadows that leave no trace behind. Gone out, one by one, as lights in the late deserted hall of revelry, or stars at the dawn of day. But very few--and these mere striplings then--now remain to tell the tale; of whom it may with truth be said, "The places which know them now shall soon know them no more forever."
Reader, a word or two more and we have done; and in your hands we leave the decision, as to whether our task has been faithfully fulfilled or not.
Shortly after their marriage, Algernon and Ella bade farewell to their friends in the west, and returned to the east, where a long and happy career awaited them; and where they lived to recount to their children and grand-children, the thrilling narratives of their captivity, and their wild and romantic adventures while pioneers on the borders of Kentucky.
Isaac returned to the farm of his father--rebuilt the cottage destroyed by the Indians--and there, with his dear Peggy, lived happily to a green old age, beloved and respected by all who knew him; and there his posterity still continue to multiply the name of Younker. With him the good dame, his mother, sojourned for several years, as industrious and talkative as ever; and at last passed quietly from among the living, even while in the act of making a sublime quotation on the subject of dying from her favorite, the immortal Preacher Allprayer.
Boone continued a resident of Kentucky, until he fancied it too populous for his comfort; when he removed with his family to Missouri; where he spent much of his time in fishing and hunting, and where he finally died at an advanced age. From thence his remains were conveyed to Frankfort, the capital of Kentucky, where they now repose; and where a rough slab, with a few half intelligible characters thereon, points out to the curious stranger the last earthly resting place of the noblest, the most daring, and famous hunter and pioneer the world has ever produced.
The fate of little Rosetta Millbanks, the captive, is unknown.
Girty, notwithstanding his outrageous crimes against humanity, continued to live among the Indians for a great number of years, the inveterate and barbarous foe of his race. In the celebrated battle of the Thames, a desperate white man led on a band of savages, who fought with great fury, but were at length overpowered and their leader cut to pieces by Colonel Johnson's mounted men. The mangled corse of this leader was afterwards recognized as the notorious and once dreaded Simon Girty.
[Footnote 25: This was found to contain a deed of two hundred acres of the best land in Kentucky. A historical fact.]
THE END
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_Philip's Arrival in New York. _ 'Tis not the practice of writers to choose for biography men who have made no more noise in the world than Captain Winwood has; nor the act of gentlemen, in ordinary cases, to publish such private matters as this recital will present. But I consider, on the one hand, that Winwood's history contains as much of interest, and as good an example of manly virtues, as will be found in the life of many a hero more renowned; and, on the other, that his story has been so partially known, and so distorted, it becomes indeed the duty of a gentleman, when that gentleman was his nearest friend, to put forth that story truly, and so give the lie for ever to the detractors of a brave and kindly man.
There was a saying in the American army, proceeding first from Major Harry Lee, of their famous Light Horse, that Captain Winwood was in America, in the smaller way his modesty permitted, what the Chevalier Bayard was in France, and Sir Philip Sidney in England. This has been received more than once (such is the malice of conscious inferiority) with derisive smiles or supercilious sneers; and not only by certain of his own countrymen, but even in my presence, when my friendship for Winwood, though I had been his rival in love and his enemy in war, was not less known than was my quickness to take offence and avenge it. I dealt with one such case, at the hour of dawn, in a glade near the Bowery lane, a little way out of New York. And I might have continued to vindicate my friend's character so: either with pistols, as at Weehawken across the Hudson, soon after the war, I vindicated the motives of us Englishmen of American birth who stood for the king in the war of Independence; or with rapiers, as I defended the name of our admired enemy, Washington, against a certain defamer, one morning in Hyde Park, after I had come to London. But it has occurred to me that I can better serve Winwood's reputation by the spilling of ink with a quill than of blood with a sword or pistol. This consideration, which is far from a desire to compete with the young gentlemen who strive for farthings and fame, in Grub Street, is my apology for profaning with my unskilled hand the implement ennobled by the use of a Johnson and a Goldsmith, a Fielding and an Addison.
My acquaintance with the Captain's life, from the vantage of an eye-witness and comrade, goes back to the time when all of us concerned were children; to the very day, in truth, when Philip, a pale and slender lad of eleven years, first set foot in New York, and first set eye on Margaret Faringfield.
As I think of it, it seems but yesterday, and myself a boy again: but it was, in fact, in the year 1763; and late in the afternoon of a sunny Summer day. I remember well how thick and heavy the green leaves hung upon the trees that thrust their branches out over the garden walls and fences of our quiet street.
Tired from a day's play, or perchance lazy from the heat, I sprawled upon the front step of our house, which was next the residence of the Faringfields, in what was then called Queen Street. I believe the name of that, as of many another in New York, has been changed since the war, having savoured too much of royalty for republican taste. [1] The Faringfield house, like the family, was one of the finest in New York; and there were in that young city greater mansions than one would have thought to find in a little colonial seaport--a rural-looking provincial place, truly, which has been likened to a Dutch town almost wholly transformed into the semblance of some secondary English town, or into a tiny, far-off imitation of London. It lacked, of course, the grand, gray churches, the palaces and historic places, that tell of what a past has been London's; but it lacked, too, the begriming smoke and fog that are too much of London's present. Indeed, never had any town a clearer sky, or brighter sunshine, than are New York's.
From the Summer power of this sunshine, our part of Queen Street was sheltered by the trees of gardens and open spaces; maple, oak, chestnut, linden, locust, willow, what not? There was a garden, wherein the breeze sighed all day, between our house and the Faringfield mansion, to which it pertained. That vast house, of red and yellow brick, was two stories and a garret high, and had a doubly-sloping roof pierced with dormer windows. The mansion's lower windows and wide front door were framed with carved wood-work, painted white. Its garden gate, like its front door, opened directly to the street; and in the garden gateway, as I lounged on our front step that Summer evening, Madge Faringfield stood, running her fingers through the thick white and brown hair of her huge dog at her side.
The dog's head was almost on a level with hers, for she was then but eight years old, a very bright and pretty child. She turned her quick glance down the street as she stood; and saw me lying so lazy; and at once her gray eyes took on a teasing and deriding light, and I felt I was in for some ironical, quizzing speech or other. But just then her look fell upon something farther down the way, toward Hanover Square, and lingered in a half-amused kind of curiosity. I directed my own gaze to see what possessed hers, and this is what we both beheld together, little guessing what the years to come should bring to make that moment memorable in our minds.
A thin but well-formed boy of eleven; with a pleasant, kindly face, somewhat too white, in which there was a look--as there was evidence in his walk also--of his being tired from prolonged exertion or endurance. He was decently, though not expensively, clad in black cloth, his three-cornered felt hat, wide-skirted coat, and ill-fitting knee-breeches, being all of the same solemn hue. I was to perceive later that his clothes were old and carefully mended. His gray silk stockings ill accorded with his poor shoes, of which the buckles were of steel. He carried in one hand a large, ancient travelling-bag, so heavy that it strained his muscles and dragged him down, thus partly explaining the fatigued look in his face; and in his other hand a basket, from the open top of which there appeared, thrust out, the head of a live gray kitten.
This pretty animal's look of strangeness to its surroundings, as it gazed about with curiosity, would alone have proclaimed that it was arrived from travel; had not the baggage and appearance of its bearer told the same story. The boy, also, kept an alert eye forward as he advanced up the street, but it was soon evident that he gazed in search of some particular object. This object, as the lad finally satisfied himself by scanning it and its neighbours twice over, proved to be the house immediately opposite ours. It was one of a row of small, old brick residences, with Dutch gable ends toward the street. Having made sure of its identity, and having reddened a little at the gaze of Madge and me, the young stranger set down his bag with perceptible signs of physical relief, and, keeping in his grasp the basket with the cat, knocked with a seemingly forced boldness--as if he were conscious of timidity to be overcome--upon the door.
At that, Madge Faringfield could not help laughing aloud.
It was a light, rippling, little laugh, entirely good-natured, lasting but a moment. But it sufficed to make the boy turn and look at her and blush again, as if he were hurt but bore no resentment.
Then I, who knew what it was to be wounded by a girl's laugh, especially Madge's, thought it time to explain, and called out to the lad: "There's nobody at home there."
The boy gazed at me at a loss; then, plainly reluctant to believe me, he once more inspected the blank, closed front of the house, for denial or confirmation of my word. When he next looked back at me, the expression of inquiring helplessness and vague alarm on his face, as if the earth were giving way beneath his feet, was half comical, half pitiful to see.
"It is Mr. Aitken's house, is it not?" he asked, in a tone low and civil, though it seemed to betray a rapid beating of the heart after a sudden sinking thereof.
"It was," I replied, "but he has gone back to England, and that house is empty."
The lad's dismay now became complete, yet it appeared in no other way than in the forlorn expression of his sharp, pale countenance, and in the unconscious appeal with which his blue eyes surveyed Madge and me in turn. But in a few moments he collected himself, as if for the necessary dealing with some unexpected castastrophe, and asked me, a little huskily still: "When will he come home?"
"Never, to this house, I think. Another customs officer has come over in his place, but this one lodges at the King's Arms, because he's a bachelor."
The lad cast a final hopeless glance at the house, and then mechanically took a folded letter from an inner pocket, and dismally regarded the name on the back.
"I had a letter for him," he said, presently, looking again across the street at me and Madge, for the curious Miss Faringfield had walked down from her gateway to my side, that she might view the stranger better. And now she spoke, in her fearless, good-humoured, somewhat forward way: "If you will give the letter to me, my father will send it to Mr. Aitken in London."
"Thank you, but that would be of no use," said the lad, with a disconsolate smile.
"Why not?" cried Madge promptly, and started forthwith skipping across the dusty street. I followed, and in a moment we two were quite close to the newcomer.
"You're tired," said Madge, not waiting for his answer. "Why don't you sit down?" And she pointed to the steps of the vacant house.
"Thank you," said the lad, but with a bow, and a gesture that meant he would not sit while a lady stood, albeit the lady's age was but eight years.
Madge, pleased at this, smiled, and perched herself on the upper step. Waiting to be assured that I preferred standing, the newcomer then seated himself on his own travelling-bag, an involuntary sigh of comfort showing how welcome was this rest.
"Did you come to visit in New York?" at once began the inquisitive Madge.
"Yes, I--I came to see Mr. Aitken," was the hesitating and dubious answer.
"And so you'll have to go back home without seeing him?"
"I don't very well see how I can go back," said the boy slowly.
"Oh, then you will visit some one else, or stay at the tavern?" Madge went on.
"I don't know any one else here," was the reply, "and I can't stay at the tavern."
"Why, then, what will you do?"
"I don't know--yet," the lad answered, looking the picture of loneliness.
"Where do you live?" I put in.
"I did live in Philadelphia, but I left there the other day by the stage-coach, and arrived just now in New York by the boat."
"And why can't you go back there?" I continued.
"Why, because,--I had just money enough left to pay my way to New York; and even if I should walk back, I've no place there to go back to, and no one at all--now--" He broke off here, his voice faltering; and his blue eyes filled with moisture. But he made a swallow, and checked the tears, and sat gently stroking the head of his kitten.
For a little time none of us spoke, while I stood staring somewhat abashed at the lad's evident emotion. Madge studied his countenance intently, and doubtless used her imagination to suppose little Tom--her younger and favourite brother--in this stranger's place. Whatever it was that impelled her, she suddenly said to him, "Wait here," and turning, ran back across the street, and disappeared through the garden gate.
Instead of following her, the dog went up to the new boy's cat and sniffed at its nose, causing it to whisk back its head and gaze spellbound. To show his peaceful mind, the dog wagged his tail, and by degrees so won the kitten's confidence that it presently put forth its face again and exchanged sniffs.
"I should think you'd have a dog, instead of a cat," said I, considering the stranger's sex.
He answered nothing to this, but looked quite affectionately at his pet. I set it down as odd that so manly a lad should so openly show liking for a cat. The conduct of the animal in its making acquaintance with the dog; the good-humoured assurance of the one, and the cautious coyness of the other; amused us till presently Madge's voice was heard; and then we saw her coming from the garden, speaking to her father, who walked bareheaded beside her. Behind, at a little distance, came Madge's mother and little Tom. All four stopped at the gateway, and looked curiously toward us.
"Come over here, boy," called Madge, and heeded not the reproof her mother instantly gave her in an undertone for her forwardness. For any one of his children but Madge, reproof would have come from her father also; in all save where she was concerned, he was a singularly correct and dignified man, to the point of stiffness and austerity. His wife, a pretty, vain, inoffensive woman, was always chiding her children for their smaller faults, and never seeing the traits that might lead to graver ones.
Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield awaited the effect of Madge's invitation, or rather command, adding nothing to it. The boy's colour showed his diffidence, under the scrutiny of so many coldly inquiring eyes; but after a moment he rose, and I, with greater quickness, seized his bag by the handle and started across the street with it. He called out a surprised and grateful "Thank you," and followed me. I was speedily glad I had not undertaken to carry the bag as far as he had done; 'twas all I could do to bear it.
"How is this, lad?" said Mr. Faringfield, when the boy, with hat off, stood before him. The tone was stern enough, a stranger would have thought, though it was indeed a kindly one for Madge's father. "You have come from Philadelphia to visit Mr. Aitken? Is he your relation?"
"No, sir; he was a friend of my father's before my father came to America," replied the lad, in a low, respectful voice.
"Yet your father did not know he was gone back to England? How is that?"
"My father is dead, sir; he died six years ago."
"Oh, I see," replied Mr. Faringfield, a little taken down from his severity. "And the letter my little girl tells me of?"
"If you please, my mother wrote it, sir," said the boy, looking at the letter in his hand, his voice trembling a little. He seemed to think, from the manner of the Faringfields, that he was obliged to give a full account of himself, and so went on. "She didn't know what else to do about me, sir, as there was no one in Philadelphia--that is, I mean, she remembered what a friend Mr. Aitken was to my father--they were both of Oxford, sir; Magdalen college. And so at last she thought of sending me to him, that he might get me a place or something; and she wrote the letter to tell him who I was; and she saw to it that I should have money enough to come to New York,--" "But I don't understand," interrupted Mr. Faringfield, frowning his disapproval of something. "What made it necessary for her to dispose of you? Was she going to marry again?"
"She was going to die, sir," replied the boy, in a reserved tone which, despite his bashfulness, both showed his own hurt, and rebuked his elder's thoughtless question.
"Poor boy!" whispered Mrs. Faringfield, grasping her little Tom's hand.
"Oh," said her husband, slowly, slightly awed from his sternness. "I beg your pardon, my lad. I am very sorry, indeed. Your being here, then, means that you are now an orphan?"
"Yes, sir," was the boy's only answer, and he lowered his eyes toward his kitten, and so sad and lonely an expression came into his face that no wonder Mrs. Faringfield whispered again, "Poor lad," and even Madge and little Tom looked solemn.
"Well, boy, something must be done about you, that's certain," said Mr. Faringfield. "You have no money, my daughter says. Spent all you had for cakes and kickshaws in the towns where the stage-coach stopped, I'll warrant."
The boy smiled. "The riding made me hungry sir," said he. "I'd have saved my extra shilling if I'd known how it was going to be."
"But is there nothing coming to you in Philadelphia? Did your mother leave nothing?"
"Everything was sold at auction to pay our debts--it took the books and our furniture and all, to do that."
"The books?"
"We kept a book-shop, sir. My father left it to us. He was a bookseller, but he was a gentleman and an Oxford man."
"And he didn't make a fortune at the book trade, eh?"
"No, sir. I've heard people say he would rather read his books than sell them."
"From your studious look I should say you took after him."
"I do like to read, sir," the lad admitted quietly, smiling again.
Here Madge put in, with the very belated query: "What's your name?"
"Philip Winwood," the boy answered, looking at her pleasantly.
"Well, Master Winwood," said Madge's father, "we shall have to take you in overnight, at least, and then see what's to be done."
At this Mrs. Faringfield said hastily, with a touch of alarm: "But, my dear, is it quite safe? The child might--might have the measles or something, you know."
Madge tittered openly, and Philip Winwood looked puzzled. Mr. Faringfield answered: "One can see he is a healthy lad, and cleanly, though he is tired and dusty from his journey. He may occupy the end garret room. 'Tis an odd travelling companion you carry, my boy. Did you bring the cat from Philadelphia?"
"Yes, sir; my mother was fond of it, and I didn't like to leave it behind."
The kitten drew back from the stately gentleman's attempt to tap its nose with his finger, and evinced a desire to make the acquaintance of his wife, toward whom it put forth its head as far as possible out of its basket, beginning the while to purr.
"Look, mamma, it wants to come to you," cried little Tom, delighted.
"Cats and dogs always make friends quicker with handsome people," said Philip Winwood, with no other intent than merely to utter a fact, of which those who observe the lower animals are well aware.
"There, my dear," said Mr. Faringfield, "there's a compliment for you at my expense."
The lady, who had laughed to conceal her pleasure at so innocent a tribute, now freely caressed the kitten; of which she had been shy before, as if it also might have the measles.
"Well, Philip," she said, a moment later, "come in, and feel that you are at home. You'll have just time to wash, and brush the dust off, before supper. He shall occupy the second spare chamber, William," she added, turning to her husband. "How could you think of sending so nice and good-looking a lad to the garret? Leave your travelling-bag here, child; the servants shall carry it in for you."
"This is so kind of you, ma'am, and sir," said Philip, with a lump in his throat; and able to speak his gratitude the less, because he felt it the more.
"I am the one you ought to thank," said Madge archly, thus calling forth a reproving "Margaret!" from her mother, and an embarrassed smile--part amusement, part thanks, part admiration--from Philip. The smile so pleased Madge, that she gave one in return and then actually dropped her eyes.
I saw with a pang that the newcomer was already in love with her, and I knew that the novelty of his adoration would make her oblivious of my existence for at least a week to come. But I bore him no malice, and as the Faringfields turned toward the rear veranda of the house, I said: "Come and play with me whenever you like. That's where I live, next door. My name is Herbert Russell, but they call me Bert, for short."
"Thank you," said Winwood, and was just about to go down the garden walk between Madge and little Tom, when the whole party was stopped by a faint boo-hooing, in a soft and timid voice, a short distance up the street. " 'Tis Fanny," cried Mrs. Faringfield, affrightedly, and ran out from the garden to the street.
"Ned has been bullying her," said Madge, anger suddenly firing her pretty face. And she, too, was in the street in a moment, followed by all of us, Philip Winwood joining with a ready boyish curiosity and interest in what concerned his new acquaintances.
Sure enough, it was Fanny Faringfield, Madge's younger sister, coming along the street, her knuckles in her eyes, the tears streaming down her face; and behind her, with his fists in his coat pockets, and his cruel, sneering laugh on his bold, handsome face, came Ned, the eldest of the four Faringfield young ones. He and Fanny were returning from a children's afternoon tea-party at the Wilmots' house in William Street, from which entertainment Madge had stayed away because she had had another quarrel with Ned, whom she, with her self-love and high spirit, had early learned to hate for his hectoring and domineering nature. I shared Madge's feeling there, and was usually at daggers drawn with Ned Faringfield; for I never would take any man's browbeating. Doubtless my own quickness of temper was somewhat to blame. I know that it got me into many fights, and had, in fact, kept me too from that afternoon's tea, I being then not on speaking terms with one of the Wilmot boys. As for Madge's detestation of Ned, she made up for it by her love of little Tom, who then and always deserved it. Tom was a true, kind, honest, manly fellow, from his cradle to that sad night outside the Kingsbridge tavern. Madge loved Fanny too, but less wholly. As for Fanny, dear girl, she loved them all, even Ned, to whom she rendered homage and obedience; and to save whom from their father's hard wrath, she now, at sight of us all issuing from the gateway, suddenly stopped crying and tried to look as if nothing were the matter.
Ned, seeing his father, paled and hesitated; but the next moment came swaggering on, his face showing a curious succession of fear, defiance, cringing, and a crafty hope of lying out of his offence.
It was, of course, the very thing Fanny did to shield him, that certainly betrayed him; and when I knew from her sudden change of conduct that he was indeed to blame, I would gladly have attacked him, despite that he was twelve years old and I but ten. But I dared not move in the presence of our elders, and moreover I saw at once Ned's father would deal with him to our complete satisfaction.
"Go to your room, sir," said Mr. Faringfield, in his sternest tone, looking his anger out of eyes as hard as steel. This meant for Master Ned no supper, and probably much worse.
"Please, sir, I didn't do anything," answered Ned, with ill-feigned surprise. "She fell and hurt her arm."
Fanny did not deny this, but she was no liar, and could not confirm it. So she looked to the ground, and clasped her left wrist with her right hand. But in this latter movement she again exposed her brother by the very means she took to protect him; for quick-seeing Madge, observing the action, gently but firmly unclasped the younger sister's hand, and so disclosed the telltale marks of Ned's fingers upon the delicate wrist, by squeezing or wrenching which that tyrant had evinced his brotherly superiority.
At sight of this, Mrs. Faringfield gave a low cry of horror and maternal pity, and fell to caressing the bruised wrist; and Madge, raising her arm girl-wise, began to rain blows on her brother, which fell wherever they might, but where none of them could hurt. Her father, without reproving her, drew her quietly back, and with a countenance a shade darker than before, pointed out the way for Ned toward the veranda leading to the rear hall-door.
With a vindictive look, and pouting lips, Ned turned his steps down the walk. Just then he noticed Philip Winwood, who had viewed every detail of the scene with wonder, and who now regarded Ned with a kind of vaguely disliking curiosity, such as one bestows on some sinister-looking strange animal. Philip's look was, of course, unconscious, but none the less clearly to be read for that. Ned Faringfield, pausing on his way, stared at the unknown lad, with an expression of insolent inquiry. Not daring to stay for questions, but observing the valise, he seemed to become aware that the newcomer was an already accepted guest of the house; and he thereupon surveyed Philip a moment, inwardly measuring him as a possible comrade or antagonist, but affecting a kind of disdain. A look from his father ended Ned's inspection, and sent him hastily toward his imprisonment, whither he went with no one's pity but Fanny's--for his mother had become afraid of him, and little Tom took his likes and dislikes from his sister Madge.
And so they went in to supper, disappearing from my sight behind the corner of the parlour wing as they mounted the rear veranda: Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield first, the mother leading Fanny by the wounded wrist; the big dog next, wagging his tail for no particular reason; and then Philip Winwood, with his cat in his basket, Madge at one side of him and pretending an interest in the kitten while from beneath her lashes she alertly watched the boy himself, little Tom on the other side holding Philip's hand. I stood at the gateway, looking after; and with all my young infatuation for Madge, I had no feeling but one of liking, for this quiet, strange lad, with the pale, kind face. And I would to God I might see those three still walking together, as when children, through this life that has dealt so strangely with them all since that Summer evening.
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_The Faringfields. _ Having shown how Philip Winwood came among us, I ought to tell at once, though of course I learned it from him afterwards, all that need be known of his previous life. His father, after leaving Oxford and studying medicine in Edinburgh, had married a lady of the latter city, and emigrated to Philadelphia to practise as a physician. But whether 'twas that the Quaker metropolis was overstocked with doctors even then, or for other reasons, there was little call for Doctor Winwood's ministrations. Moreover, he was of so book-loving a disposition that if he happened to have sat down to a favourite volume, and a request came for his services, it irked him exceedingly to respond. This being noticed and getting abroad, did not help him in his profession.
The birth of Philip adding to the doctor's expenses, it soon came about that, in the land where he had hoped to make a new fortune, he parted with the last of what fortune he had originally possessed. Then occurred to him the ingenious thought of turning bookseller, a business which, far from requiring that he should ever absent himself from his precious volumes, demanded rather that he should always be among them. But the stock that he laid in, turned out to comprise rather such works as a gentleman of learning would choose for company, than such as the people of Philadelphia preferred to read. Furthermore, when some would-be purchaser appeared, it often happened that the book he offered to buy was one for which the erudite dealer had acquired so strong an affection that he would not let it change owners. Nor did his wife much endeavour to turn him from this untradesmanlike course. Besides being a gentle and affectionate woman, she had that admiration for learning which, like excessive warmth of heart and certain other traits, I have observed to be common between the Scotch (she was of Edinburgh, as I have said) and the best of the Americans.
Such was Philip's father, and when he died of some trouble of the heart, there was nothing for his widow to do but continue the business. She did this with more success than the doctor had had, though many a time it smote her heart to sell some book of those that her husband had loved, and to the backs of which she had become attached for his sake and through years of acquaintance. But the necessities of her little boy and herself cried out, and so did the debt her husband had accumulated as tangible result of his business career. By providing books of a less scholarly, more popular character, such as novels, sermons, plays, comic ballads, religious poems, and the like; as well as by working with her needle, and sometimes copying legal and other documents, Mrs. Winwood managed to keep the kettle boiling. And in the bookselling and the copying, she soon came to have the aid of Philip.
The boy, too, loved books passionately, finding in them consolation for the deprivations incidental to his poverty. But, being keenly sympathetic, he had a better sense of his mother's necessities than his father had shown, and to the amelioration of her condition and his own, he sacrificed his love of books so far as to be, when occasion offered, an uncomplaining seller of those he liked, and a dealer in those he did not like. His tastes were, however, broader than his father's, and he joyfully lost himself in the novels and plays his father would have disdained.
He read, indeed, everything he could put his hands on, that had, to his mind, reason, or wit, or sense, or beauty. Many years later, when we were in London, his scholarly yet modest exposition of a certain subject eliciting the praise of a group in a Pall Mall tavern, and he being asked "What university he was of," he answered, with a playful smile, "My father's bookshop." It was, indeed, his main school of book-learning. But, as I afterward told him, he had studied in the university of life also. However, I am now writing of his boyhood in Philadelphia; and of that there is only this left to be said.
In catering to his mind, he did not neglect bodily skill either. His early reading of Plutarch and other warlike works had filled him with desire to emulate the heroes of battle. An old copy of Saviolo's book on honour and fence, written in the reign of Elizabeth, or James, I forget which, had in some manner found its way to his father's shelves; and from this Philip secretly obtained some correct ideas of swordsmanship. [2] Putting them in practice one day in the shop, with a stick, when he thought no one was looking, he suddenly heard a cry of "bravo" from the street door, and saw he was observed by a Frenchman, who had recently set up in Philadelphia as a teacher of fencing, dancing, and riding. This expert, far from allowing Philip to be abashed, complimented and encouraged him; entered the shop, and made friends with him. The lad, being himself as likable as he found the lively foreigner interesting, became in time something of a comrade to the fencing master. The end of this was that, in real or pretended return for the loan of Saviolo's book, the Frenchman gave Philip a course of instruction and practice in each of his three arts.
To these the boy added, without need of a teacher, the ability to shoot, both with gun and with pistol. I suppose it was from being so much with his mother, between whom and himself there must have existed the most complete devotion, that notwithstanding his manly and scholarly accomplishments, his heart, becoming neither tough like the sportsman's nor dry like the bookworm's, remained as tender as a girl's--or rather as a girl's is commonly supposed to be. His mother's death, due to some inward ailment of which the nature was a problem to the doctors, left him saddened but too young to be embittered. And this was the Philip Winwood--grave and shy from having been deprived too much of the company of other boys, but with certain mental and bodily advantages of which too much of that company would have deprived him--who was taken into the house of the Faringfields in the Summer of 1763.
The footing on which he should remain there was settled the very morning after his arrival. Mr. Faringfield, a rigid and prudent man, but never a stingy one, made employment for him as a kind of messenger or under clerk in his warehouse. The boy fell gratefully into the new life, passing his days in and about the little counting-room that looked out on Mr. Faringfield's wharf on the East River. He found it dull work, the copying of invoices, the writing of letters to merchants in other parts of the world, the counting of articles of cargo, and often the bearing a hand in loading or unloading some schooner or dray; but as beggars should not be choosers, so beneficiaries should not be complainers, and Philip kept his feelings to himself.
Mr. Faringfield was an exacting master, whose rule was that his men should never be idle, even at times when there seemed nothing to do. If no task was at hand, they should seek one; and if none could be found, he was like to manufacture one. Thus was Phil denied the pleasure of brightening or diversifying his day with reading, for which he could have found time enough. He tried to be interested in his work, and he in part succeeded, somewhat by good-fellowship with the jesting, singing, swearing wharfmen and sailors, somewhat by dwelling often on the thought that he was filling his small place in a great commerce which touched so distant shores, and so many countries, of the world. He used to watch the vessels sail, on the few and far-between days when there were departures, and wish, with inward sighs, that he might sail with them. A longing to see the great world, the Europe of history, the Britain of his ancestors, had been implanted in him by his reading, before he had come to New York, and the desire was but intensified by his daily contact with the one end of a trade whose other end lay beyond the ocean.
Outside of the hours of business, Philip's place was that of a member of the Faringfield household, where, save in the one respect that after his first night it was indeed the garret room that fell to him, he was on terms of equality with the children. Ned alone, of them all, affected toward him the manner of a superior to a dependent. Whatever were Philip's feelings regarding this attitude of the elder son, he kept them locked within, and had no more to say to Master Ned than absolute civility required. With the two girls and little Tom, and with me, he was, evenings and Sundays, the pleasantest playfellow in the world.
Ungrudgingly he gave up to us, once we had made the overtures, the time he would perhaps rather have spent over his books; for he had brought a few of these from Philadelphia, a fact which accounted for the exceeding heaviness of his travelling bag, and he had access, of course, to those on Mr. Faringfield's shelves. His compliance with our demands was the more kind, as I afterward began to see, for that his day's work often left him quite tired out. Of this we never thought; we were full of the spirits pent up all day at school, Madge and Fanny being then learners at the feet of a Boston maiden lady in our street, while I yawned and idled my hours away on the hard benches of a Dutch schoolmaster near the Broadway, under whom Ned Faringfield also was a student. But fresh as we were, and tired as Philip was, he was always ready for a romp in our back yard, or a game of hide-and-seek in the Faringfields' gardens, or a chase all the way over to the Bowling Green, or all the way up to the Common where the town ended and the Bowery lane began.
But it soon came out that Phil's books were not neglected, either. The speed with which his candles burnt down, and required renewal, told of nocturnal studies in his garret. As these did not perceptibly interfere with his activity the next day, they were viewed by Mr. Faringfield rather with commendation than otherwise, and so were allowed to continue. My mother thought it a sin that no one interfered to prevent the boy's injuring his health; but when she said this to Phil himself, he only smiled and answered that if his reading did cost him anything of health, 'twas only fair a man should pay something for his pleasures.
My mother's interest in the matter arose from a real liking. She saw much of Philip, for he and the three younger Faringfields were as often about our house as about their own. Ours was not nearly as fine; 'twas a white-painted wooden house, like those in New England, but roomy enough for its three only occupants, my mother and me and the maid. We were not rich, but neither were we of the poorest. My father, the predecessor of Mr. Aitken in the customs office, had left sufficient money in the English funds at his death, to keep us in the decent circumstances we enjoyed, and there was yet a special fund reserved for my education. So we could be neighbourly with the Faringfields, and were so; and so all of us children, including Philip, were as much at home in the one house as in the other.
One day, in the Fall of that year of Philip's arrival, we young ones were playing puss-in-a-corner in the large garden--half orchard, half vegetable plantation--that formed the rear of the Faringfields' grounds. It was after Phil's working hours, and a pleasant, cool, windy evening. The maple leaves were yellowing, the oak leaves turning red. I remember how the wind moved the apple-tree boughs, and the yellow corn-stalks waiting to be cut and stacked as fodder. (When I speak of corn, I do not use the word in the English sense, of grain in general, but in the American sense, meaning maize, of which there are two kinds, the sweet kind being most delicious to eat, as either kind is a beautiful sight when standing in the field, the tall stalks waving their many arms in the breeze.) We were all laughing, and running from tree to tree, when in from the front garden came Ned, his face wearing its familiar cruel, bullying, spoil-sport smile.
The wind blowing out Madge's brown hair as she ran, I suppose put him in mind of what to do. For all at once, clapping his hand to his mouth, and imitating the bellowing war-whoop of an Indian, he rushed upon us in that character, caught hold of Madge's hair, and made off as if to drag her away by it. She, screaming, tried to resist, but of course could not get into an attitude for doing so while he pulled her so fast. The end of it was, that she lost her balance and fell, thus tearing her hair from his grasp.
I, being some distance away, picked up an apple and flung it at the persecutor's head, which I missed by half an inch. Before I could follow the apple, Philip had taken the work out of my hands.
"You are a savage," said Phil, in a low voice, but with a fiery eye, confronting Ned at close quarters.
"And what are you?" replied young Faringfield promptly. "You're a beggar, that's what you are! A beggar that my father took in."
For a moment or two Phil regarded his insulter in amazed silence; then answered: "If only you weren't her brother!"
Here Madge spoke up, from the ground on which she sat: "Oh, don't let that stop you, Phil!"
"I sha'n't," said Phil, with sudden decision, and the next instant the astounded Ned was recoiling from a solid blow between the eyes.
Of course he immediately returned the compliment in kind, and as Ned was a strong fellow, Phil had all he could do to hold his own in the ensuing scuffle. How long this might have lasted, I don't know, had not Fanny run between, with complete disregard of her own safety, calling out: "Oh, Phil, you mustn't hurt Ned!"
Her interposition being aided on the other side by little Tom, who seized Ned's coat-tails and strove to pull him away from injuring Philip, the two combatants, their boyish belligerence perhaps having had enough for the time, separated, both panting.
"I'll have it out with you yet!" said Master Ned, short-windedly, adjusting his coat, and glaring savagely.
"All right!" said Phil, equally out of breath. Ned then left the field, with a look of contempt for the company.
After that, things went on in the old pleasant manner, except that Ned, without any overt act to precipitate a fight, habitually treated Phil with a most annoying air of scorn and derision. This, though endured silently, was certainly most exasperating.
But it had not to be endured much of the time, for Ned had grown more and more to disdain our society, and to cultivate companions superior to us in years and knowledge of the world. They were, indeed, a smart, trick-playing, swearing set, who aped their elders in drinking, dicing, card-gambling, and even in wenching. Their zest in this imitation was the greater for being necessarily exercised in secret corners, and for their freshness to the vices they affected.
I do not say I was too good for this company and their practices; or that Philip was either. Indeed we had more than a mere glimpse of both, for boys, no matter how studious or how aspiring in the long run, will see what life they can; will seek the taste of forbidden fruit, and will go looking for temptations to yield to. Indeed, the higher a boy's intelligence, the more eager may be his curiosity for, his first enjoyment of, the sins as well as the other pleasures. What banished us--Philip and me--from Ned's particular set was, first, Ned's enmity toward us; second, our attachment to a clan of boys equally bent on playing the rake in secret, though of better information and manners than Ned's comrades could boast of; third, Phil's fondness for books, and mine for him; and finally, our love for Madge.
This last remained unaltered in both of us. As for Madge, as I had predicted to myself, she had gradually restored me to my old place in her consideration as the novelty of Philip's newer devotion had worn off. We seemed now to be equals in her esteem. At one time Phil would apparently stand uppermost there, at another I appeared to be preferred. But this alternating superiority was usually due to casual circumstance. Sometimes, I suppose, it owed itself to caprice; sometimes, doubtless, to deep design unsuspected by either of us. Boys are not men until they are well grown; but women are women from their first compliment. On the whole, as I have said, Phil and I were very even rivals.
It was sometime in the winter--Philip's first winter with the Faringfields--that the next outbreak came, between him and Master Edward. If ever the broad mansion of the Faringfields looked warm and welcoming, it was in midwinter. The great front doorway, with its fanlight above, and its panel windows at each side, through which the light shone during the long evenings, and with its broad stone steps and out-curving iron railings, had then its most hospitable aspect. One evening that it looked particularly inviting to me, was when Ned and the two girls and I were returning with our skates from an afternoon spent on Beekman's pond. Large flakes were falling softly on snow already laid. Darkness had caught up with us on the way home, and when we came in sight of the cheery light enframing the Faringfields' wide front door, and showing also from the windows at one side, I was not sorry I was to eat supper with them that evening, my mother having gone sleighing to visit the Murrays at Incledon, with whom she was to pass the night. As we neared the door, tired and hungry, whom should we see coming toward it from the other direction but Philip Winwood. He had worked over the usual time at the warehouse. Before the girls or I could exchange halloes with Phil, we were all startled to hear Ned call out to him, in a tone even more imperious than the words: "Here, you, come and take my skates, and carry them in, and tell mother I've stopped at Jack Van Cortlandt's house a minute."
And he stood waiting for Phil to do his bidding. The rest of us halted, also; while Phil stopped where he was, looking as if he could not have heard aright.
"Come, are you deaf?" cried Ned, impatiently. "Do as you're bid, and be quick about it."
Now, of course, there was nothing wrong in merely asking a comrade, as one does ask a comrade such things, to carry in one's skates while one stopped on the way. No one was ever readier than Phil to do such little offices, or great ones either. Indeed, it is the American way to do favours, even when not requested, and even to inferiors. I have seen an American gentleman of wealth go in the most natural manner to the assistance of his own servant in a task that seemed to overtax the latter, and think nothing of it. But in the case I am relating; apart from the fact that I, being nearer than Phil, was the proper one of whom to ask the favour; the phrase and manner were those of a master to a servant; a rough master and a stupid servant, moreover. And so Philip, after a moment, merely laughed, and went on his way toward the door.
At this Master Ned stepped forward with the spirit of chastisement in his eyes, his skates held back as if he meant to strike Phil with their sharp blades. But it happened that Philip had by now mounted the first door-step, and thus stood higher than his would-be assailant. So Master Ned stopped just out of Philip's reach, and said insolently: "'Tis time you were taught your place, young fellow. You're one of my father's servants, that's all; so take in my skates, or I'll show you."
"You're wrong there," said Phil, with forced quietness. "A clerk or messenger, in business, is not a personal servant."
"Take in these skates, or I'll brain you with 'em!" cried Ned, to that.
"Come on and brain!" cried Phil.
"By G----d, I will that!" replied Ned, and made to swing the skates around by the straps. But his arm was, at that instant, caught in a powerful grip, and, turning about in surprise, he looked into the hard, cold eyes of his father, who had come up unseen, having stayed; at the warehouse even later than Phil.
"If any blows are struck here, you sha'n't be the one to strike them, sir," he said to Ned. "What's this I hear, of servants? I'll teach you once for all, young man, that in my house Philip is your equal. Go to your room and think of that till it becomes fixed in your mind."
To go without supper, with such an appetite, on such a cold night, was indeed a dreary end for such a day's sport. I, who knew how chilled and starved Ned must be, really pitied him.
But instead of slinking off with a whimper, he for the first time in his life showed signs of revolt.
"What if I don't choose to go to my room?" he answered, impudently, to our utmost amazement. "You may prefer an outside upstart over your son, if you like, but you can't always make your son a prisoner by the ordering."
Mr. Faringfield showed little of the astonishment and paternal wrath he doubtless felt. He gazed coldly at his defiant offspring a moment; then took a step toward him. But Ned, with the agility of boyhood, turned and ran, looking back as he went, and stopping only when he was at a safe distance.
"Come back," called his father, not risking his dignity in a doubtful pursuit, but using such a tone that few would dare to disobey the command.
"Suppose I don't choose to come back," answered Ned, to whose head the very devil had now certainly mounted. "Maybe there's other places to go to, where one doesn't have to stand by and see an upstart beggar preferred to himself, and put in his place, and fed on the best while he's lying hungry in his dark room."
"If there's another place for you, I'd advise you to find it," said Mr. Faringfield, after a moment's reflection.
"Oh, I'll find it," was the reply; and then came what Master Ned knew would be the crowning taunt and insult to his father. "If it comes to the worst, I know how I can get to England, where I'd rather be, anyway."
There was a reason why Mr. Faringfield's face turned dark as a thunder-cloud at this. You must know, first, that in him alone was embodied the third generation of colonial Faringfields. The founder of the American branch of the family, having gone pretty nearly to the dogs at home, and got into close quarters with the law, received from his people the alternative of emigrating to Virginia or suffering justice to take its course. Tossing up his last sixpence, he indifferently observed, on its coming down, that it lay in favour of Virginia. So he chose emigration, and was shipped off, upon condition that if he ever again set foot in England he should be forthwith turned over to the merciless law. His relations, as he perceived, cherished the hope that he would die of a fever likely to be caught on the piece of marshy land in Virginia which they, in a belief that it was worthless, had made over to him. Pondering on this on the voyage, and perhaps having had his fill of the flesh and the devil, he resolved to disappoint his family. And, to make short a very long story of resolution and toil, he did so, becoming at last one of the richest tobacco-planters in the province.
He might now have returned to England with safety; but his resentment against the people who had exiled him when they might have compounded with justice otherwise, extended even to their country, which he no longer called his, and he abode still by the condition of his emigration. He married a woman who had her own special reasons for inimical feelings toward the English authorities, which any one may infer who is familiar with one phase (though this was not as large a phase as English writers seem to think) of the peopling of Virginia. Although she turned over a new leaf in the province, and seems to have been a model wife and parent, she yet retained a sore heart against the mother country. The feeling of these two was early inculcated into the minds of their children, and their eldest son, in whom it amounted almost to a mania, transmitted it on to his own successor, our Mr. Faringfield of Queen Street.
The second Faringfield (father of ours), being taken with a desire for the civilities and refinements of a town life, moved from Virginia to New York, married there a very worthy lady of Dutch patroon descent, and, retaining his Virginia plantation, gradually extended his business, so that he died a general merchant, with a European and a West Indian trade, and with vessels of his own. He it was that built the big Faringfield house in Queen Street. He was of an aspiring mind, for one in trade, and had even a leaning toward book-knowledge and the ornaments of life. He was, moreover, an exceedingly proud man, as if a haughty way were needful to a man of business and an American, in order to check the contempt with which he might be treated as either. His large business, his pride, his unreasonable hatred of England (which he never saw), and a very fine and imposing appearance, he passed down to our Mr. Faringfield, by whom all these inheritances were increased. This gentleman, sensible of the injustice of an inherited dislike not confirmed by experience, took occasion of some business to make a visit to England, shortly after his father's death. I believe he called upon his English cousins, now some degrees removed, and, finding them in their generation ignorant that there were any American Faringfields, was so coldly received by them, as well as by the men with whom his business brought him in contact, that he returned more deeply fixed in his dislike, and with a determination that no Faringfield under his control should ever again breathe the air of the mother island. He even chose a wife of French, rather than English, descent; though, indeed, the De Lanceys, notwithstanding they were Americans of Huguenot origin, were very good Englishmen, as the issue proved when the separation came.
Miss De Lancey, however, at that time, had no views or feelings as between the colonies and England; or if she had any, scarcely knew what they were. She was a pretty, innocent, small-minded woman; with no very large heart either, I fancy; and without force of character; sometimes a little shrewish when vexed, and occasionally given to prolonged whining complaints, which often won the point with her husband, as a persistent mosquito will drive a man from a field whence a giant's blows would not move him. She heard Mr. Faringfield's tirades against England, with neither disagreement nor assent; and she let him do what he could to instil his own antagonism into the children. How he succeeded, or failed, will appear in time. I have told enough to show why Master Ned's threatening boast, of knowing how to get to England, struck his father like a blow in the face.
I looked to see Mr. Faringfield now stride forth at all risk and inflict upon Master Ned some chastisement inconceivable; and Ned himself took a backward step or two. But his father, after a moment of dark glowering, merely answered, though in a voice somewhat unsteady with anger: "To England or the devil, my fine lad, before ever you enter my door, until you change your tune!"
Whereupon he motioned the rest of us children to follow him into the house, leaving his eldest son to turn and trudge defiantly off into the darkness. From Ned's manner of doing this, I knew that he was sure of shelter for that night, at least. Noah, the old black servant, having seen his master through the panel windows, had already opened the door; and so we went in to the warm, candle-lit hall, Mr. Faringfield's agitation now perfectly under control, and his anger showing not at all upon his surface of habitual sternness.
As for the others, Phil walked in a kind of deep, troubled study, into which he had been thrown by Ned's words regarding him; I was awed into breathless silence and a mouse-like tread; and kind little Fanny went gently sobbing with sorrow and fear for her unhappy brother--a sorrow and fear not shared in the least degree by her sister Madge, whose face showed triumphant approval of her father's course and of the outcome.
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_Wherein 'tis Shown that Boys Are but Boys. _ The Faringfield house, as I have said, was flanked by garden space on either side. It was on the Eastern side of the street, and so faced West, the next house Southward being ours. The wide hall that we entered ran straight back to a door opening from a wooden veranda that looked toward the rear garden. At the right of this hall, as you went in, a broad oak stairway invited you to the sleeping floor above. But before you came to this stairway, you passed a door that gave into the great parlour, which ran the whole length of the hall, and, being used only on occasions of festivity or ceremony, was now closed and dark. At the left of the hall, the first door led to the smaller parlour, as wide but not as long as the great one, and in daily use as the chief living-room of the house. Its windows were those through which the candle-light within had welcomed us from the frosty, snowy air that evening. Behind this parlour, and reached either directly from it, or by a second door at the left side of the hall, was the library, so-called although a single case of eight shelves sufficed to hold all the books it contained. Yet Philip said there was a world in those books. The room was a small and singularly cosy one, and here, when Mr. Faringfield was not occupied at the mahogany desk, we children might play at chess, draughts, cards, and other games. From this room, one went back into the dining-room, another apartment endeared to me by countless pleasant memories. Its two windows looked Southward across the side grounds (for the hall and great parlour came not so far back) to our house and garden. Behind the dining-room, and separating it from the kitchen and pantry, was a passage with a back stairway and with a bench of washing-basins, easily supplied with water from a cistern below, and from the kettle in the adjacent kitchen. To this place we youngsters now hastened, to put ourselves to rights for supper. The house was carpeted throughout. The great parlour was panelled in wood, white and gold. The other chief rooms were wainscoted in oak; and as to their upper walls, some were bright with French paper, while some shone white with smooth plaster; their ceilings and borders were decorated with arabesque woodwork. There were tiled fireplaces, with carved mantels, white, like the rectangular window-frames and panelled doors. Well, well, 'twas but a house like countless others, and why should I so closely describe it? --save that I love the memory of it, and fain would linger upon its commonest details.
Mighty snug was the dining-room that evening, with its oaken sideboard, its prints and portraits on the wall, its sputtering fire, and its well-filled table lighted from a candelabrum in the centre. The sharp odour of the burning pine was keen to the nostrils, and mingled with it was the smell of the fried ham. There was the softer fragrance of the corn meal mush or porridge, served with milk, and soft was the taste of it also. We had sausage cakes, too, and pancakes to be eaten either with butter or with the syrup of the maple-tree; and jam, and jelly, and fruit butter. These things seem homely fare, no doubt, but there was a skill of cookery in the fat old negress, Hannah--a skill consisting much in the plentiful use of salt and pepper at proper stages--that would have given homelier fare a relish to more fastidious tongues. I miss in the wholesome but limited and unseasoned diet of the English the variety and savouriness of American food (I mean the food of the well-to-do in the large towns), which includes all the English and Scotch dishes, corrected of their insipidity, besides countless dishes French, German, and Dutch, and many native to the soil, all improved and diversified by the surprising genius for cookery which, in so few generations, the negro race has come to exhibit. I was a busy lad at that meal; a speechless one, consequently, and for some minutes so engrossed in the business of my jaws that I did not heed the unwonted silence of the rest. Then suddenly it came upon me as something embarrassing and painful that Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, who usually conversed at meals, had nothing to say, and that Philip Winwood sat gloomy and taciturn, merely going through a hollow form of eating. As for Fanny, she was the picture of childish sorrow, though now tearless. Only Madge and little Tom, who had found some joke between themselves, occasionally spluttered with suppressed laughter, smiling meanwhile knowingly at each other.
Of course this depression was due to the absence of Ned, regarding the cause of which his mother was still in the dark. Not missing him until we children had filed in to supper after tidying up, she had then remarked that he was not yet in.
"He will not be home to supper," Mr. Faringfield had replied, in a tone that forbade questioning until the pair should be alone, and motioning his wife to be seated at the table. After that he had once or twice essayed to talk upon casual subjects, as if nothing had happened, but he had perceived that the attempt was hopeless while Mrs. Faringfield remained in her state of deferred curiosity and vague alarm, and so he had desisted.
After supper, which the lady's impatience made shorter than my appetite would have dictated, the husband and wife went into the small parlour, closing the door upon us children in the library. Here I managed to make a pleasant evening, in games with Madge and little Tom upon the floor. But Philip, though he came in as was his wont, was not to be lured into our play or our talk. He did not even read, but sat silent and pondering, in no cheerful mood. I, not reading him as Madge did, knew not what the matter was, and accused him of having vapours, like a girl. He looked at me heedlessly, in reply, as if he scarce heard. But Madge, apparently, divined his feeling, and at times respected it, for then she spoke low, and skilfully won me back from my efforts to enliven him. At other times, his way seemed to irritate her, and she hinted that he was foolish, and then she was extraordinarily smiling and adorable to me (always, I now suspect, with the corner of her eye upon him) as if to draw him back to his usual good-fellowship by that method. But 'twas in vain. I left at bedtime, wondering what change had come over him.
That night, I learned afterward, Philip slept little, debating sorrowfully in his mind. He kept his window slightly open at night, in all weather; and open also that night was one of the windows of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield's great chamber below. A sound that reached him in the small hours, of Mrs. Faringfield whimpering and weeping, decided him. And the next morning, after another silent meal, he contrived to fall into Mr. Faringfield's company on the way to the warehouse, which they had almost reached ere Phil, very down in the mouth and perturbed, got up his courage to his unpleasant task and blundered out in a boyish, frightened way: "If you please, sir, I wished to tell you--I've made up my mind to leave--and thank you very much for all your kindness!"
Mr. Faringfield stared from under his gathered brows, and asked Phil to repeat the strange thing he had said.
"Leave what, sir?" he queried sharply, when Phil had done so.
"Leave your warehouse, sir; and your house; and New York."
"What do you mean, my boy?"
And Phil, thankful that Mr. Faringfield had paused to have the talk out ere they should come among the men at the warehouse, explained at first in vague terms, but finally in the explicit language to which his benefactor's questions forced him, that he seemed, in Master Ned's mind, to be standing in Ned's way; that he would not for the world appear to supplant any man's son, much less the son of one who had been so kind to him; that he had unintentionally been the cause of Ned's departure the evening before; and that he hoped his going would bring Ned back from the absence which caused his mother grief. "And I wouldn't stay in New York after leaving you, sir," he said, "for 'twould look as if you and I had disagreed."
To all this Mr. Faringfield replied briefly that Ned was a foolish boy, and would soon enough come back, glad of what welcome he might get; and that, as for Philip's going away, it was simply not to be heard of. But Phil persisted, conceding only that he should remain at the warehouse for an hour that morning and complete a task he had left unfinished. Mr. Faringfield still refused to have it that Phil should go at all.
When Philip had done his hour's work, he went in to his employer's office to say good-bye.
"Tut, tut," said Mr. Faringfield, looking annoyed at the interruption, "there's no occasion for goodbyes. But look you, lad. I don't mind your taking the day off, to put yourself into a reasonable state of mind. Go home, and enjoy a holiday, and come back to your work to-morrow, fresh and cheerful. Now, now, boy, I won't hear any more. Only do as I bid you." And he assumed a chilling reserve that indeed froze all further possible discussion.
"But I do say good-bye, sir, and mean it," said Phil, tremulously. "And I thank you from my heart for all you've done for me."
And so, with a lump in his throat, Phil hastened home, and sped up the stairs unseen, like a ghost; and had all his things out on his bed for packing, when suddenly Madge, who had been astonished to hear him moving about, from her mother's room below, flung open his door and looked in upon him, all amazed.
"Why, Phil, what are you doing home at this hour? What are you putting your things into your valise for?"
"Oh, nothing," said Phil, very downcast.
"Why, it looks as if--you were going away somewhere."
Phil made a brief answer; and then there was a long talk, all the while he continued to pack his goods, in his perturbation stowing things together in strange juxtaposition. The end of it was that Madge, after vowing that if he went she would never speak to him again, and would hate him for ever, indignantly left him to himself. Phil went on packing, in all the outward calmness he could muster, though I'll wager with a very pouting and dismal countenance. At last, his possessions being bestowed, and the bag fastened with much physical exertion, he left it on the bed, and slipped down-stairs to find his one remaining piece of property. Philip's cat had waxed plump in the Faringfield household, Master Ned always deterred from harming it by the knowledge that if aught ill befell it, the finger of accusation would point instantly and surely at him.
Phil was returning up the stairs, his pet under his arm, when Mistress Madge reappeared before him, with magic unexpectedness, from a doorway opening on a landing. As she stood in his way there, he stopped, and the two faced each other.
"Well," said she, with sarcastic bitterness, "I suppose you've decided where you're going to."
"Not yet," he replied. He had thought vaguely of Philadelphia or Boston, either of which he now had means of reaching, having saved most of his small salary at the warehouse, for he was not a bound apprentice.
"I make no doubt," she went on, "'twill be the farthest place you can find."
Phil gave her a reproachful look, and asked where her mother and the children were, that he might bid them good-bye. He wondered, indeed, that Madge had not told her mother of his resolve, for, from that lady's not seeking him at once, he knew that she was still unaware of it. He little guessed that 'twas the girl's own power over him she wished to test, and that she would not enlist her mother's persuasions but as a last resource.
"I don't know," she replied carelessly.
"I shall look for them," said Philip, and turned to go down-stairs again.
But (though how could a boy imagine it?) Miss Faringfield would not have it that his yielding should be due to her mother, if it could be achieved as a victory for herself. So she stopped him with a sudden tremulous "Oh, Phil!" and, raising her forearm to the door-post, hid her face against it, and wept as if her heart would break.
Philip had never before known her to shed a tear, and this new spectacle, in a second's time, took all the firmness out of him.
"Why, Madge, I didn't know--don't cry, Madgie--" She turned swiftly, without looking up, and her face, still in a shower of tears, found hiding no longer against the door-post, but against Phil's breast.
"Don't cry, Madgie dear,--I sha'n't go!"
She raised her wet face, joy sparkling where the lines had not yet lost the shape of grief; and Phil never thought to ask himself how much of her pleasure was for his not going, and how much for the evidence given of her feminine power. He had presently another thing to consider, a not very palatable dose to swallow--the returning to the warehouse and telling Mr. Faringfield of his change of mind. He did this awkwardly enough, no doubt, but manfully enough, I'll take my oath, though he always said he felt never so tamed and small and ludicrous in his life, before or after.
And that scene upon the landing is the last picture, but one, I have to present of childhood days, ere I hasten, over the period that brought us all into our twenties and to strange, eventful times. The one remaining sketch is of an unkempt, bedraggled figure that I saw at the back hall door of the Faringfields one snowy night a week later, when, for some reason or other, I was out late in our back garden. This person, instead of knocking at the door, very cautiously tried it to see if it would open, and, finding it locked, stood timidly back and gazed at it in a quandary. Suspecting mischief, I went to the paling fence that separated our ground from the Faringfields', and called out, "Who's that?"
"Hallo, Bert!" came in a very conciliating tone, low-spoken; and then, as with a sudden thought, "Come over here, will you?"
I crossed the fence, and was in a moment at the side of Master Ned, who looked exceedingly the worse for wear, in face, figure, and clothes.
"Look here," said he, speaking rapidly, so as to prevent my touching the subject of his return, "I want to sneak in, and up-stairs to bed, without the old man seeing me. I don't just like to meet him till to-morrow. But I can't sneak in, for the door's locked, and Noah would be sure to tell dad. You knock, and when they let you in, pretend you came to play with the kids; and whisper Fanny to slip out and open the door for me."
I entered readily into the strategy, as a boy will, glad of Ned's return for the sake of Phil, who I knew was ill at ease for Ned's absence being in some sense due to himself.
Old Noah admitted me at my knock, locked the door after me, and sent me into the smaller parlour, where the whole family happened to be. When I whispered my message to Fanny, she turned so many colours, and made so precipitately for the entrance hall, that her father was put on the alert. He followed her quietly out, just in time to see a very shivering, humble, shamefaced youth step in from the snowy outer night. The sight of his father turned Ned cold and stiff upon the threshold; but all the father did was to put on a grim look of contempt, and say: "Well, sir, I suppose you've changed your tune."
"Yes, sir," said the penitent, meekly, and there being now no reason for secrecy he shambled after his father into the parlour. There, after his mother's embrace, he grinned sheepishly upon us all. Fanny was quite rejoiced, and so was little Tom till the novelty wore off; while Madge greeted the prodigal good-humouredly enough, and one could read Phil's relief and forgiveness on his smiling face. Master Ned, grateful for an easier ordeal than he had feared, made no exception against Phil in the somewhat sickly amiability he had for all, and we thought that here were reconciliation and the assurance of future peace.
Ned's home-coming brought trouble in its train, as indeed did his every reappearance afterward. It came out that he and another boy--the one in whose house he had found refuge on the night of his running away--had started off for the North to lead the lives of hunters and trappers, a career so inviting that they could not wait to provide a sufficient equipment. They travelled afoot by the Albany post-road, soliciting food at farmhouses, passing their nights in barns; and got as far as Tarrytown, ere either one in his pride would admit to the other, through chattering teeth, that he had had his fill of snow and hunger and the raw winds of the Hudson River. So footsore, leg-weary, empty, and frozen were they on their way back, that they helped themselves to one of Jacob Post's horses, near the Philipse manor-house; and not daring to ride into town on this beast, thoughtlessly turned it loose in the Bowery lane, never thinking how certainly it and they could be traced--for they had been noticed at Van Cortlandt's, again at Kingsbridge, and again at the Blue Bell tavern. After receiving its liberty, the horse had been seen once, galloping toward Turtle Bay, and never again.
So, a few days after Ned's reentrance into the bosom of his family, there came to the house a constable, of our own town, with a deputy sent by the sheriff of Westchester County, wanting Master Edward Faringfield.
Frightened and disgraced, his mother sent for her husband; and for the sake of the family name, Mr. Faringfield adjusted matters by the payment of twice or thrice what the horse was worth. Thus the would-be hunter and trapper escaped the discomfort and shame of jail; though by his father's sentence he underwent a fortnight's detention on bread and water in his bedroom.
That was the first fright and humiliation that Master Ned brought on his people; and he brought so many of these in after years, that the time came when his parents, and all, were rather glad than sorry each time he packed off again, and shuddered rather than rejoiced when, after an absence, he turned up safe and healthy as ever, with his old hangdog smile beneath which lurked a look half-defiant, half-injured. As he grew older, and the boy in him made room for the man, there was less of the smile, less injury, more defiance.
I do not remember how many years it was after Philip's coming to New York, that our Dutch schoolmaster went the way of all flesh, and there came in his place, to conduct a school for boys only and in more advanced studies, a pedagogue from Philadelphia, named Cornelius. He was of American birth, but of European parentage, whether German or Dutch I never knew. Certainly he had learning, and much more than was due alone to his having gone through the college at Princeton in New Jersey. He was in the early twenties, tall and robust, with a large round face, and with these peculiarities: that his hair, eyebrows, and lashes were perfectly white, his eyes of a singularly mild blue, his skin of a pinkish tint; that he was given to blushing whenever he met women or strangers, and that he spoke with pedantic preciseness, in a wondrously low voice. But despite his bashfulness, there was a great deal in the man, and when an emergency rose he never lacked resource.
He it was to whom my education, and Ned Faringfield's, was entrusted, while the girls and little Tom still strove with the rudiments in the dame-school. He it was that carried us to the portals of college; and I carried Philip Winwood thither with me, by studying my lessons with him in the evenings. In many things he was far beyond Mr. Cornelius's highest teaching; but there had been lapses in his information, and these he filled up, and regulated his knowledge as well, through accompanying me in my progress. And he continued so to accompany me, making better use of my books than ever I made, as I went through the King's College; and that is the way in which Phil Winwood got his stock of learning eked out, and put in due shape and order.
It happened that Philip's taste fastened upon one subject of which there was scarce anything to be learned by keeping pace with my studies, but upon which much was to be had from books in the college library, of which I obtained the use for him. It was a strange subject for a youth to take up at that time, or any time since, and in that colonial country--architecture. Yet 'twas just like Phil Winwood to be interested in something that all around him neglected or knew nothing about. What hope an American could have in the pursuit of an art, for which the very rare demands in his country were supplied from Europe, and which indeed languished the world over, I could not see.
"Very well, then," said Phil, "'twill be worth while trying to waken this sleeping art, and to find a place for it in this out-of-the-way country. I wouldn't presume to attempt new forms, to be sure; but one might revive some old ones, and maybe try new arrangements of them."
"Then you think you'll really be an architect?" I asked.
"Why, if it's possible. 'Faith, I'm not so young any more that I still want to be a soldier, or a sailor either. One thing, 'twill take years of study; I'll have to go to Europe for that."
"To England?"
"First of all."
"What will Mr. Faringfield say to that?"
"He will not mind it so much in my case. I'm not of the Faringfield blood."
"Egad," said I, "there's some of the Faringfield blood hankers for a sight of London."
"Whose? Ned's?"
"No. Margaret's."
We were young men now, and she would not let us call her Madge any more. What I had said was true. She had not grown up without hearing and reading much of the great world beyond the sea, and wishing she might have her taste of its pleasures. She first showed a sense of her deprivation--for it was a deprivation for a rich man's daughter--when she finished at the dame-school and we boys entered college. Then she hinted, very cautiously, that her and Fanny's education was being neglected, and mentioned certain other New York gentlemen's daughters, who had been sent to England to boarding-schools.
Delicately as she did this, the thought that his favourite child could harbour a wish that involved going to England, was a blow to Mr. Faringfield. He hastened to remove all cause of complaint on the score of defective education. He arranged that the music teacher, who gave the girls their lessons in singing and in playing upon the harpsichord and guitar, should teach them four days a week instead of two. He engaged Mr. Cornelius to become an inmate of his house and to give them tuition out of his regular school hours. He paid a French widow to instruct them in their pronunciation, their book-French and grammar being acquired under Mr. Cornelius's teaching. And so, poor girls, they got only additional work for Margaret's pains. But both of them were docile, Fanny because it was her nature to be so, Margaret because she had taken it into her head to become an accomplished lady. We never guessed her dreams and ambitions in those years, and to this day I often wonder at what hour in her girlhood the set design took possession of her, that design which dominated all her actions when we so little guessed its existence. Besides these three instructors, the girls had their dancing-master, an Englishman who pretended to impart not only the best-approved steps of a London assembly-room, but its manners and graces as well.
So much for the education of the girls, Philip, and myself. Ned Faringfield's was interrupted by his expulsion from King's for gross misconduct; and was terminated by his disgrace at Yale College (whither his father had sent him in vain hope that he might behave better away from home and more self-dependent) for beating a smaller student whom he had cheated at a clandestine game of cards. His home-coming on this occasion was followed by his being packed off to Virginia to play at superintending his father's tobacco plantations. Neglecting this business to go shooting on the frontier, he got a Scotch Presbyterian mountaineer's daughter into trouble; and when he turned up again at the door in Queen Street, he was still shaky with recollections of the mob of riflemen that had chased him out of Virginia. That piece of sport cost his father a pretty penny, and resulted in a place being got for Ned with a merchant who was Mr. Faringfield's correspondent in the Barbadoes. So to the tropics the young gentleman was shipped, with sighs of relief at his embarkation, and--I have no doubt--with unuttered prayers that he might not show his face in Queen Street for a long time to come. Already he had got the name, in the family, of "the bad shilling," for his always coming back unlooked for.
How different was his younger brother! --no longer "little Tom" (though of but middle height and slim build), but always gay-hearted, affectionate, innocent, and a gentleman. He was a handsome lad, without and within--yes, "lad" I must call him, for, though he came to manly years, he always seemed a boy to me. He followed in our steps, in his time, through Mr. Cornelius's school, and into King's College, too, but the coming of the war cut short his studies there.
It must have been in the year 1772--I remember Margaret spoke of her being seventeen years old, in which case I was nineteen--when I got (and speedily forgot) my first glimpse of Margaret's inmost mind. We were at the play--for New York had had a playhouse ever since Mr. Hallam had brought thither his company, with whom the great Garrick had first appeared in London. I cannot recall what the piece was that night; but I know it must have been a decent one, or Margaret would not have been allowed to see it; and that it purported to set forth true scenes of fashionable life in London. At one side of Margaret her mother sat, at the other was myself, and I think I was that time their only escort.
"What a fright!" said Margaret in my ear, as one of the actresses came upon the stage with an affected gait, and a look of thinking herself mighty fine and irresistible. " 'Tis a slander, this."
"Of whom?" I asked.
"Of the fine ladies these poor things pretend to represent."
"How do you know?" I retorted, for I was somewhat taken with the actresses, and thought to avenge them by bringing her down a peg or two. "Have you seen so much of London fine ladies?"
"No, poor me!" she said sorrowfully, without a bit of anger, so that I was softened in a trice. "But the ladies of New York, even, are no such tawdry make-believes as this. --Heaven knows, I would give ten years of life for a sight of the fine world of London!"
She was looking so divine at that moment, that I could not but whisper: "You would see nothing finer there than yourself."
"Do you think so?" she quickly asked, flashing her eyes upon me in a strange way that called for a serious answer. " 'Tis the God's truth," I said, earnestly.
For a moment she was silent; then she whispered: "What a silly whimsy of my father, his hatred of England! Does he imagine none of us is really ever to see the world? --That reminds me, don't forget the _Town and Country Magazine_ to-morrow."
I had once come upon a copy of that publication, which reflected the high life of England, perhaps too much on its scandalous side; and had shown it to Margaret. Immediately she had got me to subscribe for it, and to pass each number clandestinely to her. I, delighted to do her a favour, and to have a secret with her, complied joyously; and obtained for her as many novels and plays as I could, as well.
Little I fancied what bee I thus helped to keep buzzing in her pretty head, which she now carried with all the alternate imperiousness and graciousness of confident and proven beauty. Little I divined of feminine dreams of conquest in larger fields; or foresaw of dangerous fruit to grow from seed planted with thoughtlessness. To my mind, nothing of harm or evil could ensue from anything done, or thought, in our happy little group. To my eyes, the future could be only radiant and triumphant. For I was still but a lad at heart, and to think as I did, or to be thoughtless as I was, is the way of youth.
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_How Philip and I Behaved as Rivals in Love. _ I was always impatient, and restless to settle uncertainties. One fine morning in the Spring of 1773, Philip and I were breaking the Sabbath by practising with the foils in our back garden. Spite of all the lessons I had taken from an English fencing-master in the town, Phil was still my superior in the gentlemanly art. After a bout, on this sunshiny morning, we rested upon a wooden bench, in the midst of a world of white and pink and green, for the apple and cherry blossoms were out, and the leaves were in their first freshness. The air was full of the odour of lilacs and honeysuckles. Suddenly the matter that was in my mind came out.
"I wish you'd tell me something, Phil--though 'tis none of my business,--" "Why, man, you're welcome to anything I know."
"Then, is there aught between Margaret and you--any agreement or understanding, I mean?"
Phil smiled, comprehending me thoroughly.
"No, there's nothing. I'm glad you asked. It shows there's no promise between her and you, either."
"I thought you and I ought to settle it between ourselves about--Margaret. Because if we both go on letting time pass, each waiting to see what t'other will do, some other man will slip in, and carry off the prize, and there will both of us be, out in the cold."
"Oh, there's little fear of that," said Phil.
"Why, the fellows are all coming after her. She's far the finest girl in town."
"But you see how she treats them, all alike; looks down on them all, even while she's pleasant to them; and doesn't lead any one of them on a step further than the rest."
"Ay, but in time--she's eighteen now, you know."
"Why, did you ever try to imagine her regarding any one of them as a husband; as a companion to live with day after day, and to agree with, and look up to, and yield to, as a wife does? Just fancy Margaret accommodating herself to the everlasting company of Phil Van Cortlandt, or Jack Cruger, or Bob Livingstone, or Harry Colden, or Fred Philipse, or Billy Skinner, or any of them."
"I know," said I; "but many a girl has taken a man that other men couldn't see anything in."
"Ay, the women have a way of their own of judging men; or perhaps they make the best of what they can get. But you may depend on't, Margaret has too clear a sight, and too bright a mind, and thinks too well of herself, to mate with an uncouth cub, or a stupid dolt, or a girlish fop, or any of these that hang about her."
'Twas not Phil's way to speak ill of people, but when one considered men in comparison with Margaret, they looked indeed very crude and unworthy.
"You know," he added, "how soon she tires of any one's society."
"But," said I, dubiously, "if none of them has a chance, how is it with us?"
"Why, 'tis well-proved that she doesn't tire of us. For years and years, she has had us about her every day, and has been content with our society. That shows she could endure us to be always near her."
It was true, indeed. And I should explain here that, as things were in America then, and with Mr. Faringfield and Margaret, neither of us was entirely ineligible to the hand of so rich and important a man's daughter; although the town would not have likened our chances to those of a De Lancey, a Livingstone, or a Philipse. I ought to have said before, that Philip was now of promising fortune. He had risen in the employ of Mr. Faringfield, but, more than that, he had invested some years' savings in one of that merchant's shipping ventures, and had reinvested the profits, always upon his benefactor's advice, until now his independence was a certain thing. If he indeed tried architecture and it failed him as a means of livelihood, he might at any time fall back upon his means and his experience as a merchant adventurer. As for me, I also was a beneficiary of Mr. Faringfield's mercantile transactions by sea, my mother, at his hint, having drawn out some money from the English funds, and risked it with him. Furthermore, I had obtained a subordinate post in the customs office, with a promise of sometime succeeding to my father's old place, and the certainty of remaining in his Majesty's service during good behaviour. This meant for life, for I had now learned how to govern my conduct, having schooled myself, for the sake of my mother's peace of mind, to keep out of trouble, often against my natural impulses. Thus both Phil and I might aspire to Margaret; and, moreover, 'twas like that her father would provide well for her if she found a husband to his approval. It did not then occur to me that my employment in the English service might be against me in Mr. Faringfield's eyes.
"Then," said I, reaching the main point at last, "as you think we are endurable to her--which of us shall it be?"
"Why, that question is for her to settle," said Phil, with a smile half-amused, half-surprised.
"But she will have to be asked. So which of us--?"
"I don't think it matters," he replied. "If she prefers one of us, she will take him and refuse the other, whether he ask first or last."
"But suppose she likes us equally. In that case, might not the first asker win, merely for his being first?"
"I think it scarce possible but that in her heart she must favour one above all others, though she may not know it yet."
"But it seems to me--" "'Faith, Bert, do as you like, I sha'n't say nay, or think nay. If you ask her, and she accepts you, I shall be sure you are the choice of her heart. But as for me, I have often thought of the matter, and this is what I've come to: not to speak to her of it, until by some hint or act she shows her preference."
"But the lady must not make the first step."
"Not by proposal or direct word, of course--though I'll wager there have been exceptions to that; but I've read, and believe from what I've seen, that 'tis oftenest the lady that gives the first hint. No doubt, she has already made sure of the gentleman's feelings, by signs he doesn't know of. If a man didn't receive some leading on from a woman, how would he dare tell her his mind? --for if he loves her he must dread her refusal, or scorn, beyond all things. However that be, I've seen, in companies, and at the play, and even in church, how girls contrive to show their partiality to the fellows they prefer. Why, we've both had it happen to us, when we were too young for the fancy to last. And 'tis the same, I'll wager, when the girls are women, and the stronger feeling has come, the kind that lasts. Be sure a girl as clever as Margaret will find a way of showing it, if she has set her mind on either of us. And so, I'm resolved to wait for some sign from her before I speak."
He went on to explain that this course would prolong, to the unfortunate one, the possession of the pleasures of hope. It would save him, and Margaret, from the very unpleasant incident of a rejection. Such a refusal must always leave behind it a certain bitterness in the memory, that will touch what friendship remains between the two people concerned. And I know Philip's wish that, though he might not be her choice, his old friendship with her might continue perfectly unmarred, was what influenced him to avoid a possible scene of refusal.
"Then I shall do as you do," said I, "and if I see any sign, either in my favour or yours, be sure I'll tell you."
"I was just about to propose that," said Phil; and we resumed our fencing.
There was, in our plan, nothing to hinder either of us from putting his best foot forward, as the saying is, and making himself as agreeable to the young lady as he could. Indeed that was the quickest way to call forth the indication how her affections stood. I don't think Phil took any pains to appear in a better light than usual. It was his habit to be always himself, sincere, gentle, considerate, and never thrusting forward. He had acquired with his growth a playful humour with which to trim his conversation, but which never went to tiresome lengths. This was all the more taking for his quiet manner, which held one where noise and effort failed. But I exerted myself to be mighty gallant, and to show my admiration and wit in every opportune way.
I considered that Phil and I were evenly matched in the rivalry; for when a young fellow loves a girl, be she ever so divine, and though he feel in his heart that she is too good for him, yet he will believe it is in him to win her grace. If he think his self-known attractions will not suffice, he will trust to some possible hidden merits, unperceived by himself and the world, but which will manifest themselves to her sight in a magical manner vouchsafed to lovers. Or at worst, if he admit himself to be mean and unlikely, he will put reliance upon woman's caprice, which, as we all know, often makes strange selections. As for me, I took myself to be quite a conquering fellow.
In looks, 'twas my opinion that Philip and I were equally gifted. Phil was of a graceful, slender figure; within an inch of six feet, I should say; with a longish face, narrowing from the forehead downward, very distinctly outlined, the nose a little curved, the mouth still as delicate as a boy's. Indeed he always retained something boyish in his look, for all his studiousness and thoughtfulness, and all that came later. He was not as pale as in boyhood, the sea breezes that swept in from the bay, past the wharves, having given him some ruddiness. His eyes, I have said, were blue, almost of a colour with Margaret's. I was an inch or two shorter than Phil, my build was more heavy and full, my face more of an equal width, my nose a little upturned so as to give me an impudent look, my eyes a darkish brown.
That I was not Phil's match in sense, learning, talents, self-command, and modesty, did not occur to me as lessening my chances with a woman. If I lacked real wit, I had pertness; and I thought I had a manner of dashing boldness, that must do one-half the business with any girl, while my converse trick of softening my voice and eyes to her on occasion, would do the other half.
But Margaret took her time before giving a hint of her heart's condition. She was the same old comrade to us, she confided to us her adverse opinions of other people, laughed with us, and often at us (when it was like as not that she herself had made us ridiculous), told us her little secrets, let us share her gaiety and her dejection alike, teased us, soothed us, made us serve her, and played the spoiled beauty with us to the full of the part. And a beauty she was, indeed; ten times more than in her childhood. The bud was approaching its full bloom. She was of the average tallness; slender at neck, waist, wrist, and ankle, but filling out well in the figure, which had such curves as I swear I never saw elsewhere upon earth. She had the smallest foot, with the highest instep; such as one gets not often an idea of in England. Her little head, with its ripples of chestnut hair, sat like that of a princess; and her face, oval in shape, proud and soft by turns in expression--I have no way of conveying the impression it gave one, but to say that it made me think of a nosegay of fresh, flawless roses, white and red. Often, by candle-light, especially if she were dressed for a ball, or sat at the play, I would liken her to some animate gem, without the hardness that belongs to real precious stones; for indeed she shone like a jewel, thanks to the lustre of her eyes in artificial light. Whether from humidity or some quality of their substance, I do not know, but they reflected the rays as I have rarely seen eyes do; and in their luminosity her whole face seemed to have part, so that her presence had an effect of warm brilliancy that lured and dazzled you. To see her emerge from the darkness of the Faringfield coach, or from her sedan-chair, into the bright light of open doorways and of lanterns held by servants, was to hold your breath and stand with lips parted in admiration, until she made you feel your nothingness by a haughty indifference in passing, or sent you glowing to the seventh heaven by a radiant smile.
While we were waiting for the heart of our paragon to reveal itself, life in Queen Street was diversified, in the Fall of 1773, by an unexpected visit.
Mr. Faringfield and Philip, as they entered the dining-room one evening after their return from the warehouse, observed that an additional place had been made at the table. Without speaking, the merchant looked inquiringly, and with a little of apprehension, at his lady.
"Ned has come back," she answered, trying to speak as if this were quite cheerful news.
Mr. Faringfield's face darkened. Then, with some sarcasm, he said: "He did not go out of his way to stop at the warehouse in coming from the landing."
"Why, no doubt the ship did not anchor near our wharf. He came by the _Sophy_ brig. He took some tea, and changed his clothes, and went out to meet a fellow passenger at the coffee-house. They had some business together."
"Business with a pack of cards, I make no doubt; or else with rum or madeira."
'Twas the second of these conjectures that turned out right. For Mr. Edward did not come home in time to occupy at supper the place that had been set for him. When he did appear, he said he had already eaten. Perhaps it was to strengthen his courage for meeting his father, that he had imbibed to the stage wherein he vilely smelt of spirits and his eyes and face were flushed. He was certainly bold enough when he received his father's cold greeting in the parlour, about nine o'clock at night.
"And, pray, what circumstance gives us the honour of this visit?" asked Mr. Faringfield, not dissembling his disgust.
"Why," says Mr. Ned, quite undaunted, and dropping his burly form into an armchair with an air of being perfectly at home, "to tell the truth, 'tis a hole, the place you sent me to; a very hell-hole."
"By what arrangement with Mr. Culverson did you leave it?" Mr. Culverson was the Barbadoes merchant by whom Edward had been employed.
"Culverson!" echoed Ned, with a grin. "I doubt there was little love lost between me and Culverson! 'Culverson,' says I, 'the place is a hole, and the next vessel bound for New York, I go on her.' 'And a damned good riddance!' says Culverson (begging your pardon! I'm only quoting what the man said), and that was the only arrangement I remember of."
"And so that you are here, what now?" inquired Mr. Faringfield, looking as if he appreciated Mr. Culverson's sentiments.
"Why, sir, as for that, I think 'tis for you to say."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Yes, sir, seeing that I'm your son, whom you're bound to provide for."
"You are twenty-two, I think," says Mr. Faringfield.
"I take it, a few paltry years more or less don't alter my rights, or the responsibilities of a parent. Don't think, sir, I shall stand up and quietly see myself robbed of my birthright. I'm no longer the man to play the Esek, or Esock, or whatever--" "Esau," prompted Fanny, in a whisper.
"And my mouth isn't to be stopped by any mess of porridge."
"Pottage," corrected Fanny.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Faringfield, rising, and holding himself very stiffly, "I'll think upon it." Whereupon he went into the library, and closed the door after him.
'Tis certain that he had both the strength and the inclination to chastise his son for these insulting rum-incited speeches, and to cast him out to shift for his own future; instead of enduring heedlessly the former, and offering to consider the latter. His strength was equal to his pride, and he was no colder without than he was passionate within. But there was one thing his strength of mind fell short of facing, and that was the disgrace to the family, which the eldest son might bring were he turned looser, unprovided for, in New York. 'Twas the fear of such disgrace that always led Mr. Faringfield to send Ned far away; and made him avoid any scene of violence which the youth, now that he was a man and grown bold, might precipitate in discussions such as the father had but now cut short.
"Now I call that frigid," complained Edward to his mother, staring at the door behind which Mr. Faringfield had disappeared. "Here was I, in for a pleasant confab with my father, concerning my future; and before I can put in a word, out he flings, and there's an end of it. 'Tisn't fatherly, I protest! Well, well, I might have known! He was always stony-hearted; never would discuss matters. That's the gratitude I get for putting the case to him in a reasonable, docile, filial fashion. However, he said he'd think upon it. That means I shall stay here, and take a holiday, till he makes up his mind where to ship me to next. 'Twon't be England, I fancy, mother. I wouldn't object to France, egad! I could learn to eat frogs as soon as another man, if it came to that. Well, I need a holiday, after working so hard in that cursed devil's paradise I've just come from. I suppose I can depend on you for a little pocket-money, ma'am, till dad comes to a conclusion?"
During the next fortnight, as he passed most of his time in the taverns and the coffee-house, save when he attended horse-races on Long Island, or chased foxes upon Tom's horse, or lent the honour of his presence to cock-fights; Mr. Edward found his mother's resources inadequate to his demands, and so levied tribute not only upon Fanny and Tom but also upon Mr. Cornelius, who still abode in the Faringfield house, and upon Philip Winwood. To Phil his manner was more than civil; 'twas most conciliating and flattering, in a pleasantly jocular way.
Ere Mr. Faringfield had announced his mind, the visitor had worn out his welcome in most of his tavern haunts, and become correspondingly tired of New York. One evening, as Philip was leaving the warehouse, a negro boy handed him a note, in which Mr. Ned begged him to come immediately, on a matter of importance, to the King's Arms tavern. There he found Edward seated at a small table in a corner of the tap-room. Ned would have it that Phil should send home his excuses, by the negro, and sup at the tavern; which, for the sake of peace, though unwillingly, Philip finally consented to do.
Edward was drinking rum, in a kind of hot punch of his own mixing. Phil, though fond of madeira at home, now contented himself with ale; and the two were soon at work upon a fried chicken prepared in the Maryland fashion.
"You know, Phil," says Ned at last, having talked in a lively strain upon a multitude of matters, none of which Philip perceived to be important, "'fore gad, I always liked you! Tis so, as the Lord's my judge. Nay, you think I took a damned odd way of showing it. But we're not all alike. Now look you! Hearken unto me, as the parson says. I can say a good word for you in a certain ear."
"Whose?" queried Phil, wondering in what ear he needed a good word said.
"Whose, eh? Now whose would it be? Come, come, I'll speak to the point. I'm no man for palaver. 'Tis an ear you've whispered more than one sweet thing into, I'll warrant. You're young, Philip, young: you think you can fall in love and nobody find it out. Why, I hadn't been landed two hours, and asked the news, when I was told that you and Bert Russell were over ears in love with my sister."
Phil merely looked his astonishment.
"Now, sir, you mayn't think it," says Mr. Ned, "but my word has some weight with Fanny."
"Fanny?" echoed Philip. "What has she to do with it?"
"Why, everything, I fancy. The lady usually has--" "But Fanny isn't the lady."
"What? Then who the devil is?"
"I don't think 'tis a matter need be talked of now," said Phil.
"But I'd like to know--'gad, it can't be the other sister! Madge--that spitfire! Well, well! Your face speaks, if your tongue won't. Who'd have thought any man would go soft over such a vixen? Well, I can't help you there, my lad!"
"I haven't asked your help," says Phil with a smile.
"Now, it's a pity," says Ned, dolefully, "for I thought by doing you a good turn I might get you to do me another."
"Oh, I see! Why, then, as for my doing you a good turn if it's possible, speak out. What is it?"
"Now, I call that noble of you, Phil; damned noble! I do need a good turn, and that's a fact. You see I didn't tell my father exactly the truth as to my leaving the Barbadoes. Not that I don't scorn a lie, but I was considerate of the old gentleman's feelings. I couldn't endure to shock him in his tenderest place. You understand?"
"I probably shall when you've finished."
"Why, I dare say you know what the old man's tenderest place is. Well, if you won't answer, 'tis his pride in the family name, the spotless name of Faringfield! Oh, I've worked upon that more than once, I tell you. The old gentleman will do much to keep the name without a blemish; I could always bring him to terms by threatening to disgrace it--" "What a rascal you've been, then!"
"Why, maybe so; we're not all saints. But I've always kept my word with father, and whenever he gave me the money I wanted, or set me up in life again, I kept the name clean--comparatively clean, that is to say, as far as any one in New York might know. And even this time--at the Barbadoes--'twasn't with any purpose of punishing father, I vow; 'twas for my necessities, I made myself free with a thousand pounds of Culverson's."
"The devil! Do you mean you embezzled a thousand pounds?"
"One cool, clean thousand! My necessities, I tell you. There was a debt of honour, you must know; a damned unlucky run at the cards, and the navy officer that won came with a brace of pistols and gave me two days in which to pay. And then there was a lady--with a brat, confound her! --to be sent to England, and looked after. You see, 'twas honour moved me in the first case, and chivalry in the second. As a gentleman, I couldn't withstand the promptings of noble sentiments like those."
"Well, what then?"
"Why, then I came away. And I hadn't the heart to break the truth to father, knowing how 'twould cut him up. I thought of the old gentleman's family pride, his gray hairs--his hair _is_ gray by this time, isn't it? --" "And what is it you wish me to do?"
"Why, you see, Culverson hadn't yet found out how things were, when I left. I pretended I was ill--and so I was, in a way. But he must have found out by this time, and when he sends after me, by the next vessel, I'm afraid poor father will have to undergo a severe trial--you know his weakness for the honoured name of Faringfield."
"By the Lord, Ned, this is worse than I should ever have thought of you."
"It _is_ a bit bad, isn't it? And I've been thinking what's to be done--for father's sake, you know. If 'twere broken to him gently, at once, as nobody but you can break it, why then, he might give me the money to repay Culverson, and send me back to Barbadoes by the next ship, and nothing need ever come out. I'm thoroughly penitent, so help me, heaven, and quite willing to go back."
"And incur other debts of honour, and obligations of chivalry," says Phil.
"I'll see the cards in hell first, and the women too, by gad!" whereat Mr. Edward brought his fist down upon the table most convincingly.
He thought it best to spend that night at the tavern; whither Phil went in the morning with news of Mr. Faringfield's reception of the disclosure. The merchant had listened with a countenance as cold as a statue's, but had promptly determined to make good the thousand pounds to Mr. Culverson, and that Ned should return to the Barbadoes without the formality of bidding the family farewell. But the money was to be entrusted not to Mr. Edward, but to Mr. Faringfield's old clerk, Palmer, who was to be the young man's travelling companion on the Southward voyage. At word of this last arrangement, Edward showed himself a little put out, which he told Phil was on account of his father's apparent lack of confidence. But he meditated awhile, and took on a more cheerful face.
It happened--and, as it afterward came out, his previous knowledge of this had suggested the trick he played upon Phil and Mr. Faringfield--that, the same day on which the next Barbadoes-bound vessel sailed, a brig left port for England. Both vessels availed themselves of the same tide and wind, and so went down the bay together.
On the Barbadoes vessel, Ned and Mr. Palmer were to share the same cabin; and thither, ere the ship was well out of the East River, the old clerk accompanied Ned for the purpose of imbibing a beverage which the young gentleman protested was an unfailing preventive of sea-sickness, if taken in time. Once in the cabin, and the door being closed, Mr. Ned adroitly knocked Palmer down with a blow from behind; gagged, bound, and robbed him of the money, and left him to his devices. Returning to the deck, he induced the captain to put him, by boat, aboard the brig bound for England, which was still close at hand. Taking different courses, upon leaving the lower bay, the two vessels were soon out of hail, and that before the discovery of the much puzzled Palmer's condition in his cabin.
The poor old man had to go to the Barbadoes, and come back again, before a word of this event reached the ears of Mr. Faringfield. When Palmer returned with his account of it, he brought word from Mr. Culverson that, although Ned had indeed settled a gambling debt at the pistol's point, and had indeed paid the passage of a woman and child to England, his theft had been of less than a hundred pounds. Thus it was made manifest that Ned had lied to Philip in order to play upon his father's solicitude concerning the name of Faringfield for integrity, and so get into his hands the means of embarking upon the pleasures of the Old World. Very foolish did poor Philip look when he learned how he had been duped. But Mr. Faringfield, I imagine, consoled himself with the probability that New York had seen the last of Mr. Edward.
I think 'twas to let Mr. Faringfield recover first from the feelings of this occasion, that Philip postponed so long the announcement of his intention to go to England. Thus far he had confided his plans to me alone, and as a secret. But now he was past twenty-one years, and his resolution could not much longer be deferred. Nevertheless, not until the next June--that of 1774--did he screw up his courage to the point of action.
"I shall tell him to-day," said Philip to me one Monday morning, as I walked with him part of the way to the warehouses. "Pray heaven he takes it not too ill."
I did not see Phil at dinner-time; but in the afternoon, a little before his usual home-coming hour, he came seeking me, with a very relieved and happy face; and found me trimming a grape-vine in our back garden, near the palings that separated our ground from Mr. Faringfield's. On the Faringfield side of the fence, at this place, grew bushes of snowball and rose.
"How did he take it?" I asked, smiling to see Phil's eyes so bright.
"Oh, very well. He made no objection; said he had not the right to make any in my case. But he looked so upset for a moment, so deserted--I suppose he was thinking how his own son had failed him, and that now his beneficiary was turning from him--that I wavered. But at that he was the same haughty, immovable man as ever, and I remembered that each of us must live his own life; and so 'tis settled."
"Well," said I, with a little of envy at his prospect, and much of sorrow at losing him, and some wonder about another matter, "I'm glad for your sake, though you may imagine how I'll miss you. But how can you go yet? 'Tis like leaving the field to me--as to _her_, you know." I motioned with my head toward the Faringfield house.
"Why," he replied, as we both sat down on the wooden bench, "as I shall be gone years when I do go, Mr. Faringfield stipulated only that I should remain with him here another year; and I was mighty glad he did, or I should have had to make that offer. 'Twasn't that I was anxious to be off so soon, that made me tell him I was going; 'twas that in harbouring the intention, while he still relied upon my remaining always with him, I seemed to be guilty of a kind of treachery. As for--_her_, if she gives no indication within a year, especially when she knows I'm going, why, 'twill be high time to leave the field to you, I think."
"She doesn't know yet?"
"No; I came first to you. Her father isn't home yet."
"Well, Phil, there's little for me to say. You know what my feelings are. After all, we are to have you for a year, and then--well, I hope you may become the greatest architect that ever lived!"
"Why, now, 'tis strange; you remind me of my reason for going. Since Mr. Faringfield gave me his sanction, I hadn't thought of that. I'm afraid I've been something of a hypocrite. And yet I certainly thought my desire to go was chiefly on account of my architectural studies; and I certainly intend to pursue them, too. I must have deceived myself a little, though, by dwelling on that reason as one that would prevail with Mr. Faringfield; one that he could understand, and could not fairly oppose. For, hearkee, all the way home, when I looked forward to the future, the architectural part of it was not in my head. I was thinking of the famous historic places I should see; the places where great men have lived; the birthplace and grave of Shakespeare; the palaces where great pageants and tragedies have been enacted; the scenes of great battles; the abbey where so many poets and kings and queens are buried; the Tower where such memorable dramas have occurred; the castles that have stood since the days of chivalry; and Oxford; and the green fields of England that poets have written of, and the churchyard of Gray's Elegy; and all that kind of thing."
[Illustration: "OUR MOTIONS, AS WE TOUCHED OUR LIPS WITH THEM, WERE SO IN UNISON THAT MARGARET LAUGHED."]
"Ay, and something of the gay life of the present, I'll warrant," said I, with a smile; "the playhouses, and the taverns, and the parks, and Vauxhall, and the assembly-rooms; and all _that_ kind of thing."
"Why, yes, 'tis true. And I wish you were to go with me."
"Alas, I'm tied down here. Some day, perhaps--" "What are you two talking of?" The interruption came in a soft, clear, musical voice, of which the instant effect was to make us both start up, and turn toward the fence, with hastened hearts and smiling faces.
Margaret stood erect, looking over the palings at us, backed by the green and flowered bushes through which she and Fanny had moved noiselessly toward the fence in quest of nosegays for the supper-table. Fanny stood at her side, and both smiled, Margaret archly, Fanny pleasantly. The two seemed of one race with the flowers about them, though Margaret's radiant beauty far outshone the more modest charms of her brown-eyed younger sister. The elder placed her gathered flowers on the upper rail of the fence, and taking two roses, one in each hand, held them out toward us.
We grasped each his rose at the same time, and our motions, as we touched our lips with them, were so in unison that Margaret laughed.
"And what _were_ you talking of?" says she.
"Is it a secret any longer?" I asked Philip.
"No."
"Then we were talking of Phil's going to England, to be a great architect."
"Going to England!" She looked as if she could not have rightly understood.
"Yes," said I, "in a year from now, to stay, the Lord knows how long."
She turned white, then red; and had the strangest look.
"Is it true?" she asked, after a moment, turning to Phil.
"Yes. I am to go next June."
"But father--does he know?"
"I told him this afternoon. He is willing."
"To be sure, to be sure," she said, thoughtfully. "He has no authority over you. 'Tis different with us. Oh, Phil, if you could only take me with you!" There was wistful longing and petulant complaint in the speech. And then, as Phil answered, an idea seemed to come to her all at once; and she to rise to it by its possibility, rather than to fall back from its audacity.
"I would gladly," said he; "but your father would never consent that a Faringfield--" "Well, one need not always be a Faringfield," she replied, looking him straight in the face, with a kind of challenge in her voice and eyes.
"Why--perhaps not," said Phil, for the mere sake of agreeing, and utterly at a loss as to her meaning.
"You don't understand," says she. "A father's authority over his daughter ceases one day."
"Ay, no doubt," says Phil; "when she becomes of legal age. But even then, without her father's consent--" "Why, now," she interrupted, "suppose her father's authority over her passed to somebody else; somebody of her father's own preference; somebody that her father already knew was going to England: could her father forbid his taking her?"
"But, 'tis impossible," replied mystified Phil. "To whom in the world would your father pass his authority over you? He is hale and hearty; there's not the least occasion for a guardian."
"Why, fathers _do_, you know."
"Upon my soul, I don't see--" "I vow you don't! You are the blindest fellow! Didn't Polly Livingstone's father give up his authority over her the other day--to Mr. Ludlow?"
"Certainly, to her husband."
"Well!"
"Margaret--do you mean--? But you can't mean _that_?" Phil had not the voice to say more, emerging so suddenly from the clouds of puzzlement to the yet uncertain sunshine of joy.
"Why shouldn't I mean that?" says she, with the prettiest laugh, which made her bold behaviour seem the most natural, feminine act imaginable. "Am I not good enough for you?"
"Madge! You're not joking, are you?" He caught her hands, and gazed with still dubious rapture at her across the fence.
My sensations may easily be imagined. But by the time she had assured him she was perfectly in earnest, I had taught myself to act the man; and so I said, playfully: "Such a contract, though 'tis made before witnesses, surely ought to be sealed."
Philip took my hint; and he and Margaret laughed, and stretched arms across the paling tops; and I lost sight of their faces. I sought refuge in turning to Fanny, who was nearer to me than they were. To my surprise, she was watching me with the most kindly, pitying face in the world. Who would have thought she had known my heart regarding her sister?
"Poor Bert!" she murmured gently, scarce for my hearing.
And I, who had felt very solitary the moment before, now seemed not quite so lonely; and I continued to look into the soft, compassionate eyes of Fanny, so steadily that in a moment, with the sweetest of blushes, she lowered them to the roses in her hand.
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_We Hear Startling News, Which Brings about a Family "Scene". _ I have characterised Margaret's behaviour in the matter of this marriage proposal as forward; though I have admitted that it scarce looked so, so graceful and womanlike was her manner of carrying it off, which had in it nothing worse than the privileged air of a spoiled beauty. Now that writing of it has set me thinking of it, I see that 'twas a more natural act than it appears in the cold recital. For years she had been our queen, and Phil and I her humble subjects, and the making of the overtures appeared as proper in her, as it would have seemed presumption in either of us. And over Phil, from that bygone day when she had gone across the street to his rescue, she had assumed an air of authority, nay of proprietorship, that bade him wait upon her will ere ever he acted or spoke. And, again, though out of consideration for his rival he had been purposely silent while awaiting a sign from her, she had read his heart from the first. His every look and tone for years had been an unconscious act of wooing, and so when she brought matters to a point as she did, 'twas on her part not so much an overture as a consent. As for marriage proposal in general, all men with whom I have discussed it have confessed their own scenes thereof to have been, in the mere words, quite simple and unpoetical, whether enacted in confusion or in confidence; and to have been such as would not read at all finely in books.
The less easy ordeal awaited Philip, of asking her father. But he was glad this stood yet in his way, and that 'twas not easy; for 'twould make upon his courage that demand which every man's courage ought to undergo in such an affair, and which Margaret's conduct had precluded in his coming to an understanding with her.
But however disquieting the task was to approach, it could be only successful at the end; for indeed Mr. Faringfield, with all his external frigidity, could refuse Phil nothing. In giving his consent, which perhaps he had been ready to do long before Phil had been ready to ask it, he made no allusion to Phil's going to England. He purposely ignored the circumstance, I fancy, that in consenting to the marriage, he knowingly opened the way for his daughter's visiting that hated country. Doubtless the late conduct of Ned, and the intended defection of Philip, amicable though that defection was, had shaken him in his resolution of imposing his avoidance of England upon his family. He resigned himself to the inevitable; but he grew more taciturn, sank deeper into himself, became more icy in his manner, than ever.
Philip and Margaret were married in February, four months before the time set for their departure. The wedding was solemnised in Trinity Church, by the Rev. Mr. Barclay, on one of those white days with a little snow in the air, which I for one prefer over sunny days, in winter, as far more seasonable. The young gentlemen of the town wondered that Miss Faringfield had not made a better match (as she might have done, of course, in each one's secret opinion by choosing himself). The young ladies, though some of them may have regretted the subtraction of one eligible youth from their matrimonial chances, were all of them rejoiced at the removal of a rival who had hitherto kept the eyes of a score of youths, even more eligible, turned away from them. And so they wished her well, with smiles the most genuine. She valued not a finger-snap their thoughts or their congratulations. She had, of late, imperceptibly moved aloof from them. Nor had she sought the attentions of the young gentlemen. 'Twas not of her will that they dangled. In truth she no longer had eyes or ears for the small fashionable world of New York. She had a vastly greater world to conquer, and disdained to trouble herself, by a smile or a glance, for the admiration of the poor little world around her.
All her thoughts in her first months of marriage--and these were very pleasant months to Philip, so charming and sweet-tempered was his bride--were of the anticipated residence in England. It was still settled that Philip was to go in June; and her going with him was now daily a subject of talk in the family. Mr. Faringfield himself occasionally mentioned it; indifferently, as if 'twere a thing to which he never would have objected. Margaret used sometimes to smile, thinking how her father had put it out of his power to oppose her wishes: first by his friendly sanction to Phil's going, to refuse which he had not the right; and then by his consent to her marriage, to refuse which he had not the will.
Naturally Philip took pleasure in her anticipations, supposing that, as to their source and object, they differed not from his. As the pair were so soon to go abroad, 'twas thought unnecessary to set up in a house of their own in New York, and so they made their home for the time in the Faringfield mansion, the two large chambers over the great parlour being allotted to them; while they continued to share the family table, save that Margaret now had her morning chocolate abed.
"I must initiate myself into London ways, dear," she said, gaily, when Fanny remarked how strange this new habit was in a girl who had never been indolent or given to late rising.
"How pretty the blue brocaded satin is!" quoth Fanny, looking at one of Margaret's new gowns hanging in a closet. "Why didn't you wear it at the Watts' dinner yesterday? And your brown velvet--you've not had it on since it came from the dressmaker's."
"I shall wear them in London," says Margaret.
And so it was with her in everything. She saved her finest clothes, her smiles, her very interest in life, her capacity for enjoyment, all for London. And Philip, perceiving her indifference to the outside world, her new equability of temper, her uniform softness of demeanour, her constant meditative half-smile due to pleasurable dreams of the future, read all these as tokens of blissful content like that which glowed in his own heart. And he was supremely happy. 'Tis well for a man to have two months of such happiness, to balance against later years of sorrow; but sad will that happiness be in the memory, if it owe itself to the person to whom the sorrow in its train is due.
She would watch for him at the window, in the afternoon, when he came home from the warehouse; and would be waiting at the parlour door as he entered the hall. With his arm about her, he would lead her to a sofa, and they would sit talking for a few minutes before he prepared for supper--for 'twas only on great occasions that the Faringfields dined at five o'clock, as did certain wealthy New York families who followed the London mode.
"I am so perfectly, entirely, completely, utterly happy!" was the burden of Phil's low-spoken words.
"Fie!" said Margaret, playfully, one evening. "You must not be perfectly happy. There must be some cloud in the sky; some annoyance in business, or such trifle. Perfect happiness is dangerous, mamma says. It can't last. It forbodes calamity to come. 'Tis an old belief, and she vows 'tis true."
"Why, my poor mother held that belief, too. I fear she had little perfect happiness to test it by; but she had calamities enough. And Bert Russell's mother was saying the same thing the other day. 'Tis a delusion common to mothers, I think. I sha'n't let it affect my felicity. I should be ungrateful to call my contentment less than perfect. And if calamity comes, 'twill not be owing to my happiness."
"As for that, I can't imagine any calamity possible to us--unless something should occur to hinder us from going to London. But nothing in the world shall do that, of course."
'Twas upon this conversation that Tom and I broke in, having met as I returned from the custom-house, he from the college.
"Oho!" cried Tom, with teasing mirth, "still love-making! I tell you what it is, brother Phil, 'tis time you two had eyes for something else besides each other. The town is talking of how engrossed Margaret is in you, that she ignores the existence of everybody else."
"Let 'em talk," said Margaret, lightly, with an indifference free from malice. "Who cares about their existence? They're not so interesting, with their dull teas and stupid gossip of one another! A set of tedious rustics."
"Hear the countess talk!" Tom rattled on, at the same time looking affectionate admiration out of his mirthful eyes. "What a high and mighty lady is yours, my lord Philip! I should like to know what the Morrises, and Lind Murray, and the Philipse boys and girls, and our De Lancey cousins, and the rest, would think to hear themselves called a set of rustics."
"Why," says Phil, "beside her ladyship here, are they _not_ a set of rustics?" With which he kissed her, and rose to go to his room. " _Merci_, monsieur!" said Margaret, rising and dropping him a curtsey, with the prettiest of glances, as he left the parlour.
She hummed a little French air, and went and ran her fingers up and down the keys of the pianoforte, which great new instrument had supplanted the old harpsichord in the house. Tom and I, standing at the fireplace, watched her face as the candle-light fell upon it.
"Well," quoth Tom, "Phil is no prouder of his wife than I am of my sister. Don't you think she grows handsomer every day, Bert?" " 'Tis the effect of happiness," said I, and then I looked into the fireplace rather than at her. For I was then, and had been for long months, engaged in the struggle of detaching my thoughts from her charms, or, better, of accustoming myself to look upon them with composure; and I had made such good success that I wished not to set myself back in it. Eventually my success was complete, and I came to feel toward her no more than the friendship of a lifelong comrade. If a man be honest, and put forth his will, he can quench his love for the woman that is lost to him, unless there have existed long the closest, tenderest, purest ties between them; and even then, except that 'twill revive again sometimes at the touch of an old memory.
"You dear boys!" says Margaret, coming over to us, to reward Tom with a kiss on the cheek, and me with a smile. "What a vain thing you will make me of my looks!"
"Nay," says candid Tom, "that work was done before ever we had the chance of a hand in it."
"Well," retorted Margaret, with good-humoured pertness, "there'll never be reason for me to make my brother vain of his wit."
"Nor for my sister to be vain of hers," said Tom, not in nettled retaliation, but merely as uttering a truth.
"You compliment me there," says Margaret, lightly. "Did you ever hear of a witty woman that was charming?"
"That is true," I put in, remembering some talk of Phil's, based upon reading as well as upon observation, "for usually a woman must be ugly, before she will take the trouble to cultivate wit. The possession of wit in a woman seems to imply a lack of other reliances. And if a woman be pretty and witty both, her arrogance is like to be such as drives every man away. And men resent wit in a woman as if 'twere an invasion of their own province."
"Sure your explanation must be true, Mr. Philosopher," said Margaret, "'tis so profound. As for me, I seek no reasons; 'tis enough to know that most witty women are frights; and I don't blame the men for refusing to be charmed by 'em."
"Well, sis," said Tom, "I'm sure even the cultivation of wit wouldn't make you a fright. So you might amuse yourself by trying it, ma'am. As for charming the men, you married ladies have no more to do with that."
"Oh, haven't we? Sure, I think 'tis time little boys were in bed, who talk of things they know nothing about. Isn't that so, Bert?"
"Why," said I, "for my part, I think 'tis unkind for a woman to exercise her charms upon men after she has destroyed the possibility of rewarding their devotion."
"Dear me, you talk like a character in a novel. Well, then, you're both agreed I mustn't be charming. So I'll be disagreeable, and begin with you two. Here's a book of sermons Mr. Cornelius must have left. That will help me, if anything will." And she sat down with the volume in her hands, took on a solemn frown, and began to read to herself. After awhile, at a giggle of amusement from schoolboy Tom, she turned a rebuking gaze upon us, over the top of the book; but the very effort to be severe emphasised the fact that her countenance was formed to give only pleasure, and our looks brought back the smile to her eyes. " 'Tis no use," said Tom, "you couldn't help being charming if you tried."
She threw down the book, and came and put her arm around him, and so we all three stood before the fire till Philip returned.
"Ah," she said, "here is one who will never ask me to be ugly or unpleasant."
"Who has been asking impossibilities, my dear?" inquired Philip, taking her offered hand in his.
"These wise gentlemen think I oughtn't to be charming, now that I'm married."
"Then they think you oughtn't to be yourself; and I disagree with 'em entirely."
She gave him her other hand also, and stood for a short while looking into his innocent, fond eyes.
"You dear old Phil!" she said slowly, in a low voice, falling for the moment into a tender gravity, and her eyes having a more than wonted softness. The next instant, recovering her light playfulness with a little laugh, she took his arm and led the way to the dining-room.
And now came Spring--the Spring of 1775. There had been, of course, for years past, and increasing daily in recent months, talk of the disagreement between the king and the colonies. I have purposely deferred mention of this subject, to the time when it was to fall upon us in its full force so that no one could ignore it or avoid action with regard to it. But I now reach the beginning of the drama which is the matter of this history, and to which all I have written is uneventful prologue. We young people of the Faringfield house (for I was still as much of that house as of my own) had concerned ourselves little with the news from London and Boston, of the concentration of British troops in the latter town in consequence of the increased disaffection upon the closing of its port. We heeded little the fact that the colonies meant to convene another general congress at Philadelphia, or that certain colonial assemblies had done thus and so, and certain local committees decided upon this or that. 'Twould all blow over, of course, as the Stamp Act trouble had done; the seditious class in Boston would soon be overawed, and the king would then concede, of his gracious will, what the malcontents had failed to obtain by their violent demands. Such a thing as actual rebellion, real war, was to us simply inconceivable. I believe now that Philip had earlier and deeper thoughts on the subject than I had: indeed events showed that he must have had: but he kept them to himself. And far other and lighter subjects occupied our minds as he and I started for a walk out the Bowery lane one balmy Sunday morning in April, the twenty-third day of the month.
Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, Fanny, and Tom, had gone to church. Philip and I boasted of too much philosophical reading to be churchgoers, and I had let my mother walk off to Trinity with a neighbour. As for Margaret, she stayed home because she was now her own mistress and had a novel to read, out of the last parcel received from London. We left her on the rear veranda, amidst the honeysuckle vines that climbed the trellis-work.
"I've been counting the weeks," she said to Phil, as we were about to set forth. "Only seven more Sundays." And she stopped him to adjust the ribbon of his queue more to her taste. "Aren't you glad?"
"Yes; and a thousand times so because it makes you happy, my dear," said he.
She kissed him, and let him go. "Don't walk too far, dear!" she called after us.
We looked back from the gateway, and saw that she had come to the end of the veranda to see us from the garden. We doffed our hats, and Phil threw her a kiss; which she returned, and then waved her hand after us, softly smiling. Philip lingered a moment, smiling back, to get this last view of her ere he closed the gate.
We had just passed the common, at the Northern end of the town, when we heard a clatter of galloping hoofs in the Bowery lane before us. Looking up the vista of road shaded by trees in fresh leafage, we saw a rider coming toward us at a very severe pace. As he approached, the horse stumbled; and the man on its back, fearing it might sink from exhaustion, drew up and gave it a moment in which to recover itself. He evidently wished to make a decent entrance into the town. He was in a great panting and perspiration, like his trembling steed, which was covered with foam; and his clothes were disturbed and soiled with travel. He took off his cocked felt hat to fan himself.
"You ride fast, for Sunday, friend," said Phil pleasantly. "Any trouble?"
"Trouble for some folks, I guess," was the reply, spoken with a Yankee drawl and twang. "I'm bringing news from Massachusetts." He slapped the great pocket of his plain coat, calling attention to its well-filled condition as with square papers. "Letters from the Committee of Safety."
"Why, has anything happened at Boston?" asked Phil, quickly.
"Well, no, not just at Boston. But out Concord way, and at Lexington, and on the road back to Boston, I should reckon a few things _had_ happened." And then, leaving off his exasperating drawl, he very speedily related the terrible occurrence of the nineteenth of April--terrible because 'twas warlike bloodshed in a peaceful land, between the king's soldiers and the king's subjects, between men of the same race and speech, men of the same mother country; and because of what was to follow in its train. I remember how easily and soon the tale was told; how clearly the man's calm voice, though scarce raised above a usual speaking tone, stood out against the Sunday morning stillness, with no sound else but the twittering of birds in the trees near by.
"Get up!" said the messenger, not waiting for our thanks or comments; and so galloped into the town, leaving us to stare after him and then at each other. " 'Faith, this will make the colonies stand together," said Philip at last.
"Ay," said I, "against the rebellious party."
"No," quoth he, "when I say the colonies, I mean what you call the rebellious party in them."
"Why, 'tis not the majority, and therefore it can't be said to represent the colonies."
"I beg your pardon--I think we shall find it is the majority, particularly outside of the large towns. This news will fly to every corner of the land as fast as horses can carry it, and put the country folk in readiness for whatever the Continental Congress may decide upon."
"Why, then, 'twill put our people on their guard, too, for whatever the rebels may attempt."
Philip's answer to this brought about some dispute as to whether the name rebels, in its ordinary sense, could properly be applied to those colonists who had what he termed grievances. We both showed heat, I the more, until he, rather than quarrel, fell into silence. We had turned back into the town; choosing a roundabout way for home, that we might observe the effect of the messenger's news upon the citizens. In a few streets the narrow footways were thronged with people in their churchgoing clothes, and many of these had already gathered into startled groups, where the rider who came in such un-Sabbath-like haste had stopped to justify himself, and satisfy the curiosity of observers, and ask the whereabouts of certain gentlemen of the provincial assembly, to whom he had letters. We heard details repeated, and opinions uttered guardedly, and grave concern everywhere expressed.
By the time we had reached home, Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield were already there, discussing the news with my mother, in the presence of the two daughters and Tom. We found them all in the parlour. Margaret stood in the library doorway, still holding her novel in her hand, her finger keeping the page. Her face showed but a languid interest in the tragedy which made all the others look so grave.
"You've heard the news, of course?" said Mr. Faringfield to us as we entered, curiously searching Philip's face while he spoke.
"Yes, sir; we were the first in the town to hear it, I think," replied Phil.
"Tis a miracle if we do not have war," said Mr. Faringfield.
"I pray not," says my mother, who was a little less terrified than Mrs. Faringfield. "And I won't believe we shall, till I see it at our doors."
"Oh, don't speak of it!" cried Mrs. Faringfield, with a shudder.
"Why, ladies," says Philip, "'tis best to think of it as if 'twere surely coming, and so accustom the mind to endure its horrors. I shall teach my wife to do so." And he looked playfully over at Margaret.
"Why, what is it to me?" said Margaret. "Tis not like to come before we sail, and in England we shall be well out of it. Sure you don't think the rebels will cross the ocean and attack London?"
"Why, if war comes," said Phil, quietly, "we shall have to postpone our sailing."
"Postpone it!" she cried, in alarm. "Why? And how long?"
"Until the matter is settled one way or another."
"But it won't come before we sail. 'Tis only seven weeks. Whatever happens, they'll riddle away that much time first, in talk and preparation; they always do."
"But we must wait, my dear, till the question is decided whether there's to be war or peace. If we come round to the certainty of peace, which is doubtful, then of course there's naught to hinder us. But if there's war, why, we've no choice but to see it out before we leave the country."
I never elsewhere saw such utter, indignant consternation as came over Margaret's face.
"But why? For what reason?" she cried. "Will not vessels sail, as usual? Are you afraid we shall be harmed on the sea? 'Tis ridiculous! The rebels have no war-ships. Why need we stay? What have we to do with these troubles? 'Tis not our business to put them down. The king has soldiers enough."
"Ay," said Phil, surprised at her vehemence, but speaking the more quietly for that, "'tis the colonies will need soldiers."
"Then what folly are you talking? Why should we stay for this war."
"That I may take my part in it, my dear."
"Bravo, brother Phil!" cried Tom Faringfield. "You nor I sha'n't miss a chance to fight for the king!"
"Nor I, either," I added. " 'Tis not for the king, that I shall be fighting," said Phil, simply.
A silence of astonishment fell on the company. 'Twas broken by Mr. Faringfield: "Bravo, Phil, say _I_ this time." And, losing no jot of his haughty manner, he went over, and with one hand grasping Phil's, laid the other approvingly on the young man's shoulder.
"What, have we rebels in our own family?" cried Mrs. Faringfield, whose horror at the fact gave her of a sudden the needful courage.
"Madam, do your sentiments differ from mine?" asked her husband.
"Sir, I am a De Lancey!" she replied, with a chilling haughtiness almost equal to his own.
Tom, buoyed by his feelings of loyalty above the fear of his father's displeasure, crossed to his mother, and kissed her; and even Fanny had the spirit to show defiantly on which side she stood, by nestling to her mother's side and caressing her head.
"Good, mamma!" cried Margaret. "No one shall make rebels of us! Understand that, Mr. Philip Winwood!"
Philip, though an ashen hue about the lips showed what was passing in his heart, tried to take the bitterness from the situation by treating it playfully. "You see, Mr. Faringfield, if we are indeed rebels against our king, we are paid by our wives turning rebels against ourselves."
"You cannot make a joke of it, sir," said Margaret, with a menacing coldness in her tone. " 'Tis little need the king has of _my_ influence, I fancy; he has armies to fight his battles. But there's one thing does concern me, and that is my visit to London. --But you'll not deprive me of that, dear, will you, now that you think of it better?" Her voice had softened as she turned to pleading.
"We must wait, my dear, while there is uncertainty or war."
"But you haven't the right to make me wait!" she cried, her voice warming to mingled rage, reproach, and threat. "Why, wars last for years--I should be an old woman! You're not free to deny me this pleasure, or postpone it an hour! You promised it from the first, you encouraged my anticipations until I came to live upon them, you fed my hopes till they dropped everything else in the world. Night and day I have looked forward to it, thought of it, dreamt of it! And now you say I must wait--months, at least; probably years! But you can't mean it, Phil! You wouldn't be so cruel! Tell me!"
"I mean no cruelty, dear. But one has no choice when patriotism dictates--when one's country--" "Why, you sha'n't treat me so, disappoint me so! 'Twould be breaking your word; 'twould be a cruel betrayal, no less; 'twould make all your conduct since our marriage--nay, since that very day we promised marriage--a deception, a treachery, a lie; winning a woman's hand and keeping her love, upon a false pretence! You _dare_ not turn back on your word now! If you are a man of honour, of truth, of common honesty, you will let this miserable war go hang, and take me to England, as you promised! And if you don't I'll hate you! --hate you!"
Her speech had come out in a torrent of increasing force, until her voice was almost a scream, and this violence had its climax in a hysterical outburst of weeping, as she sank upon a chair and hid her face upon the back thereof. In this attitude she remained, her body shaking with sobs.
Philip, moved as a man rarely is, hastened to her, and leaning over, essayed to take her hand.
"But you should understand, dear," said he, most tenderly, with what voice he could command. "God knows I would do anything to make you happy, but--" "Then," she said tearfully, resigning her hand to his, "don't bring this disappointment upon me. Let them make war, if they please; you have your wife to consider, and your own future. Whatever they fight about, 'tis nothing to you, compared with your duty to me."
"But you don't understand," was all he could reply. "If I could explain--" "Oh, Phil, dear," she said, adopting again a tender, supplicating tone. "You'll not rob me of what I've so joyously looked forward to, will you? Think, how I've set my heart on it! Why, we've looked forward to it together, haven't we? All our happiness has been bound up with our anticipations. Don't speak of understanding or explaining,--only remember that our first thought should be of each other's happiness, dear, and that you will ruin mine if you don't take me. For my sake, for my love, promise we shall go to England in June! I beg you--'tis the one favour--I will love you so! Do, Phil! We shall be so happy!"
She looked up at him with such an eager pleading through her tears that I did not wonder to see his own eyes moisten.
"My dear," said he, with an unsteady voice, "I can't. I shouldn't be a man if I left the country at this time. I should loathe myself; I should not be worthy of you."
She flung his hand away from her, and rose in another seizure of wrath.
"Worthy!" she cried. "What man is worthy of a woman, when he cheats her as you have cheated me! You are a fool, with your talk of loathing yourself if you left the country! In God's name, what could there be in that to make you loathe yourself? What claim has the country on you, equal to the claim your wife has? Better loathe yourself for your false treatment of her! You'd loathe yourself, indeed! Well, then, I tell you this, 'tis I that will loathe you, if you stay! I shall abominate you, I shall not let you come into my sight! Now, sir, take your choice, this instant. Keep your promise with me--" "'Twas not exactly a promise, my dear."
"I say, keep it, and take me to London, and keep my love and respect; or break your promise, and my heart, and take my hate and contempt. Choose, I say! Which? This instant! Speak!"
"Madge, dear, you are not yourself--" "Oh, but I am, though! More myself than ever! And my own mistress, too! Speak, I bid you! Tell me we shall go. Answer--will you do as your wife wishes?"
"I will do as your husband ought."
"Will you go to England?"
"I will stay till I know the fate of the colonies; and to fight for them if need be."
"You give me up, for the sake of a whim, of some silly fustian about patriotism, some fool's rubbish of high-sounding words! _Me_, you balance against a crazy notion! Very well, sir! How I shall hate you for it! Don't come near me--not a step! Cling to your notion; see if it will fill my place! From this moment, you're not my husband, I'm not your wife--unless you promise we shall sail in June! And don't dare speak to me, except to tell me that!"
Whereupon, paying no heed to his reproachful cry of "Madge," she swept past him, and across the parlour, and up the hall staircase to her room; leaving us all in the amazement which had held us motionless and silent throughout the scene.
Philip stood with his hand upon the chair-back where she had wept; pale and silent, the picture of abandonment and sorrow.
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{
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_Ned Comes Back, with an Interesting Tale of a Fortunate Irishman. _ Before any of us knew what to say, a soft tread in the library announced the approach of Mr. Cornelius. He entered unaware of the scene that had just terminated, and with the stormy character of which on Margaret's part, nothing could have been in greater contrast than the quiescent atmosphere that ever accompanied the shy, low-speaking pedagogue. His presence diffused peace and quietude; and more than formerly was this the case of late, since he had resumed an intention of entering the Presbyterian ministry.
He had qualified himself for this profession at Princeton. But after his full preparations, a conscientious scruple had arisen from a sense of his diffidence, which he despaired of conquering, and by which he believed his attempts at pulpit eloquence were sure to be defeated. Though he could compass the hardihood to discourse to an assemblage of distracting schoolboys several hours every week-day, he could not summon the courage to address an audience of somnolent adults two hours on Sunday.
But latterly he had awakened to a new inward call, and resolved upon a new trial of his powers. By way of preliminary training, he had set about practising upon the sailors and wharfmen who ordinarily spent their Sundays in gaming or boozing in low taverns along the water-front. To as many of these as would gather in some open space, at the sound of his voice raised tremulously in a hymn, he would preach as a layman, thus borrowing from the Methodists a device by which he hoped not only his present hearers, but also his own future Presbyterian congregations, should benefit. It was from one of these informal meetings, broken up by the news from Massachusetts, that he was but now returned.
The stupefaction in which we all sat, did not prevent our noting the excitement in which Cornelius came; and Mr. Faringfield looked a mute inquiry.
"Your pardon, friends," said the pedagogue to the company; and then to Mr. Faringfield: "If I might speak with you alone a moment, sir--" Mr. Faringfield went with him into the library, leaving us all under new apprehension.
"Dear bless me!" quoth Mrs. Faringfield, looking distressed. "More calamity, I vow."
In a moment we heard Mr. Faringfield's voice raised in a vehement "No, sir!" Then the library door was reopened, and he returned to us, followed by Cornelius, who was saying in his mildest voice: "But I protest, sir--I entreat--he is a changed man, I assure you."
"Changed for the worse, I make no doubt," returned the angry merchant. "Let him not darken my door. If it weren't Sunday, I should send for a constable this moment."
"What is it?" cried Mrs. Faringfield. "Sure it can't be--that boy again!"
"Mr. Edward, madam," said the tutor.
"Dear, dear, what a day! What a terrible day! And Sunday, too!" moaned the lady, lying back in her chair, completely crushed, as if the last blow of fate had fallen.
"He arrived in the _Sarah_ brig, which anchored yesterday evening," explained Mr. Cornelius, "but he didn't come ashore till this morning."
"He thought Sunday safer," said Mr. Faringfield, with scornful derision.
"I was returning from my service, when I met him," continued the tutor. "He was at the Faringfield wharf, inquiring after the health of the family, of Meadows the watchman. I--er--persuaded him to come home with me."
"You mean, sir, he persuaded you to come and intercede for him," said Mr. Faringfield.
"He is now waiting in the garden. I have been telling Mr. Faringfield, ma'am, that the young man is greatly altered. Upon my word, he shows the truest signs of penitence. I believe he is entirely reformed; he says so."
"You'd best let him come in, William," counselled Mrs. Faringfield. "If you don't, goodness knows what he may do."
"Madam, I resolved long ago to let the law do its utmost upon him, if he should ever return."
"Oh, but think what scandal! What will all my relations say? Besides, if he is reformed--" "If he is reformed, let him show it by his conduct on my refusing to take him back; and by suffering the penalty of his crime."
"Oh! --penalty! Don't speak such words! A jailbird in the family! I never could endure it! I shouldn't dare go to church, or be seen anywhere in public!"
"The same old discussion!" said Mr. Faringfield, with a wearied frown.
"Papa, you won't send him to jail, will you?" ventured Fanny, with eyes rapidly moistening, and lips turning to a pout in spite of herself.
"Really, sir," put in Cornelius, trembling at his own temerity, "if you could but see him--take my word, sir, if ever there was a case where forgiveness--" After much more of this sort of talk, and being shaken in will by the day's previous excitements, Mr. Faringfield at length gave in so far as to consent to an interview with the penitent, to whom thereupon Cornelius hastened with the news.
It was indeed a changed and chastened Ned, to all outward appearance, that entered meekly with the pedagogue a few minutes later. His tread was so soft, his demeanour so tame, that one would scarce have known him but for a second look at his shapely face and burly figure. The face was now somewhat hollowed out, darkened, lined, and blotched; and elongated with meek resignation. His clothes--claret-coloured cloth coat and breeches, flowered waistcoat, silk stockings, lace ruffles, and all--were shabby and stained. He bowed to the company, and then stood, furtively watching for some manifestation from the rest before he dared proceed to warmer greetings.
Fanny stepped softly forward and kissed him, in a shy, perfunctory manner; and then good-natured Tom shook his hand, and Philip followed suit; after which Mrs. Faringfield embraced him somewhat stiffly, and I gingerly held his fingers a moment, and my mother hoped he found himself well.
"Quite well, I thank you, considering," said he; and then gazed in a half-scared way at his father. All the old defiance had disappeared under the blows of adversity.
"Well, sir," said his father, coldly, "we had scarce looked for you back among us."
"No, sir," said Ned, still standing. "I had no right to be looked for, sir--no more than the prodigal son had. I'm a bit like him, sir."
"Don't count upon the fatted calf, however."
"No, sir; not me. Very plain fare will do for me. I--I ask your pardon, sir, for that--that business about Mr. Palmer."
"The world has put you into a humble mood," said Mr. Faringfield, with sarcastic indifference.
"Yes, sir; the way of transgressors is hard, sir."
"Why don't you sit down?" put in Mrs. Faringfield, who was made uncomfortable by the sight of others being so.
"Thank you, mother," said Ned, availing himself of the implied permission.
"I hear you've undergone a reformation," said his father.
"I hope so, sir. They tell me I've got religion."
"Who tells you?"
"The Methodists. I went to their meetings in London. I--I thought I needed a little of that kind of thing. That's how I happened to--to save my soul."
"And how do you conceive you will provide for your body?"
"I don't know yet--exactly. If I might stay here till I could find some employment--" Mr. Faringfield met the pleading look of Fanny, and the prudent one of his wife. The latter reflected, as plainly as words, what had manifestly entered his own mind: that immunity from future trouble on Ned's account might indeed be had without recourse to a step entailing public disgrace upon the family. So he said: "My intention was, if you should ever show your face in New York again, to see you punished for that matter of the money and Mr. Palmer. I don't give up that intention; I shall only postpone carrying it out, during your good behaviour."
"Thank you, sir; I dare say it's better than I deserve."
And so was Mr. Ned established home again, to be provided for by his father until he should obtain some means of self-support. In this task his father offered no assistance, being cautious against vouching for a person hitherto so untrustworthy; and it soon became evident that Ned was not very vigorously prosecuting the task himself. He had the excuse that it was a bad time for the purpose, the country being so unsettled in the expectation of continued war. And he was content to remain an idle charge upon his father's bounty, a somewhat neglected inmate of the house, his comings and goings not watched or inquired into. His father rarely had a word for him but of curt and formal greeting. His mother found little more to say to him, and that in a shy reserved manner. Margaret gave him no speeches, but sometimes a look of careless derision and contempt, which must have caused him often to grind his teeth behind his mask of humility. Philip's courtesy to him was distinctly chilly; while Tom treated him rather with the indifferent amiability of a new and not very close acquaintance, than with any revival of old brotherly familiarity. I shared Phil's doubts upon Ned's spiritual regeneration, and many people in the town were equally skeptical. But there were enough of those credulous folk that delight in the miraculous, who believed fully in this marvellous conversion, and never tired of discussing the wonder. And so Ned went about, posing as a brand snatched from the burning, to the amusement of one-half the town, the admiration of the other half, and the curiosity of both. " 'Tis all fudge, says I," quoth lean old Bill Meadows, the watchman at the Faringfield wharves. "His story and his face don't hitch. He declares he was convarted by the Methodies, and he talks their talk about salvation and redemption and the like. But if he really had religion their way, he'd wear the face o' joy and gladness. Whereas he goes about looking as sober as a covenanter that expected the day of judgment to-morrow and knew he was predestinated for one O' the goats. Methodie convarts don't wear Presbyterian faces. Ecod, sir" (this he said to Phil, with whom he was on terms of confidence), "he's got it in his head that religion and a glum face goes together; and he thereby gives the lie to his Methodie convarsion."
Ned was at first in rather sore straits for a companion, none of his old associates taking well to his reformation. He had to fall back upon poor Cornelius, who was always the most obliging of men and could never refuse his company or aught else to any tolerable person that sought it. But in a week or so Ned had won back Fanny to her old allegiance, and she, in the kindness of her heart, and in her pity that the poor repentant fellow should be so misunderstood, his amendment so doubted, gave him as much of her time as he asked for. She walked with him, rode with him, and boated with him. This was all greatly to my cost and annoyance; for, ever since she had so gently commiserated my loss of Margaret, I had learned more and more to value her sweet consolation, rely upon her sympathy in all matters, and find serenity and happiness in her society. It had come to be that two were company, three were none--particularly when the third was Ned. So, if she _would_ go about with him, I left her to go with him alone; and I suffered, and pined, and raged inwardly, in consequence. 'Twas this deprivation that taught me how necessary she was to me; and how her presence gave my days half their brightness, my nights half their beauty, my taste of everything in life half its sweetness. Philip was unreservedly welcome to Madge now; I wondered I had been so late in discovering the charms of Fanny.
But one day I noticed that a coolness had arisen between her and Ned; a scarce evident repulsion on her part, a cessation of interest on his. This was, I must confess, as greatly to my satisfaction as to my curiosity. But Fanny was no more a talebearer than if she had been of our sex; and Ned was little like to disclose the cause intentionally: so I did not learn it until by inference from a passage that occurred one night at the King's Arms' Tavern.
Poor Philip, avoided and ignored by Madge, who had not yet relented, was taking an evening stroll with me, in the soothing company of the pedagogue; when we were hailed by Ned with an invitation to a mug of ale in the tavern. Struck with the man's apparent wistfulness for company, and moved by a fellow feeling of forlornness, Philip accepted; and Cornelius, always acquiescent, had not the ill grace to refuse. So the four of us sat down together at a table.
"I wish I might offer you madeira, gentlemen; or punch, at least," said Ned regretfully, "but you know how it is. I'm reaping what I sowed. Things might be worse. I knew 'em worse in London--before I turned over a new leaf."
The mugs being emptied, and the rest of us playing host in turn, they were several times replenished. Ned had been drinking before he met us; but this was not apparent until he began to show the effect of his potations while the heads of us his companions were still perfectly clear. It was evident that he had not allowed his conversion to wean him from this kind of indulgence. The conversation reverted to his time of destitution in London.
"Such experiences," observed Cornelius, "have their good fruits. They incline men to repentance who might else continue in their evil ways all their lives."
"Yes, sir; that's the truth!" cried Ned. "If I'd had some people's luck--but it's better to be saved than to make a fortune--although, to be sure, there are fellows, rascals, too, that the Lord seems to take far better care of than he does of his own!"
Mr. Cornelius looked a little startled at this. But the truth was, I make no doubt, that the pretence of virtue, adopted for the purpose of regaining the comforts of his father's house, wore heavily upon Ned; that he chafed terribly under it sometimes; and that this was one of the hours when, his wits and tongue loosened by drink, he became reckless and allowed himself relief. He knew that Philip, Cornelius, and I, never tattled. And so he cast the muzzle of sham reformation from his mouth.
He was silent for a while, recollections of past experience rising vividly in his mind, as they will when a man comes to a certain stage of drink.
"Sure, luck is an idiot," he burst out presently, wrathful from his memories. "It reminds me of a fool of a wench that passes over a gentleman and flings herself at a lout. For, lookye, there was two of us in London, a rascal Irishman and me, that lived in the same lodgings. We did that to save cost, after we'd both had dogs' fortune at the cards and the faro-table. If it hadn't been for a good-natured woman or two--I spoke ill of the breed just now, but they have their merits--we'd have had no lodgings at all then, except the Fleet, maybe, or Newgate, if it had come to that. Well, as I was saying, we were both as near starvation as ever _I_ wish to be, the Irishman and me. There we were, poverty-stricken as rats, both tarred with the same stick, no difference between us except he was an ugly brute, and a scoundrel, and a man of no family. Now if either of us deserved good fortune, it certainly was me; there can't be any question of that. And yet, here I am, driven to the damnedest tedious time of it for bare food and shelter, and compelled to drink ale when I'm--oh, curse it, gentlemen, was ever such rotten luck?"
Cornelius, whom disillusion had stricken into speechlessness at this revelation of the old Ned under the masquerade, sighed heavily and looked pained. But Philip, always curious upon matters of human experience, asked: "What of the Irishman?"
"Driving in his chariot, the dog! Swaggering in Pall Mall; eating and drinking at taverns that it makes my mouth water to think of; laying his hundred guineas a throw, if he likes. Oh, the devil! The fat of London for that fellow; and me cast off here in New York to the most hellish dull life! 'Tisn't a fair dispensation; upon my soul it isn't!"
"And what made him so fortunate?" inquired Philip.
"Ay, that's the worst of it! What good are a man's relations? What good are mine, at least? For that knave had only one relation, but she was of some use, Lord knows! When it came to the worst with him, he walked to Bristol, and begged or stole passage to Ireland, and hunted up his sister, who had a few pounds a year of her own. He had thought of borrowing a guinea or two, to try his fortune with again. But when he saw his sister, he found she'd grown up into a beauty--no more of a beauty than my sisters, though; but she was a girl of enterprise and spirit. I don't say Madge isn't that; but she's married and done for. But Fanny--well, I don't see anything brilliant in store for Fanny."
"What has she to do with the affairs of your Irishman?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing. She's a different kind from this Irish lady. For what did that girl do, after her brother had seen her and got the idea, than pack up and come to London with him. And he showed her around so well, and her fine looks made such an impression, that within three months he had her married to a lord's son--the heir to Lord Ilverton's estates and title. And now she's a made woman, and he's a made man, and what do you think of that for a lucky brother and a clever sister? And yet, compared with Fanny--" "Do you mean to say," interrupted Philip, in a low voice, "that you have ever thought of Fanny as a partner in such a plan?"
"Little use to think of her," replied Ned, contemptuously. "She hasn't the spirit. I'm afraid there ain't many sisters like Mullaney's. Poor Fan wouldn't even listen--" "Did you dare propose it to her?" said Phil. My own feelings were too strong for speech.
"Dare!" repeated Ned. "Why not? 'Twould have made her fortune--" "Upon my word," put in Mr. Cornelius, no longer able to contain his opinions, "I never heard of such rascality!"
Something in the pedagogue's tone, I suppose, or in Ned's stage of tipsiness at the moment, gave the speech an inflammatory effect. Ned stared a moment at the speaker, in amazement. Then he said, with aroused insolence: "What's this, Mr. Parson? What have _you_ to say here? My sister is _my_ sister, let me tell you--" "If she knew you as well as I do now," retorted Cornelius, quietly, "she wouldn't boast of the relationship."
"What the devil!" cried Ned, in an elevated voice, thus drawing the attention of the four or five other people in the room. "Who is this, talks of relationships? You cursed parson-pedagogue--!"
"Be quiet, Ned," warned Philip. "Everybody hears you."
"I don't care," replied Ned, rising, and again addressing Cornelius. "Does anybody boast of relationships to you, you tow-headed bumpkin? Do you think you can call me to account, as you can the scum you preach to on the wharves? I'll teach you!"
Whereat, Cornelius being opposite him, Ned violently pushed forward the table so as to carry the tutor over backward in his chair. His head and back struck the floor heavily, and he lay supine beneath the upset table.
An excited crowd instantly surrounded our group. Philip and I immediately removed the table, and helped Cornelius to his feet. The pedagogue's face was afire; his fists were clenched; his chest swelled; and one could judge from his wrists what sturdy arms his sleeves encased. As he advanced upon Ned, he was all at once become so formidable a figure that no one thought to interpose. Ned himself, appalled at the approaching embodiment of anger and strength, retreated a foot or two from the expected blow. Everybody looked to see him stretched flat in a moment; when Cornelius suddenly stopped, relaxed his muscles, unclosed his fists, and said to his insulter, in a quiet but virile voice quite different from that of his usual speech: "By the grace of God, I put my hands behind my back; for I've spoiled handsomer faces than yours, Edward Faringfield!"
There was a moment's pause.
"The grace of God has no such effect upon me!" said I, rapping Ned over the mouth with the back of my hand. Before the matter could go any further, Philip caught my arm, and Cornelius's, and hurried us out of the tavern.
I now knew what had broken the friendship between Fanny and her worthless brother. I feared a catastrophe when Mr. Faringfield should learn of the occurrence at the tavern. But, thanks to the silence of us who were concerned, and to the character of the few gentlemen with whom he deigned to converse, it never came to his ears. Ned, restored to his senses, and fearing for his maintenance, made no attempt to retaliate my blow; and resumed his weary pretence of reformation. But years afterward we were to recall his story of the Irishman's sister.
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_Enemies in War. _ As this is not a history of the wars I shall not dwell upon the talk and preparations that went on during the weeks ensuing upon our eventful Sunday: which talk was common to both parties, but which preparations were mainly on the part of the rebels, we loyalists awaiting events and biding the return from England of Governor Tryon. There were looks of suspicion exchanged, and among the more violent and uncouth there were open boasts bandied, open taunts reciprocated, and open threats hurled back and forth. Most of the quality of the town were on the loyal side; but yet there were some excellent families--such as the Livingstones--who stood first and last among the so-called Whigs. This was the case in great part of the country, the wealth and culture, with distinguished exceptions, being for the king and parliament; though, I must own, a great quantity of the brains being on the other side: but in Virginia and her Southerly neighbours, strange to say, the aristocracy largely, though not entirely, leaned toward revolt; for what reason I never knew, unless it was that many of them, descended from younger sons of good English stock who had been exiled as black sheep or ne'er-do-wells, inherited feelings similar to Mr. Faringfield's. Or perhaps 'twas indeed a pride, which made them resentful of the superiority assumed by native Englishmen over them as colonists. Or they may have felt that they should actually become slaves in submitting to be taxed by a parliament in which they were not represented. In any case, they (like Philip Winwood and Mr. Faringfield, the Adamses of Boston, and thousands of others) had motives that outweighed in them the sentiment of loyalty, the passion of attachment to the land whence we had drawn our race and still drew our culture and all our refinements and graces. This sentiment, and this passion, made it impossible for Tom Faringfield and me to see any other course for us than undeviating fidelity to the king and the mother-country. There were of course some loyalists (or Tories, if you prefer that name) who took higher views than arose from their mere affections, and who saw harm for America in any revolt from English government; and there were others, doubtless, whose motives were entirely low and selfish, such as holders of office under the crown, and men who had powers and privileges of which any change of system, any disturbance of the royal authority, might deprive them. It was Philip who called my attention to this last class, and to the effect its existence must have on the common people in the crisis then present.
"The colonists of America are not like any other people," said he. "Their fathers came to this land when it was a savage wilderness, tearing themselves from their homes, from civil surroundings; that they might be far from tyranny, in small forms as well as great. Not merely tyranny of king or church, but the shapes of it that Hamlet speaks of--'the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the insolence of office.' All for the sake of liberty, they battled with savages and with nature, fought and toiled, bled and starved. And Tyranny ignored them till they had transformed their land and themselves into something worth its attention. And then, backed and sustained by royal authority, those hated things stole in upon them--'the insolence of office, the proud man's contumely, the oppressor's wrong.' This, lookye, besides the particular matter of taxation without representation; of being bid to obey laws they have no hand in making; of having a set of masters, three thousand miles away, and not one of their own land or their own choosing, order them to do thus and so:--why, 'twere the very soul and essence of slavery to submit! Man, how can you wonder I am of their side?"
"And with your taste for the things to be found only in the monarchies of Europe; for the arts, and the monuments of past history, the places hallowed by great events and great men!" said I, quoting remembered expressions of his own.
"Why," says he, smiling a little regretfully, "we shall have our own arts and hallowed places some day; meanwhile one's taste must defer to one's heart and one's intelligence."
"Yes," said I, with malicious derision, "when 'tis so great a question as a paltry tax upon tea." " 'Tis no such thing," says he, warming up; "'tis a question of being taxed one iota, the thousandth part of a farthing, by a body of strangers, a body in which we are not represented."
"Neither were we represented in it when it sent armies to protect us from the French, and toward the cost of which 'tis right we should pay."
"We paid, in men and money both. And the armies were sent less for our protection than for the aggrandisement of England. She was fighting the French the world over; in America, as elsewhere, the only difference being that in America we helped her."
So 'twas disputed between many another pair of friends, between brothers, between fathers and sons, husbands and wives. I do not know of another civil war that made as many breaks in families. Meanwhile, the local authorities--those of local election, not of royal appointment--were yet outwardly noncommittal. When Colonel Washington, the general-in-chief appointed by the congress of the colonies at Philadelphia, was to pass through New York on his way to Cambridge, where the New England rebels were surrounding the king's troops in Boston, it was known that Governor Tryon would arrive from England about the same time. Our authorities, rather than seem to favour one side, sent a committee to New Jersey to meet the rebel commander and escort him through the town, and immediately thereafter paid a similar attention to the royal governor. One of those who had what they considered the honour of riding behind Mr. Washington a part of his way (he came accompanied by a troop of horse from Philadelphia, and made a fine, commanding figure, I grant) was Philip Winwood. When he returned from Kingsbridge, I, pretending I had not gone out of my way to see the rebel generalissimo pass, met him with a smile, as if to make a joke of all the rebel preparations: "Well," says I, "what manner of hero is your illustrious chief? A very Julius Cæsar, I make no doubt."
"A grave and modest gentleman," says Phil, "and worthy of all the admiration you used to have for him when we would talk of the French War. I remember you would say he was equal to all the regular English officers together; and how you declared Governor Shirley was a fool for not giving him a king's commission."
"Well," said I, "'tis a thousand to one, that if Colonel Washington hadn't been disappointed of a king's commission, he wouldn't now be leader of the king's enemies." I knew I had no warrant the slightest for attributing Mr. Washington's patriotism to such a petty motive as a long-cherished resentment of royal neglect; and years afterward, in London, I was to chastise an equally reckless speaker for a similar slander; but I was young and partisan, and being nettled by the reminder of my inconsistency, spoke to irritate.
"That is a lie!" said Phil, quietly, looking me straight in the face.
Such a word from Philip made me stare in amazement; but it did not improve my temper, or incline me to acknowledge the injustice I had uttered. My face burned, my fingers clenched. But it was Philip that had spoken; and a thing or two flashed into my mind in the pause; and, controlling myself, I let out a long breath, opened my fists, and, with the best intentions in the world, and with the quietest voice, gave him a blow far more severe than a blow of the fist had been.
"I will take that from you, Phil," said I: "God knows, your stand in this rebellion has caused you enough unhappiness."
He winced, and sent me a startled look, stung at my alluding to the estrangement of his wife. I know not whether he took it as a taunt from so dear a friend, or whether the mere mention of so delicate a sorrow was too much for him; but his face twitched, and he gave a swallow, and was hard put to it to hold back the tears.
"Forgive me," I said, stricken to the heart at sight of this. "I am your friend always, Phil." I put a hand upon his shoulder, and his face turned to a kindly expression of pardon, a little short of the smile he dared not yet trust himself to attempt.
Margaret's demeanour to him, indeed, had not shown the smallest softening. But to the rest of the world, after the immediate effects of that Sunday scene had worn off, she seemed vastly more sparkling and fascinating than ever before: whether she was really so, and of intention, or whether the appearance was from contrast with her treatment of Philip, I dare not say. But the impression was Philip's, I think, as well as every one's else; and infinitely it multiplied the sorrow of which he would not speak, but which his countenance could not conceal. When the news of the affair at Bunker's Hill was discussed at the supper-table one evening in June, I being present, and Margaret heard how bravely the British charged the third and successful time up to the rebel works, after being hurled back twice by a very hell of musketry, she dropped her fork, and clapped her hands, crying: "Bravo, bravo! 'Tis such men that grow in England. I could love every one of 'em!"
"Brave men, I allow," said Philip; "but as for their victory, 'twas but a technical one, if accounts be true. Their loss was greater than ours; and the fight proved that Americans can stand before British regulars."
Margaret paid no more notice than if Philip had not spoken--'twas her practice now to ignore his speeches not directed to herself alone--and when he had done, she said, blithely, to one of the young De Lanceys, who was a guest: "And so they drove the Yankees out! And what then, cousin?"
"Why, that was all. But as for the men that grow in England, you'll find some of us grown in America quite as ready to fight for the king, if matters go on. Only wait till Governor Tryon sets about calling for loyal regiments. We shall be falling over one another in the scramble to volunteer. But I mean to be first."
"Good, cousin!" she cried. "You may kiss my hand for that--nay, my cheek, if I could reach it to you."
"Faith," said De Lancey, after gallantly touching her fingers with his lips, "if all the ladies in New York had such hands, and offered 'em to be kissed by each recruit for the king, there'd be no man left to fight on the rebel side."
"Why, his Majesty is welcome to my two hands for the purpose, and my face, too," she rattled on. "But some of our New York rebels were going to do great things: 'tis two months now, and yet we see nothing of their doings."
"Have a little patience, madam," said Philip, very quietly. "We rebels may be further advanced in our arrangements than is known in all quarters."
The truth of this was soon evident. In the open spaces of the town--the parade-ground (or Bowling Green) outside the fort; the common at the head of the town; before the very barracks in Chambers Street that had just been vacated by the last of the royal troops in New York, they having sailed for Boston rather for their own safety than to swell the army there--there was continual instructing and drilling of awkward Whigs. Organisation had proceeded throughout the province, whose entire rebel force was commanded by Mr. Philip Schuyler, of Albany; subordinate to whom was Mr. Richard Montgomery, an Irish gentleman who had first set foot in America at Louisbourg, as a king's officer, and who now resided beyond Kingsbridge.
It was under Montgomery that Philip Winwood took service, enlisting as a private soldier, but soon revealing such knowledge of military matters that he was speedily, in the off-hand manner characteristic of improvised armies, made a lieutenant. This was a little strange, seeing that there was a mighty scramble for commissions, nine out of every ten patriots, however raw, clamouring to be officers; and it shows that sometimes (though 'tis not often) modest merit will win as well as self-assertive incompetence. Philip had obtained his acquaintance with military forms from books; he was, in his ability to assimilate the matter of a book, an exception among men; and a still greater exception in his ability to apply that matter practically. Indeed, it sometimes seemed that he could get out of a book not only all that was in it, but more than was in it. Many will not believe what I have related of him, that he had actually learned the rudiments of fencing, the soldier's manual of arms, the routine of camp and march, and such things, from reading; but it is a fact: just as it is true that Greene, the best general of the rebels after Washington, learned military law, routine, tactics, and strategy, from books he read at the fire of the forge where he worked as blacksmith; and that the men whom he led to Cambridge, from Rhode Island, were the best disciplined, equipped, uniformed, and maintained, of the whole Yankee army at that time. As for Philip's gift of translating printed matter into actuality, I remember how, when we afterward came to visit strange cities together, he would find his way about without a question, like an old resident, through having merely read descriptions of the places.
But rank did not come unsought, or otherwise, to Philip's fellow volunteer from the Faringfield house, Mr. Cornelius. The pedagogue, with little to say on the subject, took the rebel side as a matter of course, Presbyterians being, it seems, republican in their nature. He went as a private in the same company with Philip.
It was planned that the rebel troops of New York province should invade Canada by way of Lake George, while the army under Washington continued the siege of Boston. Philip went through the form of arranging that his wife should remain at her father's house--the only suitable home for her, indeed--during his absence in the field; and so, in the Summer of 1775, upon a day much like that in which he had first come to us twelve years before, it was ours to wish him for a time farewell.
Mr. Faringfield and his lady, with Fanny and Tom, stood in the hall, and my mother and I had joined them there, when Philip came down-stairs in his new blue regimentals. He wore his sword, but it was not his wife that had buckled it on. There had been no change in her manner toward him: he was still to her but as a strange guest in the house, rather to be disdained than treated with the courtesy due even to a strange guest. We all asked ourselves what her farewell would be, but none mentioned the thought. As Phil came into view at the first landing, he sent a quick glance among us to see if she was there. For a moment his face was struck into a sadly forlorn expression; but, as if by chance, she came out of the larger parlour at that moment, and his countenance revived almost into hope. The rest of us had already said our good-byes to Mr. Cornelius, who now stood waiting for Philip. As the latter reached the foot of the stairs, Margaret suddenly turned to the pedagogue, to add her civility to ours, for she had always liked the bashful fellow, and _his_ joining the rebels was to her a matter of indifference--it did not in any way affect her own pleasure. This movement on her part made it natural that Philip's first leave-taking should be of Mr. Faringfield, who, seeing Margaret occupied, went forward and grasped Phil's hand.
"God bless thee, lad," said he, showing the depth of his feelings as much by a tenderness very odd in so cold a man, as by reverting to the old pronoun now becoming obsolete except with Quakers, "and bring thee safe out of it all, and make thy cause victorious!"
"Good-bye, Philip," said Mrs. Faringfield, with some betrayal of affection, "and heaven bring you back to us!"
Fanny's farewell, though spoken with a voice more tremulous and eyes more humid, was in the same strain; and so was that of my mother, though she could not refrain from adding, "Tis such a pity!" and wishing that so handsome a soldier was on the right side.
"Good-bye and good luck, dear old Phil!" was all that Tom said.
"And so say I," I put in, taking his hand in my turn, and trying not to show my discomposure, "meaning to yourself, but not to your cause. Well--dear lad--heaven guard you, and give you a speedy return! For your sake and ours, may the whole thing be over before your campaign is begun. I should like to see a war, and be in one--but not a war like this, that makes enemies of you and me. Good-bye, Phil--and come back safe and sound."
'Twas Margaret's time now, for Ned was not present. There was a pause, as Phil turned questioningly--nay wistfully--toward her. She met his look calmly. Old Noah and some of the negroes, who had pressed forward to see Phil's departure from the house, were waiting for her to speak, that they might afterward call out their Godspeed.
"Good-bye!" she said, at last, holding out her hand indifferently.
He took the hand, bent over it, pressed it with his lips. Then he looked at her again. I think she must have shown just the slightest yielding, given just the least permission, in her eyes; for he went nearer, and putting his arm around her, gently drew her close to him, and looked down at her. Suddenly she turned her face up, and pursed her lips. With a look of gladness, he passionately kissed her.
"God bless you, my dear wife," he whispered; and then, as if by expecting more he might court a disappointment to mar the memory of that leave-taking, he released her, and said to us all: "Take care of her, I pray!" whereupon, abruptly turning, he hastened out of the open door, waving back his hat in response to our chorus of good-byes, and the loud "Go' bless you, Massa Philip!" of the negroes.
We followed quickly to the porch, to look after him. But he strode off so fast that Cornelius had to run to keep up with him. He did not once look back, even when he passed out of sight at the street corner. I believe he divined that his wife would not be among those looking after, and that he wished not to interpose any other last impression of his dear home than that of her kiss.
When we came back into the hall, she had flown. Later, as my mother and I went through the garden homeward, passing beneath Margaret's open windows, we heard her weeping--not violently, but steadily, monotonously, as if she had a long season of the past to regret, a long portion of the future to sorrow for. And here let me say that I think Margaret, from first to last, loved Philip with more tenderness than she was capable of bestowing upon any one else; with an affection so deep that sometimes it might be obscured by counter feelings playing over the surface of her heart, so deep that often she might not be conscious of its presence, but so deep that it might never be uprooted:--and 'twas that which made things the more pitiful.
Tom and I went out, with a large number of the town's people, to watch the rebel soldiers depart, and we saw Philip with his company, and exchanged with him a smile and a wave of the hat. How little we thought that one of us he was never to meet again, that the other he was not to see in many years, and that four of those years were to pass ere he should set foot again in Queen Street.
Many things, to be swiftly passed over in my history, occurred in those four years. One of these, the most important to me, happened a short time after Philip's departure for the North. It was a brief conversation with Fanny, and it took place upon the wayside walk at what they call the Battery, at the green Southern end of the town, where it is brought to a rounded point by the North and East Rivers approaching each other as they flow into the bay. To face the gentle breeze, I stopped and turned so we might look Southward over the bay, toward where, at the distant Narrows, Long Island and Staten Island seem to meet and close it in.
"I don't like to look out yonder," said Fanny. "It makes me imagine I'm away on the ocean, by myself. And it seems so lonely."
"Why, you poor child," replied I, "'tis a sin you should ever feel lonely; you do so much to prevent others being so." I turned my back upon the bay, and led her past the fort, toward the Broadway. "You see," said I, abruptly, glancing at her brown eyes, which dropped in a charming confusion, "how much you need a comrade." I remember I was not entirely unconfused myself at that moment, for inspiration had suddenly shown me my opportunity, and how to use it, and some inward trepidation was inseparable from a plunge into the matter I was now resolved upon going through.
"Why," says she, blushing, and seeming, as she walked, to take a great interest in her pretty feet, "I have several comrades as it is."
"Yes. But I mean one that should devote himself to you alone. Philip has Margaret; and besides, he is gone now, and so is Mr. Cornelius. And Tom will be finding a wife some day, and your parents cannot live for ever, and your friends will be married one after another."
"Poor me!" says she, with a sigh of comic wofulness. "How helpless and alone you make me feel!"
"Not so entirely alone, neither! There's one I didn't mention."
"And that one, too, I suppose, will be running off some day."
"No. He, like Tom, will be seeking a wife some day; perhaps sooner than Tom; perhaps very soon indeed; perhaps this very minute."
"Oh, Bert! --What nonsense! Don't look at me so, here in the street--people will take notice."
"What do I care for people? Let the fellows all see, and envy me, if you'll give me what I ask. What say you, dearest? Speak; tell me! Nay, if you won't, I'll make you blush all the more--I love you, I love you, I love you! Now will you speak?"
"Oh, Bert, dear, at least wait till we are home!"
"If you'll promise to say yes then."
"Very well--if 'twill please you."
"Nay, it must be to please yourself too. You do love me a little, don't you?"
"Why, of course I do; and you must have known it all the time!"
But, alas, her father's "yes" was not so easily to be won. I broached the matter to him that very evening (Fanny and I meanwhile having come to a fuller understanding in the seclusion of the garden); but he shook his head, and regarded me coldly.
"No, sir," said he. "For, however much you are to be esteemed as a young gentleman of honour and candour and fine promise, 'tis for me to consider you rather as an adherent of a government that has persecuted my country, and now makes war upon it. The day may come when you will find a more congenial home nearer the crown you have already expressed your desire to fight for. And then, if Fanny were your wife, you would carry her off to make an Englishwoman of her, as my first daughter would have been carried by her husband, upon different motives, but for this war. Perhaps 'twere better she could have gone," he added, with a sigh, for Margaret had been his favourite child; "my loss of her could scarce have been more complete than it is. But 'tis not so with Fanny."
"But, sir, I am not to take it that you refuse me, definitely, finally? --I beg--" "Nay, sir, I only say that we must wait. Let us see what time shall bring to pass. I believe that you will not--and I am sure that Fanny will not--endeavour any act without my consent, or against my wish. Nay, I don't bid you despair, neither. Time shall determine."
I was not so confident that I would not endeavour any act without his consent; but I shared his certainty that Fanny would not. And so, in despondency, I took the news to her.
"Well," says she, with a sigh. "We must wait, that's all."
While we were waiting, and during the Fall and Winter, we heard now and then from Philip, for communication was still possible between New York and the rebel army proceeding toward Canada. He wrote Margaret letters of which the rest of us never saw the contents; but he wrote to Mr. Faringfield and me also. His history during this time was that of his army, of which we got occasional news from other sources. During part of September and all of October it was besieging St. John's, which capitulated early in November. Schuyler's ill-health had left the supreme active command to Montgomery. The army pushed on, and occupied Montreal, though it failed to capture Governor Carleton; who escaped to Quebec in a boat, by ingeniously disguising himself as a countryman. At Montreal the jealousies and quarrels of officers, so summarily created such, gave Montgomery much trouble, and when he set forward for Quebec, there to join the force sent under Arnold through the Maine wilderness from the rebel main army at Cambridge, he could take with him but three hundred men--so had the patriot warriors of New York fallen off in zeal and numbers! But you may be sure it was not from Philip's letters that we got these items disadvantageous to his cause.
Our last word from him was when he was in quarters before Quebec: Cornelius was with him; and they were having a cold and snowy time of it, waiting for Quebec to fall before them. He mentioned casually that he had been raised to a captaincy: we afterward learned that this was for brave conduct upon the occasion of a sally of Scotch troops from one of the gates of Quebec to cut off a mortar battery and a body of riflemen; Philip had not only saved the battery and the riflemen, but had made prisoners of the sallying party.
Late in the Winter--that is to say, early in 1776--we learned of the dire failure of the night attack made by the combined forces of Montgomery and Arnold upon Quebec at the end of December, 1775; that Arnold had been wounded, his best officers taken prisoners, and Montgomery killed. The first reports said nothing of Winwood. When Margaret heard the news, she turned white as a sheet; and at this triumph of British arms my joy was far outweighed, Mr. Faringfield's grief multiplied, by fears lest Philip, who we knew would shirk no danger, had met a fate similar to his commander's. But subsequent news told us that he was a prisoner, though severely wounded. We comforted ourselves with considering that he was like to receive good nursing from the French nuns of Quebec. And eventually we found the name of Captain Winwood in a list of rebel prisoners who were to be exchanged; from which, as a long time had passed, we inferred that he was now recovered of his injuries; whereupon Margaret, who had never spoken of him, or shown her solicitude other than by an occasional dispirited self-abstraction, regained all her gaiety and was soon her old, charming self again. In due course, we learned that the exchange of prisoners had been effected, and that a number of officers (among whom was Captain Winwood) had departed from Quebec, bound whither we were not informed; and after that we lost track of him for many and many a month.
Meanwhile, the war had made itself manifest in New York: at first distantly, as by the passage of a few rebel companies from Pennsylvania and Virginia through the town on their way to Cambridge; by continued enlistments for the rebel cause; by the presence of a small rebel force of occupation; and by quiet enrolments of us loyalists for service when our time should come. But in the beginning of the warm weather of 1776, the war became apparent in its own shape. The king's troops under Sir William Howe had at last evacuated Boston and sailed to Halifax, taking with them a host of loyalists, whose flight was held up to us New York Tories as prophetic of our own fate. Washington now supposed, rightly, that General Howe intended presently to occupy New York; and so down upon our town, and the island on which it was, and upon Long Island, came the rebel main army from Cambridge; and brought some very bad manners with it, for all that there never was a finer gentleman in the world than was at its head, and that I am bound to own some of his officers and men to have been worthy of him in good breeding. Here the army was reinforced by regiments from the middle and Southern provinces; and for awhile we loyalists kept close mouths. Margaret, indeed, for the time, ceased altogether to be a loyalist, in consequence of the gallantry of certain officers in blue and buff, and several Virginia dragoons in blue and red, with whom she was brought into acquaintance through her father's attachment to the rebel interest. She expanded and grew brilliant in the sunshine of admiration (she had even a smile and compliment from Washington himself, at a ball in honour of the rebel declaration of independence) in which she lived during the time when New York abounded with rebel troops.
But that was a short time; for the British disembarked upon Long Island, met Washington's army there and defeated it, so that it had to slip back to New York in boats by night; then landed above the town, almost in time to cut it off as it fled Northward; fought part of it on the heights of Harlem; kept upon its heels in Westchester County; encountered it again near White Plains; and came back triumphant to winter in and about New York. And now we loyalists and the rebel sympathisers exchanged tunes; and Margaret was as much for the king again as ever--she never cared two pins for either cause, I fancy, save as it might, for the time being, serve her desire to shine.
She was radiant and joyous, and made no attempt to disguise her feelings, when it was a settled fact that the British army should occupy New York indefinitely. " 'Tis glorious!" said she, dancing up and down the parlour before Tom and me. "This will be some relief from dulness, some consolation! The town will be full of gallant generals and colonels, handsome majors, dashing captains; there are lords and baronets among 'em; they'll be quartered in all the good houses; there will be fine uniforms, regimental bands, and balls and banquets! Why, I can quite endure this! War has its compensations. We'll have a merry winter of it, young gentlemen! Sure 'twill be like a glimpse of London."
"And there'll be much opportunity for vain ladies to have their heads turned!" quoth Tom, half in jest, half in disapproval.
"I know nothing of that," says she, "but I do know whose sister will be the toast of the British Army before a month is past!"
If the king's troops acquired a toast upon entering New York, the rebels had gained a volunteer upon leaving it. One day, just before Washington's army fled, Tom Faringfield came to me with a face all amusement.
"Who do you think is the latest patriot recruit?" cried he. It was our custom to give the rebels ironically their own denomination of patriots.
"Not you nor I, at any rate," said I. "But one of the family, nevertheless."
"Why, surely--your father has not--" "Oh, no; only my father's eldest."
"Ned?"
"Nobody else. Fancy Ned taking the losing side! Oh, 'fore God, it's true! He came home in a kind of uniform to-day, and told father what he had done; the two had a long talk together in private after that; and though father never shows his thoughts, I believe he really has some hopes of Ned now. The rebels made a lieutenant of him, on father's account. I wonder what his game is."
"I make no doubt, to curry favour with his father."
"Maybe. But perhaps to get an excuse for leaving town, and a way of doing so. I've heard some talk--they say poor Sally Roberts's condition is his work."
"Very like. Your brother is a terrible Adonis--with ladies of a certain kind."
"Not such an Adonis neither--at least the Adonis that Venus courted in Shakespeare's poem. Rather a Jove, I should say."
We did not then suspect the depth of Mr. Ned's contrivance or duplicity. He left New York with the rebels, and 'twas some time ere we saw, or heard of, him again.
And now at last several loyalist brigades were formed as auxiliaries to the royal army, and Tom and I were soon happy in the consciousness of serving our king, and in the possession of the green uniforms that distinguished the local from the regular force. We were of Colonel Cruger's battalion, of General Oliver De Lancey's brigade, and both were so fortunate as to obtain commissions, Tom receiving that of lieutenant, doubtless by reason of his mother's relationship to General De Lancey, and I being made an ensign, on account of the excellent memory in which my father was held by the loyal party. Mr. Faringfield, like many another father in similar circumstances, was outwardly passive upon his son's taking service against his own cause: as a prudent man, he had doubtless seen from the first the advantage of having a son actually under arms for the king, for it gave him and his property such safety under the British occupation as even his lady's loyalist affiliations might not have sufficed to do. Therefore Tom, as a loyalist officer, was no less at home than formerly, in the house of his rebel father. I know not how many such family situations were brought about by this strange war.
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_I Meet an Old Friend in the Dark. _ I shall not give an account of my military service, since it entered little into the history of Philip Winwood. 'Twas our duty to help man the outposts that guarded the island at whose Southern extremity New York lies, from rebel attack; especially from the harassments of the partisan troops, and irregular Whiggery, who would swoop down in raiding parties, cut off our foragers, drive back our wood-cutters, and annoy us in a thousand ways. We had such raiders of our own, too, notably Captain James De Lancey's Westchester Light Horse, Simcoe's Rangers, and the Hessian yagers, who repaid the visits of our enemies by swift forays across the neutral ground between the two armies.
But this warfare did not exist in its fulness till later, when the American army formed about us an immense segment of a circle, which began in New Jersey, ran across Westchester County in New York province, and passed through a corner of Connecticut to Long Island Sound. On our side, we occupied Staten Island, part of the New Jersey shore, our own island, lower Westchester County, and that portion of Long Island nearest New York. But meanwhile, the rebel main army was in New Jersey in the Winter of 1776-77, surprising some of our Hessians at Trenton, overcoming a British force at Princeton, and going into quarters at Morristown. And in the next year, Sir William Howe having sailed to take Philadelphia with most of the king's regulars (leaving General Clinton to hold New York with some royal troops and us loyalists), the fighting was around the rebel capital, which the British, after two victories, held during the Winter of 1777-78, while Washington camped at Valley Forge.
In the Fall of 1777, we thought we might have news of Winwood, for in the Northern rebel army to which General Burgoyne then capitulated, there were not only many New York troops, but moreover several of the officers taken at Quebec, who had been exchanged when Philip had. But of him we heard nothing, and from him it was not likely that we should hear. Margaret never mentioned him now, and seemed to have forgotten that she possessed a husband. Her interest was mainly in the British officers still left in New York, and her impatience was for the return of the larger number that had gone to Philadelphia. To this impatience an end was put in the Summer of 1778, when the main army marched back to us across New Jersey, followed part way by the rebels, and fighting with them at Monmouth Court House. 'Twas upon this that the lines I have mentioned, of British outposts protecting New York, and rebel forces surrounding us on all sides but that of the sea, were established in their most complete shape; and that the reciprocal forays became most frequent.
And now, too, the British occupation of New York assumed its greatest proportions. The kinds of festivity in which Margaret so brilliantly shone, lent to the town the continual gaiety in which she so keenly delighted. The loyalist families exerted themselves to protect the king's officers from dulness, and the king's officers, in their own endeavours to the same end, helped perforce to banish dulness from the lives of their entertainers. 'Twas a gay town, indeed, for some folk, despite the vast ugly blotches wrought upon its surface by two great fires since the war had come, and despite the scarcity of provisions and the other inconveniences of a virtual state of siege. Tom and I saw much of that gaiety, for indeed at that time our duties were not as active as we wished they might be, and they left us leisure enough to spend in the town. But we were pale candles to the European officers--the rattling, swearing, insolent English, the tall and haughty Scots, the courtly Hessians and Brunswickers.
"What, sister, have we grown invisible, Bert and I?" said Tom to Margaret, as we met her in the hall one night, after we had returned from a ball in the Assembly Rooms. "Three times we bowed to you this evening, and got never a glance in return." " 'Faith," says she, with a smile, "one can't see these green uniforms for the scarlet ones!"
"Ay," he retorted, with less good-humour than she had shown, "the scarlet coats blind some people's eyes, I think, to other things than green uniforms."
It was, I fancy, because Tom had from childhood adored her so much, that he now took her conduct so ill, and showed upon occasion a bitterness that he never manifested over any other subject.
"What do you mean, you saucy boy?" cried she, turning red, and looking mighty handsome. "You might take a lesson or two in manners from some of the scarlet coats!"
"Egad, they wouldn't find time to give me lessons, being so busy with you! But which of your teachers do you recommend--Captain Andre, Lord Rawdon, Colonel Campbell, or the two Germans whose names I can't pronounce? By George, you won't be happy till you have Sir Henry Clinton and General Knyphausen disputing for the front place at your feet!"
[Illustration: "SHE WAS INDEED THE TOAST OF THE ARMY."]
She softened from anger to a little laugh of conscious triumph, tapped him with her fan, and sped up the stairs. Her prediction had come true. She was indeed the toast of the army. Her mother apparently saw no scandal in this, being blinded by her own partiality to the royal side. Her father knew it not, for he rarely attended the British festivities, from which he could not in reason debar his wife and daughters. Fanny was too innocent to see harm in what her sister did. But Tom and I, though we never spoke of it to each other, were made sensitive, by our friendship for Philip, to the impropriety of the situation--that the wife of an absent American officer should reign as a beauty among his military enemies. I make no doubt but the circumstance was commented upon, with satirical smiles at the expense of both husband and wife, by the British officers themselves. Indeed I once heard her name mentioned, not as Mrs. Winwood, but as "Captain Winwood's wife," with an expression of voice that made me burn to plant my fist in the leering face of the fellow who spoke--some low-born dog, I'll warrant, who had paid high for his commission.
It was a custom of Tom's and mine to put ourselves, when off duty together, in the way of more active service than properly fell to us, by taking horse and riding to the eastern side of the Harlem River, where was quartered the troop of Tom's relation, James De Lancey. In more than one of the wild forays of these horsemen, did we take an unauthorised part, and find it a very exhilarating business.
One cold December afternoon in 1778, we got private word from Captain De Lancey that he was for a raid up the Albany road, that night, in retaliation for a recent severe onslaught made upon our Hessian post near Colonel Van Cortlandt's mansion, either ('twas thought) by Lee's Virginia Light Horse or by the partisan troop under the French nobleman known in the rebel service as Armand.
At nightfall we were on the gallop with De Lancey's men, striking the sparks from the stony road under a cloudy sky. But these troops, accustomed to darkness and familiar with the country, found the night not too black for their purpose, which was, first, the seizing of some cattle that two or three Whig farmers had contrived to retain possession of, and, second, the surprising of a small advanced post designed to protect rebel foragers. The first object was fairly well accomplished, and a detail of men assigned to conduct the prizes back to Kingsbridge forthwith, a difficult task for which those upon whom it fell cursed their luck, or their commander's orders, under their breath. One of the farmers, for stubbornly resisting, was left tied to a tree before his swiftly dismantled house, and only Captain De Lancey's fear of alarming the rebel outpost prevented the burning down of the poor fellow's barn.
The taking of these cattle had necessitated our leaving the highway. To this we now returned, and proceeded Northward to where the road crosses the Neperan River, near the Philipse manor-house. Instead of crossing this stream, we turned to the right, to follow its left bank some way upward, and then ascended the hill East of it, on which the rebel post was established. Our course, soon after leaving the road, lay through woods, the margin of the little river affording us only sufficient clear space for proceeding in single file. De Lancey rode at the head, then went two of his men, then Tom Faringfield and myself, the troop stringing out behind us, the lieutenant being at the rear.
'Twas slow and toilsome riding; and only the devil's own luck, or some marvellous instinct of our horses, spared us many a stumble over roots, stones, twigs, and underbrush. What faint light the night retained for well-accustomed eyes, had its source in the cloud-curtained moon, and that being South of us, we were hidden in the shadow of the woods. But 'tis a thousand wonders the noise of our passage was not sooner heard, though De Lancey's stern command for silence left no sound possible from us except that of our horses and equipments. I fancy 'twas the loud murmur of the stream that shielded us. But at last, as we approached the turning of the water, where we were to dismount, surround the rebels hutted upon the hill before us, creep silently upon them, and attack from all sides at a signal, there was a voice drawled out of the darkness ahead of us the challenge: "Who goes thar?"
We heard the click of the sentinel's musket-lock; whereupon Captain De Lancey, in hope of gaining the time to seize him ere he could give the alarm, replied, "Friends," and kept riding on.
"You're a liar, Jim De Lancey!" cried back the sentinel, and fired his piece, and then (as our ears told us) fled through the woods, up the hill, toward his comrades.
There was now nothing for us but to abandon all thought of surrounding the enemy, or even, we told ourselves, of taking time to dismount and bestow our horses; unless we were willing to lose the advantage of a surprise at least partial, as we were not. We could but charge on horseback up the hill, after the fleeing sentinel, in hope of coming upon the rebels but half-prepared. Or rather, as we then felt, so we chose to think, foolish as the opinion was. Indeed what could have been more foolish, less military, more like a tale of fabulous knights in some enchanted forest? A cavalry charge, with no sort of regular formation, up a wooded hill, in a night dark enough in the open but sheer black under the thick boughs; to meet an encamped enemy at the top! But James De Lancey's men were noted rather for reckless dash than for military prudence; they felt best on horseback, and would accept a score of ill chances and fight in the saddle, rather than a dozen advantages and go afoot. I think they were not displeased at their discovery by the sentinel, which gave them an excuse for a harebrained onset ahorse, in place of the tedious manoeuvre afoot that had been planned. As for Tom and me, we were at the age when a man will dare the impossible.
So we went, trusting to the sense of our beasts, or to dumb luck, to carry us unimpeded through the black woods. As it was, a few of the animals ran headforemost against trees, and others stumbled over roots and logs, while some of the riders had their heads knocked nearly off by coming in contact with low branches. But a majority of us, to judge by the noise we made, arrived with our snorting, panting steeds at the hill-crest; where, in a cleared space, and fortified with felled trees, upheaved earth, forage carts, and what not, stood the improvised cabins of the rebels.
Three or four shots greeted us as we emerged from the thick wood. We, being armed with muskets and pistols as well as swords, returned the fire, and spurred our horses on toward the low breastwork, which, as it was not likely to have anything of a trench behind it, we thought to overleap either on horse or afoot. But the fire that we met, almost at the very barrier, felled so many of our horses and men, raised such a hellish chorus of wild neighing, cries of pain and wrath, ferocious curses and shouts of vengeance, that the men behind reined up uncertain. De Lancey turned upon his horse, waved his sword, and shouted for the laggards to come on. We had only the light of musketry to see by. Tom Faringfield was unhorsed and down; and fearing he might be wounded, I leaped to the ground, knelt, and partly raised him. He was unharmed, however; and we both got upon our feet, with our swords out, our discharged muskets slung round upon our backs, our intent being to mount over the rebel's rude rampart--for we had got an impression of De Lancey's sword pointed that way while he fiercely called upon his troops to disregard the fallen, and each man charge for himself in any manner possible, ahorse or afoot.
But more and more of the awakened rebels--we could make out only their dark figures--sprang forward from their huts (mere roofs, 'twere better to call these) to the breastwork, each waiting to take careful aim at our mixed-up mass of men and horses before he fired into it. As Tom and I were extricating ourselves from the mass by scrambling over a groaning man or two, and a shrieking, kicking horse that lay on its side, De Lancey rode back to enforce his commands upon the men at our rear, some of whom were firing over our heads. His turning was mistaken for a movement of retreat, not only by our men, of whom the unhurt promptly made to hasten down the hill, but also by the enemy, a few of whom now leaped from behind their defence to pursue.
Tom and I, not yet sensible of the action of our comrades, were striding forward to mount the rampart, when this sally of rebels occurred. Though it appalled us at the time, coming so unexpectedly, it was the saving of us; for it stopped the fire of the rebels remaining behind the barrier, lest they should hit their comrades. A ringing voice, more potent than a bugle, now called upon these latter to come back, in a tone showing their movement to have been without orders. They speedily obeyed; all save one, a tall, broad fellow--nothing but a great black figure in the night, to our sight--who had rushed with a clubbed musket straight upon Tom and me. A vague sense of it circling through the air, rather than distinct sight of it, told me that his musket-butt was aimed at Tom's head. Instinctively I flung up my sword to ward off the blow; and though of course I could not stop its descent, I so disturbed its direction that it struck only Tom's shoulder; none the less sending him to the ground with a groan. With a curse, I swung my sword--a cut-and-thrust blade-of-all-work, so to speak--with some wild idea of slicing off a part of the rebel's head; but my weapon was hacked where it met him, and so it merely made him reel and drop his musket. The darkness falling the blacker after the glare of the firing, must have cloaked these doings from the other rebels. Tom rose, and the two of us fell upon our enemy at once, I hissing out the words, "Call for quarter, you dog!"
"Very well," he said faintly, quite docile from having had his senses knocked out of him by my blow, and not knowing at all what was going on.
"Come then," said I, and grasped him by an arm, while Tom held him at the other side; and so the three of us ran after De Lancey and his men--for the captain had followed in vain attempt to rally them--into the woods and down the hill. Tom's horse was shot, and mine had fled.
Our prisoner accompanied us with the unquestioning obedience of one whose wits are for the time upon a vacation. Getting into the current of retreat, which consisted of mounted men, men on foot, riderless horses, and the wrathful captain whose enterprise was now quite hopeless through the enemy's being well warned against a second attempt, we at last reached the main road.
Here, out of a chaotic huddle, order was formed, and to the men left horseless, mounts were given behind other men. Captain De Lancey assigned a beast to myself and my prisoner. The big rebel clambered up behind me, with the absent-minded acquiescence he had displayed ever since my stroke had put his wits asleep. As we started dejectedly Southward, full of bruises, aches, and weariness, there was some question whether the rebels would pursue us.
"Not if their officer has an ounce of sense," said Captain De Lancey, "being without horses, as he is. He's scarce like to play the fool by coming down, as I did in charging up! Well, we've left some wounded to his care. Who is their commander? Ask your prisoner, Lieutenant Russell."
I turned on my saddle and put the query, but my man vouchsafed merely a stupid, "Hey?"
"Shake him back to his senses," said De Lancey, stopping his horse, as I did mine, and Tom his.
But shaking did not suffice.
"This infernal darkness helps to cloud his wits," suggested the captain. "Flash a light before his eyes. Here, Tippet, your lantern, please."
I continued shaking the prisoner, while the lantern was brought. Suddenly the man gave a start, looked around into the black night, and inquired in a husky, small voice: "Who are you? Where are we?"
"We are your captors," said I, "and upon the Hudson River road, bound for Kingsbridge. And now, sir, who are you?"
But the rays of the lantern, falling that instant upon his face, answered my question for me.
"Cornelius!" I cried.
"What, sir? Why--'tis Mr. Russell!"
"Ay, and here is Tom Faringfield," said I. "Well, bless my soul!" exclaimed the pedagogue, grasping the hand that Tom held to him out of the darkness.
"Mr. Cornelius, since that is your name," put in De Lancey, to whom time was precious. "Will you please tell us who commands yonder, where we got the reception our folly deserved, awhile ago?"
"Certainly, sir," said Cornelius. " 'Tis no harm, I suppose--no violation of duty or custom?"
"Not in the least," said I. "Why then, sir," says he, "since yesterday, when we relieved the infantry there--we are dragoons, sir, though dismounted for this particular service--a new independent troop, sir--Winwood's Horse--" "Winwood's!" cried I. "Ay, Captain Winwood's--Mr. Philip, you know--'tis he commands our post yonder."
"Oh, indeed!" said De Lancey, carelessly. "A relation of mine by marriage."
But for a time I had nothing to say, thinking how, after these years of separation, Philip and I had come so near meeting in the night, and known it not; and how, but for the turn of things, one of us might have given the other his death-blow unwittingly in the darkness.
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_Philip's Adventures--Captain Falconer Comes to Town. _ Upon the way back to our lines, we were entertained by Mr. Cornelius with an account of Philip's movements during the past three years. One piece of information interested Captain De Lancey: the recent attack upon Van Wrumb's Hessians, which it had been our purpose that night to revenge, was the work of Winwood's troop of horse. Our curiosity upon hearing of Philip as a captain of independent cavalry, who had left us as a lieutenant of New York foot, was satisfied in the course of the pedagogue's narrative. The tutor himself had received promotion upon two sides: first, to the Presbyterian ministry, his admission thereto having occurred while he was with the rebel army near Morristown, New Jersey, the last previous Winter but one; second, to the chaplaincy of Winwood's troop.
"Sure the devil's in it," said I, when he had told me this, "if the rebels' praying men are as sanguinary as you showed yourself to-night--leaping out to pursue your beaten enemy, as you did."
"Why," he replied, self-reproachfully, in his mildest voice, "I find, do what I can, I have at bottom a combative spirit that will rise upon occasion. I had thought 'twas long since quelled. But I fear no man is always and altogether his own master. I saw even General Washington, at Monmouth--but no matter for that. Especially of late, I have found my demon of wrath--to speak figuratively--too much for me. 'Twas too violently roused, maybe, that night your General Grey and his men fell upon us as we slept, yonder across the Hudson, and slaughtered us like sheep in the barn we lay in."
"Why, were you in that too?" I asked, surprised. "I thought that troop was called Lady Washington's Light Horse." [3] "Ay, we were then of that troop, Captain Winwood and I. 'Twas for his conduct in that affair, his valour and skill in saving the remnant of the troop, that he was put, t'other day, in command of an independent company. I may take some pride in having helped him to this honour; for his work the night General Grey surprised us was done so quietly, and his report made so little of his own share in the business, 'twould have gone unrecognised, but for my account of it. Though, to be sure, General Washington said afterward, in my hearing, that such bravery and sagacity, coupled with such modesty, were only what he might expect of Captain Winwood."
Cornelius had shared Philip's fortunes since their departure from New York. When Winwood fell wounded in the snow, between the two blockhouses at the foot of the cliff, that night the rebels met defeat at Quebec, the pedagogue remained to succour him, and so was taken prisoner with him. He afterward helped nurse him in the French religious house, in the walled "upper town," to which the rebel wounded were conveyed.
Upon the exchange of prisoners, Philip, having suffered a relapse, was unable to accompany his comrades homeward, and Cornelius stayed to care for him. There was a Scotchwoman who lived upon a farm a few miles West of Quebec, and whose husband was serving on our side as one of Colonel Maclean's Royal Highlanders. She took Winwood and the pedagogue into her house as guests, trusting them till some uncertain time in the future might find them able to pay.
When at last Philip dared hazard the journey, the rebel siege of Quebec, which had continued in a half-hearted manner until Spring brought British reinforcements up the river in ship-loads, had long been raised, and the rebels had long since flown. Provided by Governor Carleton with the passports to which in their situation they were entitled, the two started for New York, bound by way of the St. Lawrence, the Richelieu, the lakes, and the Hudson. It was now Winter, and only Winwood's impatience to resume service could have tempted them to such a journey in that season.
They came part way afoot, receiving guidance now from some solitary fur-capped _courier du bois_ clad in skins and hoofed with snow-shoes, now from some peaceful Indian, now from the cowled brothers of, some forest monastery which gave them a night's shelter also. Portions of the journey they made upon sledges driven by poor _habitans_ dwelling in the far-apart villages or solitary farmhouses. At other times they profited by boats and canoes, propelled up the St. Lawrence by French peasants, befringed hunters, or friendly red men. Their entertainment and housing were sometimes from such people as I have mentioned; sometimes of their own contriving, the woods furnishing game for food, fagots for fuel, and boughs for roof and bedding.
They encountered no danger from human foes until they were in the province of New York, and, having left the lakes behind them, were footing it Southward along the now frozen Hudson. The Indians in Northern New York had been won to our interest, by Sir John Johnson, of Johnson Hall, in the Mohawk Valley, and were more than formerly inclined to vigilance regarding travellers in those lonely regions. Upon waking suddenly one night when camped in the woods, Philip saw by the firelight that he was surrounded by a party of silent savages; his sword and pistol, and Cornelius's rifle, being already in their possession. The two soldiers were held as prisoners for several days, and made to accompany their captors upon long, mysterious peregrinations. At last they were brought before Sir John Johnson, at one of his forts; and that gentleman, respecting Governor Carleton's passes, and the fact that Captain Winwood was related by marriage to the De Lanceys, sent them with a guide to Albany.
Here they reported to General Schuyler; and Philip, having learned by the experience of his journey that his wound left him incapacitated for arduous service afoot, desired an arrangement by which he might join the cavalry branch of the army. Mr. Schuyler was pleased to put the matter through for him, and to send him to Morristown, New Jersey, (where the rebel main force was then in Winter quarters) with a commendatory letter to General Washington. Cornelius, whose time of service had expired, was free to accompany him.
Philip, being enrolled, without loss of nominal rank, in Lady Washington's Light Horse, which Cornelius entered as a trooper, had now the happiness of serving near the person of the commander-in-chief. He was wounded again at the Brandywine, upon which occasion Cornelius bore him off the field without their being captured. During the Winter at Valley Forge, and at the battle of Monmouth, and in the recent partisan warfare on both sides of the Hudson, their experiences were those of Washington's army as a whole, of which there are histories enough extant: until their troop was cut to pieces by Earl Grey, and Captain Winwood was advanced to an independent command. This was but a recent event.
"And did he never think of us in New York," said Tom, "that he sent us no word in all this time?"
"Sure, you must thank your British occupation of New York, if you received none of our messages. General Washington allowed them to pass."
"Ay, 'tis not easy for rebels to communicate with their friends in New York," quoth I, "despite the traffic of goods between the Whig country folk and some of our people, that Captain De Lancey knows about."
"Tut, man!" said De Lancey. "Some things must be winked at; we need their farm stuff as much as they want our tea and such. But correspondence from rebels must go to headquarters--where 'tis like to stop, when it's for a family whose head is of Mr. Faringfield's way of thinking."
"Well," said Mr. Cornelius, "Captain Winwood and I have discussed more than one plan by which he might perchance get sight of his people for a minute or so. He has hoped he might be sent into New York under a flag of truce, upon some negotiation or other, and might obtain permission from your general to see his wife while there; but he has always been required otherwise when messengers were to be sent. He has even thought of offering to enter the town clandestinely--" "Hush!" I interrupted. "You are indiscreet. We are soldiers of the king, remember. But, to be sure, 'tis nonsense; Phil would not be such a fool as to risk hanging."
"Oh, to be sure; nonsense, indeed!" Cornelius stammered, much upset at the imprudence due to his thoughtlessness. "And yet," he resumed presently, "never did a man more crave a sight of those he left behind. He would barter a year of his life, I think, for a minute's speech with his wife. He talks of her by the hour, when he and I are alone together. There was some coolness, you will remember, before their parting; but 'twas not on his side, and his lady seemed to have dropped it when he was taking leave of her; and three years of absence have gone since then. So I am sure she has softened quite, and that she desires his return as much as he longs for her presence. And though he knows all this must be so, he keeps me ever reassuring and persuading him it is. Ah, sir, if ever there was a man in love with his wife!"
I made no reply. I had previously informed him of her good health, in answer to a question whose eagerness came of his friendship for Philip. I asked myself whether his unsuspecting mind was like to perceive aught that would pain him for Philip's sake, in her abandonment to the gaieties of the town, to the attentions of the king's officers, to the business of making herself twice as charming as the pedagogue had ever seen her.
We got it arranged that our prisoner should be put on parole and quartered at Mr. Faringfield's house, where his welcome was indeed a glad one. When Margaret heard of his presence in the town, she gave a momentary start (it seemed to me a start of self-accusation) and paled a little; but she composed herself, and asked in a sweet and gracious (not an eager) tone: "And Philip?"
I told her all I had learned from Cornelius, to which she listened with a kindly heedfulness, only sometimes pressing her white teeth upon her lower lip, and other times dropping her lustrous eyes from my purposely steady, and perhaps reproachful, gaze.
"So then," said she, as if to be gay at the expense of her husband's long absence, "now that three years and more have brought him so near us, maybe another three years or so will bring him back to us!" 'Twas affected gaiety, one could easily see. Her real feeling must have been of annoyance that any news of her husband should be obtruded upon her. She had entered into a way of life that involved forgetfulness of him, and for which she must reproach herself whenever she thought of him, but which was too pleasant for her to abandon. But she had the virtue to be ashamed that reminders of his existence were unwelcome, and consequently to pretend that she took them amiably; and yet she had not the hypocrisy to pretend the eager solicitude which a devoted wife would evince upon receiving news of her long-absent soldier-husband. Such hypocrisy, indeed, would have appeared ridiculous in a wife who had scarce mentioned her husband's name, and then only when others spoke of him, in three years. Yet her very self-reproach for disregarding him--did it not show that, under all the feelings that held her to a life of gay coquetry, lay her love for Philip, not dead, nor always sleeping?
When Cornelius came to the house to live, she met him with a warm clasp of the hand, and with a smile of so much radiance and sweetness, that for a time he must have been proud of her on Phil's behalf; and so dazzled that he could not yet see those things for which, on the same behalf, he must needs be sorrowful.
Knowing now exactly where Philip was, we were able to send him speedy news of Cornelius's safety, and of the good health and good wishes of us all; and we got in reply a message full of thanks and of affectionate solicitude. The transfer of his troop to New Jersey soon removed the possibility of my meeting him.
In the following Summer (that of 1779), as I afterward learned, Captain Winwood and some of his men accompanied Major Lee's famous dragoons (dismounted for the occasion) to the nocturnal surprise and capture of our post at Paulus Hook, in New Jersey, opposite New York. But he found no way of getting into the town to see us. And so I bring him to the Winter of 1779, when the main rebel camp was again at Morristown, and Philip stationed near Washington's headquarters. But meanwhile, in New York, in the previous Autumn some additional British troops had arrived from England; and one of these was Captain Falconer.
There was a ball one night at Captain Morris's country-house some eight or ten miles North of the town, which the rebel authorities had already declared confiscate, if I remember aright, but which, as it was upon the island of Manhattan and within our lines, yet remained in actual possession of the rightful owner. Here Washington (said to have been an unsuccessful suitor to Mrs. Morris when she was Miss Philipse) had quartered ere the British chased the rebels from the island of Manhattan; and here now were officers of our own in residence. 'Twas a fine, white house, distinguished by the noble columns of its Grecian front; from its height it overlooked the Hudson, the Harlem, the East River, the Sound, and miles upon miles of undulating land on every side. [4] On this night the lights showed welcome from its many windows, open doors, and balconies, and from the coloured paper lanterns festooned upon its façade and strung aloft over its splendid lawn and gardens. The house still stands, I hear, and is known as the Jumel Mansion, from the widow who lives there. But I'll warrant it presents no more such scenes as it offered that night, when the wealth and beauty of New York, the chivalry of the king's army, arrived at its broad pillared entrance by horse and by coach in a constant procession. In the great hall, and the adjacent rooms, the rays of countless candles fell upon brilliant uniforms, upon silk and velvet and brocade and broadcloth, upon powdered hair, and fans and furbelows, upon white necks and bosoms, and dazzling eyes, upon jewels and golden buckles and shining sword-hilts.
We that entered from the Faringfield coach were Mrs. Faringfield and my mother, Margaret and Fanny, Tom and myself. We had just received the greeting of our handsome hostess, and were passing up the hall, when my eyes alighted upon the figure of an officer who stood alone, in an attitude of pensive negligence, beside the mantelpiece. He was fully six feet tall, but possessed a carriage of grace and elegance, instead of the rigid erectness of so many of his comrades. He had a slender, finely cut, English face, a long but delicate chin, gray eyes of a beautiful clearness, slightly wavy hair that was now powdered, and the hands and legs of a gentleman.
"What a handsome fellow! Who is he?" whispered Margaret to Fanny.
I glanced at her. Her eyes showed admiration--an expression I had never before seen in them. I looked back at the officer. He in turn had seen her. His face, from having worn a look half melancholy, half languid, had speedily become animated with interest. 'Twas as if each of these two superb creatures had unexpectedly fallen upon something they had scarce hoped to find in their present environment.
"A mighty pretty gentleman, indeed," said my mother.
"Nay," said Margaret, with a swift relapse into indifference, "no such Adonis neither, on second view."
But I saw that she turned the corner of her eye upon him at intervals as she moved forward, and that she was not sorry or annoyed to find that he kept his gaze boldly upon her all the while. Presently he looked about him, and singled out an acquaintance, to whom he made his way. Five minutes later he was being introduced, as Captain Falconer, to Mrs. Winwood. " 'Faith," said he, in a courteous, subdued voice, after bowing very low, "I did not think to find a lady so recently from St. James', in this place. One might swear, looking at you, madam, that this was Almack's."
"Sir, you speak to one that never saw St. James' but in imagination," said Margaret, coolly. "Sure one can be white, and moderately civil, and yet be of New York."
"The deuce, madam! A native? You?"
"Ay, sir, of the aborigines; the daughter of a red Indian!" " 'Fore God, then, 'tis no wonder the American colonists make war upon the Indian race. Their wives and daughters urge 'em to it, out of jealousy of the red men's daughters."
"Why, if they wished the red ladies exterminated, they couldn't do better than send a number of king's officers among 'em--famous lady-killers, I've heard."
"Madam, I know naught of that; nor of the art of lady-killing itself, which I never desired to possess until this evening."
The captain's eyes, so languid with melancholy or ennui a short while before, now had the glow of pre-determined conquest; his face shone with that resolve; and by this transformation, as well as by the inconsistency of his countenance with the soft tone and playful matter of his words, which inconsistency betrayed the gentleness to be assumed, I read the man through once for all: selfish, resolute, facile, versatile, able to act any part thoroughly and in a moment, constant to his object till it was won, then quick to leave it for another; unscrupulous, usually invincible, confident of his proven powers rather than vain of fancied ones; good-natured when not crossed, and with an irresistible charm of person and manner. And Margaret too--there was more and other meaning in her looks than in her light, ironical speeches.
He led her through two minuets that night, and was her partner in the Virginia reel (the name the Americans give the Sir Roger de Coverly); and his was the last face we saw at our coach window as we started homeward.
"You've made the rest of the army quite jealous of this new captain," growled Tom, as we rolled Southward over the stony Harlem road. "The way Major Tarleton glared at him, would have set another man trembling."
"Captain Falconer doesn't tremble so easily, I fancy," said Margaret. "And yet he's no marvel of a man, as I can see."
Tom gave a sarcastic grunt. His manifestations regarding Margaret's behaviour were the only exception to the kind, cheerful conduct of his whole life. A younger brother is not ordinarily so watchful of a sister's demeanour; he has the doings of other young ladies to concern himself with. Tom did not lack these, but he was none the less keenly sensitive upon the point of Margaret's propriety and good name. 'Twas the extraordinary love and pride he had centred upon her, that made him so observant and so touchy in the case. He brooded upon her actions, worried himself with conjectures, underwent such torments as jealous lovers know, such pangs as Hamlet felt in his uncertainty regarding the integrity of his mother.
Within a week after the Morris ball, it came to pass that Captain Falconer was quartered, by regular orders, in the house of Mr. Faringfield. Tom and I, though we only looked our thoughts, saw more than accident in this. The officer occupied the large parlour, which he divided by curtains into two apartments, sitting-room and sleeping-chamber. By his courtesy and vivacity, he speedily won the regard of the family, even of Mr. Faringfield and the Rev. Mr. Cornelius.
"Damn the fellow!" said Tom to me. "I can't help liking him."
"Nor I, either," was my reply; but I also damned him in my turn.
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_A Fine Project. _ Were it my own history that I am here undertaking, I should give at this place an account of my first duel, which was fought with swords, in Bayard's Woods, my opponent being an English lieutenant of foot, from whom I had suffered a display of that superciliousness which our provincial troops had so resented in the British regulars in the old French War. By good luck I disarmed the man without our receiving more than a small scratch apiece; and subsequently brought him to the humbleness of a fawning spaniel, by a mien and tone of half-threatening superiority which never fail of reducing such high-talking sparks to abject meekness. 'Twas a trick of pretended bullying, which we long-suffering Americans were driven to adopt in self-defence against certain derisive, contemptuous praters that came to our shores from Europe. But 'tis more to my purpose, as the biographer of Philip Winwood, to continue upon the subject of Captain Falconer.
He was the mirror of elegance, with none of the exaggerations of a fop. He brought with him to the Queen Street house the atmosphere of Bond Street and Pall Mall, the perfume of Almack's and the assembly rooms, the air of White's and the clubs, the odour of the chocolate houses and the fashionable taverns. 'Twas all that he represented, I fancy, rather than what the man himself was, and conquering as he was, that caught Margaret's eye. He typified the world before which she had hoped to shine, and from which she had been debarred--cruelly debarred, it may have seemed to her. I did not see this then; 'twas another, one of a broader way of viewing things, one of a less partial imagination--'twas Philip Winwood--that found this excuse for her.
Captain Falconer had the perception soon to gauge correctly us who were of American rearing, and the tact to cast aside the lofty manner by which so many of his stupid comrades estranged us. He treated Tom and me with an easy but always courteous familiarity that surprised, flattered, and won us. He would play cards with us, in his sitting-room, as if rather for the sake of our company than for the pleasure of the game. Indeed, as he often frankly confessed, gambling was no passion with him; and this was remarkable at a time when 'twas the only passion most fine young gentlemen would acknowledge as genuine in them, and when those who did not feel that passion affected it. We admired this fine disdain on his part for the common fashionable occupation of the age (for the pursuit of women was pretended to be followed as a necessary pastime, but without much real heart) as evidence of a superior mind. Yet he played with us, losing at first, but eventually winning until I had to withdraw. Tom, having more money to lose, held out longer.
"Why now," said the captain once, regarding his winnings with a face of perfect ruefulness, "'tis proven that what we seek eludes us, and what we don't value comes to us! Here am I, the last man in the world to court success this way, and here am I more winner than if I had played with care and attention."
Tom once mentioned, to another officer, Captain Falconer's luck at cards as an instance of fortune befriending one who despised her favours in that way.
"Blood, sir!" exclaimed the officer. "Jack Falconer may have a mind and taste above gaming as a pleasure, for aught I know. But I would I had his skill with the cards. 'Tis no pastime with him, but a livelihood. Don't you know the man is as poor as a church-mouse, but for what he gets upon the green table?"
This revelation a little dampened our esteem for the captain's elevation of intellect, but I'll take my oath of it, he was really above gaming as a way of entertaining his mind, however he resorted to it as a means of filling his purse.
Of course Tom's friendly association with him was before there was sure cause to suspect his intentions regarding Margaret. His manner toward her was the model of proper civility. He was a hundred times more amiable and jocular with Fanny, whom he treated with the half-familiar pleasantry of an elderly man for a child; petting her with such delicacy as precluded displeasure on either her part or mine. He pretended great dejection upon learning that her heart was already engaged; and declared that his only consolation lay in the fact that the happy possessor of the prize was myself: for which we both liked him exceedingly. Toward Mrs. Faringfield, too, he used a chivalrous gallantry as complimentary to her husband as to the lady. Only between him and Margaret was there the distance of unvaried formality.
And yet we ought to have seen how matters stood. For now Margaret, though she had so little apparent cordiality for the captain, had ceased to value the admiration of the other officers, and had substituted a serene indifference for the animated interest she had formerly shown toward the gaieties of the town. And the captain, too, we learned, had the reputation of an inveterate conqueror of women; yet he had exhibited a singular callousness to the charms of the ladies of New York. He had been three months in the town, and his name had not been coupled with that of any woman there. We might have surmised from this a concealed preoccupation. And, moreover, there was my first reading of his countenance, the night of the Morris ball; this I had not forgotten, yet I ignored it, or else I shut my eyes to my inevitable inferences, because I could see no propriety in any possible interference from me.
One evening in December there was a drum at Colonel Philipse's town house, which Margaret did not attend. She had mentioned, as reason for absenting herself, a cold caught a few nights previously, through her bare throat being exposed to a chill wind by the accidental falling of her cloak as she walked to the coach after Mrs. Colden's rout. As the evening progressed toward hilarity, I observed that Tom Faringfield became restless and gloomy. At last he approached me, with a face strangely white, and whispered: "Do you see? --Captain Falconer is not here!"
"Well, what of that?" quoth I. "Ten to one, he finds these companies plaguey tiresome."
"Or finds other company more agreeable," replied Tom, with a very dark look in his eyes.
He left me, with no more words upon the subject. When it was time to go home, and Mrs. Faringfield and Fanny and I sought about the rooms for him, we found he had already taken his leave. So we three had the chariot to ourselves, and as we rode I kept my own thoughts upon Tom's previous departure, and my own vague dread of what might happen.
But when Noah let us in, all seemed well in the Faringfield house. Margaret was in the parlour, reading; and she laid down her book to ask us pleasantly what kind of an evening we had had. She was the only one of the family up to receive us, Mr. Faringfield having retired hours ago, and Tom having come in and gone to bed without an explanation. The absence of light in Captain Falconer's windows signified that he too had sought his couch, for had he been still out, his servant would have kept candles lighted for him.
The next day, as we rode out Northward to our posts, Tom suddenly broke the silence: "Curse it!" said he. "There are more mysteries than one. Do you know what I found when I got home last night?"
"I can't imagine."
"Well, I first looked into the parlour, but no one was there. Instead of going on to the library, I went up-stairs and knocked at Margaret's door. I--I wanted to see her a moment. It happened to be unlatched, and as I knocked rather hard, it swung open. No one was in that room, either, but I thought she might be in the bedchamber beyond, and so I crossed to knock at that. But I chanced to look at her writing-table as I passed; there was a candle burning on it, and devil take me if I didn't see a letter in a big schoolboy's hand that I couldn't help knowing at a glance--the hand of my brother Ned!"
"Then I'll engage the letter wasn't to Margaret. You know how much love is lost between those two."
"But it was to her, though! 'Dear M.,' it began--there's no one else whose name begins with M in the family. And the writing was fresh--not the least faded. I saw that much before I thought of what I was doing. But when I remembered 'twasn't my letter, I looked no more."
"But how could he send a letter from the rebel camp to her in New York?" [5] "Why, that's not the strangest part of it. There's no doubt Washington has spies in the town, and ways of communicating with the rebel sympathisers here; I've sometimes thought my father--but no matter for that. The fact is, there the letter was, as certainly from Ned as I'm looking at you; and we know he's in the rebel army. But the wonder, the incredible thing, is that he should write to Margaret." " 'Tis a mystery, in truth."
"Well, 'tis none of ours, after all, and of course this will go no further--but let me tell you, the devil's in it when those two are in correspondence. There's crookedness of some kind afoot, when such haters combine together!"
"You didn't ask her, of course?"
"No. But I knocked at her chamber door, and getting no answer I went down-stairs again. This time she was in the parlour. She had been in the library before, it seemed; 'twas warmer there."
But, as I narrowly watched the poor lad, I questioned whether he was really convinced that she had been in the library before. He had said nothing of Captain Falconer's sitting-room, of which the door was that of the transformed large parlour, and was directly across the hall from the Faringfields' ordinary parlour, wherein Tom had first sought and eventually found her.
'Twas our practice thus to ride back to our posts when we had been off duty, although our rank did not allow us to go mounted in the service. For despite the needs of the army, the Faringfields and I contrived to retain our horses for private use. All of that family were good riders, particularly Margaret. She often rode out for a morning's canter, going alone because it was her will thereto, which was not opposed, for she had so accustomed us to her aloofness that solitary excursions seemed in place with her. One day, a little later in that same December, Tom and I had taken the road by way of General De Lancey's country mansion at Bloomingdale, rather than our usual course, which lay past the Murray house of Incledon. As I rode Northward at a slow walk, some distance ahead of my comrade, I distinctly heard through a thicket that veiled the road from a little glade at the right, the voice of Captain Falconer, saying playfully: "Nay, how can you doubt me? Would not gratitude alone, for the reparation of my fortunes, bind me as your slave, if you had not chains more powerful?"
And then I caught this answer, in a voice that gave me a start, and sent the blood into my face--the voice of Margaret: "But will those chains hold, if this design upon your gratitude fail?"
She spoke as in jest, but with a perceptible undercurrent of earnestness. This was a new attitude for her, and what a revelation to me! In a flash I saw her infatuation for this fine fellow, some fear of losing him, a pursuit of some plan by which she might repair his fortunes and so bind him by obligation. Had Margaret, the invincible, the disdainful, fallen to so abject a posture? And how long had these secret meetings been going on?
There was new-fallen snow upon the road, and this had deadened the sound of our horses' feet to those beyond the thicket. Tom was not yet so near as to have heard their voices. I saw the desirability of his remaining in ignorance for the present, so I uttered a loud "chuck," and gave a pull at my reins, as if urging my horse to a better gait, my purpose being to warn the speakers of unseen passers-by ere Tom should come up. I had not let my horse come to a stop, nor had I otherwise betrayed my discovery.
But, to my dread, I presently heard Tom cry sharply, "Whoa!" and, looking back, saw he had halted at the place where I had heard the voices. My warning must have failed to hush the speakers. Never shall I forget the look of startled horror, shame, and anger upon his face. For a moment he sat motionless; then he turned his horse back to an opening in the thicket, and rode into the glade. I galloped after him, to prevent, if possible, some fearful scene.
When I entered the glade, I saw Margaret and Captain Falconer seated upon their horses, looking with still fresh astonishment and discomfiture upon the intruder. Their faces were toward me. Tom had stopped his horse, and he sat regarding them with what expression I could not see, being behind him. Apparently no one of the three had yet spoken.
Tom glanced at me as I joined the group, and then, in a singularly restrained voice, he said: "Captain Falconer, may I beg leave to be alone with my sister a few moments? I have something to ask her. If you would ride a little way off, with Mr. Russell--" 'Twas, after all, a most natural request. A brother may wish to speak to his sister in private, and 'tis more fitting to put a gentleman than a lady to the trouble of an absence. Seeing it thus, and speaking with recovered composure as if nothing were wrong, the captain courteously replied: "Most certainly. Mr. Russell, after you, sir--nay, no precedence to rank, while we are simply private gentlemen."
He bowed low to Margaret, and we two rode out to the highway, there to pace our horses up and down within call. Of what passed between brother and sister, I afterward received a close account.
"I must have a straight answer," Tom began, "for I must not be put to the folly of acting without cause. Tell me, then, upon your honour, has there been reason between you and Captain Falconer for me to fight him? The truth, now! Of course, I shall find another pretext. It looks a thousand to one, there's reason; but I must be sure."
"Why, I think you have lost your wits, Tom," said she. "If a gentleman known to the family happens to meet me when I ride out, and we chance to talk--" "Ay, but in such a private place, and in such familiar tones, when you scarce ever converse together at home, and then in the most formal way! Oh, sister, that it should come to this!"
"I say, you're a fool, Tom! And a spy too--dogging my footsteps! What right have you to call me to account?"
"As your brother, of course."
"My younger brother you are; and too young to understand all you see, for one thing, or to hold me responsible to you for my actions, for another."
"I understand when your honour calls for my actions, however! Your very anger betrays you. I will kill Falconer!"
"You'll do nothing of the kind!"
"You shall see! I know a brother's duties--his rights, by heaven!"
"A brother has no duties nor rights, concerning a sister who is married."
"Then, if not as your brother, I have as your husband's friend. For, by God, I _am_ Phil's friend, to the death; and while he's not here to see what's passing, I dare act on his behalf. If I may not have a care of my sister's honour, I may of Philip Winwood's! And now I'll go to your captain!"
"But wait--stay, Tom--a moment, for God's sake! You're mistaken, I tell you. There's naught against Philip Winwood's honour in my meeting Captain Falconer. We have conferences, I grant. But 'tis upon a matter you know nothing of--a matter of the war."
"What nonsense! To think I should believe that! What affair of the war could you have to do with? It makes me laugh!"
"I vow there's an affair I have to do with. What do you know of my secrets, my planning and plotting? 'Tis an affair for the royal cause, I'll tell you that much. Nay, I'll tell you all; you won't dare betray it--you'd be a traitor to the king if you did. You shall be let into it, you and Bert. Call back Captain Falconer and him."
Puzzled and incredulous, but glad to test any assertion that might clear his sister of the suspicion most odious, Tom hallooed for us. When we re-entered the glade, Margaret spoke ere any one else had time for a word: "Captain Falconer, I think you'll allow me the right to admit these gentlemen into the secret of our interviews. They are both loyal, both so dear to me that I'd gladly have them take a part in the honour of our project--of which, heaven knows, there'll be enough and to spare if we succeed."
"Madam," said he, "its chance of success will be all the greater, for the participation of these gentlemen."
"Well?" said Tom, looking inquiringly at his sister.
"You promise your aid, then, both?" she asked.
"Let us hear it first," he replied.
She obtained our assurances of secrecy in any event, and proceeded: "Everybody knows what this rebellion costs England, in money, men, and commerce; not to speak of the king's peace of mind, and the feelings of the nation. Everybody sees it must last well-nigh for ever, if it doesn't even win in the end! Well, then, think what it would mean for England, for the king, for America, if the war could be cut short by a single blow, with no cost; cut short by one night's courage, daring, and skill, on the part of a handful of men!"
Tom and I smiled as at one who dreams golden impossibilities.
"Laugh if you will," said she; "but tell me this: what is the soul of the rebellion? What is the one vital part its life depends on? The different rebel provinces hate and mistrust one another--what holds 'em together? The rebel Congress quarrels and plots, and issues money that isn't worth the dirty paper it's printed on; disturbs its army, and does no good to any one--what keeps the rebellion afoot in spite of it? The rebel army complains, and goes hungry and half-naked, and is full of mutiny and desertion--what still controls it from melting away entirely? What carries it through such Winters as the rebels had at Valley Forge, when the Congress, the army, and the people were all at sixes and sevens and swords' points? What raises money the Lord knows how, finds supplies the Lord knows where, induces men to stay in the field, by the Lord knows what means, and has got such renown the world over that now France is the rebels' ally? I make you stare, boys; you're not used to seeing me play the orator. I never did before, and I sha'n't again, for heaven forbid I should be a woman of that kind! But I've studied this matter, and I hope I have a few ideas upon it."
"But what has done all these things you mention? May I ask that?" said I, both amused and curious.
"Washington!" was her reply. "Remove him, and this rebellion will burst like a soap-bubble! And that's the last of my speechmaking. Our project is to remove Washington--nay, there's no assassination in it. We'll do better--capture him and send him to England. Once he is in the Tower awaiting trial, how long do you think the rebellion will last? And what rewards do you think there'll be for those that sent him there?"
"Why," said Tom, "is that a new project? Hasn't the British army been trying to wipe out Washington's army and take him prisoner these four years?"
"But not in the way that we have planned it," replied Margaret, "and that Captain Falconer shall execute it. Tell them, captain." " 'Tis very simple, gentlemen," said the English officer. "If the honour of the execution is to be mine, and the men's whom I shall lead, the honour of the design, and of securing the necessary collusion in the rebel camp, is Mrs. Winwood's. My part hitherto has been, with Sir Henry Clinton's approval, to make up a chosen body of men from all branches of the army; and my part finally shall be to lead this select troop on horseback one dark night, by a devious route, to that part of the rebel lines nearest Washington's quarters; then, with the coöperation that this lady has obtained among the rebels, to make a swift dash upon those quarters, seize Washington while our presence is scarce yet known, and carry him back to New York by outriding all pursuit. Boats will be waiting to bring us across the river. I allow such projects have been tried before, but they have been defeated through rebel sentries giving the alarm in time. They lacked one advantage we possess--collusion in the rebel camp--" "And 'twas you obtained that collusion?" Tom broke in, turning to Margaret. "Hang me if I see how you in New York--oh, but I do, though! Through brother Ned!"
"You're a marvel at a guess," quoth she.
"Ay, ay! But how did you carry on your correspondence with him? 'Twas he, then, originated this scheme?"
"Oh, no; 'twas no such thing! The credit is all mine, if you please. I make no doubt, he _would_ have originated it, if he had thought of it. But a sister's wits are sometimes as good as a brother's--remember that, Tom. For I had the wit not only to devise this project, but to know from the first that Ned's reason for joining the rebels was, that he might profit by betraying them."
"Ay, we might have known as much, Bert," said Tom. "But we give you all credit for beating us there, sister."
"Thank you! But the rascal never saw the way to his ends, I fancy; for he's still in good repute in the rebel army. And when I began to think of a way to gain--to gain the honour of aiding the king's cause, you know, I saw at once that Ned might help me. Much as we disliked each other, he would work with me in this, for the money 'twould bring him. And I had 'lighted upon something else, too--quite by chance. A certain old person I know of has been serving to carry news from a particular Whig of my acquaintance (and neither of 'em must ever come to harm, Captain Falconer has sworn) to General Washington." (As was afterward made sure, 'twas old Bill Meadows, who carried secret word and money from Mr. Faringfield and other friends of the rebellion.) "This old person is very much my friend, and will keep my secrets as well as those of other people. So each time he has gone to the rebel camp, of late--and how he gets there and back into New York uncaught, heaven only knows--he has carried a message to brother Ned; and brought back a reply. Thus while he knowingly serves the rebel cause, he ignorantly serves ours too, for he has no notion of what my brother and I correspond about. And so 'tis all arranged. Through Ned we have learned that the rebel light horse troop under Harry Lee has gone off upon some long business or other, and, as far as the army knows, may return to the camp at any time. All that our company under Captain Falconer has to do, then, is to ride upon a dark night to a place outside the rebel pickets, where Ned will meet them. How Ned shall come there unsuspected, is his own affair--he swears 'tis easy. He will place himself at the head of our troop, and knowing the rebel passwords for the night, as well as how to speak like one of Major Lee's officers, he can lead our men past the sentries without alarm. Our troop will have on the blue greatcoats and the caps the rebel cavalry wear--General Grey's men took a number of these last year, and now they come into use. And besides our having all these means of passing the rebel lines without hindrance, Ned has won over a number of the rebels themselves, by promising 'em a share of the great reward the parliament is sure to vote for this business. He has secured some of the men about headquarters to our interest."
"What a traitor!" quoth Tom, in a tone of disgust.
"Why, sure, we can make use of his treason, without being proud of him as one of the family," said Margaret. "The matter now is, that Captain Falconer offers you two gentlemen places in the troop he has chosen."
"The offer comes a little late, sir," said Tom, turning to the captain.
"Why, sir," replied Falconer, "I protest I often thought of you two. But the risk, gentlemen, and your youth, and my dislike of imperilling my friends--however, take it as you will, I now see I had done better to enlist you at the first. The point is, to enlist you now. You shall have your commander's permission; General Clinton gives me my choice of men. 'Twill be a very small company, gentlemen; the need of silence and dash requires that. And you two shall come in for honour and pay, next to myself--that I engage. 'Twill make rich men of us three, at least, and of your brother, sir; while this lady will find herself the world's talk, the heroine of the age, the saviour of America, the glory of England. I can see her hailed in London for this, if it succeed; praised by princes, toasted by noblemen, envied by the ladies of fashion and the Court, huzza'd by the people in the streets and parks when she rides out--" "Nay, captain, you see too far ahead," she interrupted, seeming ill at ease that these things should be said before Tom and me.
"A strange role, sure, for Captain Winwood's wife," said Tom; "that of plotter against his commander."
"Nay," she cried, quickly, "Captain Winwood plays a strange rôle for Margaret Faringfield's husband--that of rebel against her king. For look ye, I had a king before he had a commander. Isn't that what you might call logic, Tom?" " 'Tis an unanswerable answer, at least," said Captain Falconer, smiling gallantly. "But come, gentlemen, shall we have your aid in this fine adventure?"
It was a fine adventure, and that was the truth. The underhand work, the plotting and the treason involved, were none of ours. 'Twas against Philip Winwood's cause, but our cause was as much to us as his was to him. The prospect of pay and honour did not much allure us; but the vision of that silent night ride, that perilous entrance into the enemy's camp, that swift dash for the person of our greatest foe, that gallop homeward with a roused rebel cavalry, desperate with consternation, at our heels, quite supplanted all feelings of slight in not having been invited earlier. Such an enterprise, for young fellows like us, there was no staying out of.
We gave Captain Falconer our hands upon it, whereupon he told us he would be at the pains to secure our relief from regular duty on the night set for the adventure--that of the following Wednesday--and directed us to be ready with our horses at the ferry at six o'clock Wednesday evening. The rebel cavalry caps and overcoats were to be taken to the New Jersey side previously, and there put on, this arrangement serving as precaution against our disguise being seen within our lines by some possible rebel spy who might thereupon suspect our purpose and find means of preceding us to the enemy's camp.
Tom and I saw the English captain and Margaret take the road toward the town, whereupon we resumed our ride Northward. I could note the lad's relief at being able to account for his sister's secret meeting with Falconer by a reason other than he had feared.
"By George, though," he broke out presently, "'tis plaguey strange Margaret should grow so active in loyalty! I never knew her zeal to be very great for any cause of a public nature. 'Tisn't like her; rabbit me if it is!"
"Why," quoth I, "maybe it's for her own purposes, after all--the reward and the glory. You know the pleasure she takes in shining."
"Egad, that's true enough!" And Tom's face cleared again.
Alas, I knew better! Besides the motive I had mentioned, there had been another to stimulate her wits and industry--the one her words, overheard by me alone, had betrayed too surely--the desire of enriching and advancing Captain Falconer. Well, she was not the first woman, nor has been the last, scheming to pour wealth and honour into a man's lap, partly out of the mere joy of pleasing him, partly in hope of binding him by gratitude, partly to make him seem in the world's eyes the worthier her devotion, and so to lessen her demerit if that devotion be unlawful.
"Poor Philip!" thought I. "Poor Philip! And what will be the end of this?"
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_Winwood Comes to See His Wife. _ 'T were scarce possible to exaggerate the eagerness with which Margaret looked forward to the execution of the great project. Her anticipations, in the intensity and entirety with which they possessed her, equalled those with which she had formerly awaited the trip to England. She was now as oblivious of the festivities arising from the army's presence, as she had been of the town's tame pleasures on the former occasion. She showed, to us who had the key to her mind, a deeper abstraction, a more anxious impatience, a keener foretaste (in imagination) of the triumphs our success would bring her. Her favourable expectations, of course, seesawed with fears of failure; and sometimes there was preserved a balance that afflicted her with a most irritating uncertainty, revealed by petulant looks and tones. But by force of will, 'twas mainly in the hope of success that she passed the few days between our meeting in the glade and the appointed Wednesday evening.
"Tut, sister," warned Tom, with kind intention, "don't raise yourself so high with hope, or you may fall as far with disappointment."
"Never fear, Tom; we can't fail."
"It looks all clear and easy, I allow," said he; "but there's many a slip, remember!"
"Not two such great slips to the same person," she replied. "I had my share of disappointment, when I couldn't go to London. This war, and my stars, owe me a good turn, dear."
But when, at dusk on Wednesday evening, Tom and I took leave of her in the hall, she was trembling like a person with a chill. Her eyes glowed upon us beseechingly, as if she implored our Herculean endeavours in the attempt now to be made.
We had to speak softly to one another, lest Mr. Faringfield might hear and infer some particular enterprise--for we were not to hazard the slightest adverse chance. Captain Falconer had been away from his quarters all day, about the business of the night, and would not return till after its accomplishment. Thus we two were the last to be seen of her, of those bound to the adventure; and so to us were visible the feelings with which she regarded the setting forth of our whole company upon the project she had designed, for which she had laboriously laid preparations even in the enemy's camp, and from which she looked for a splendid future. Were it realised, she might defy Mr. Faringfield and Philip: they would be nobodies, in comparison with her: heroines belong to the whole world, and may have their choice of the world's rewards: they may go where they please, love whom they please, and no father nor husband may say them nay. Though I could not but be sad, for Philip's sake, at thought of what effect our success might have upon her, yet for the moment I seemed to view matters from her side, with her nature, and for that moment I felt that to disappoint her hopes would be a pity.
As for myself (and Tom was like me) my cause and duty, not Margaret's private ambitions, bade me strive my utmost in the business; and my youthful love of danger sent me forth with a most exquisite thrill, as into the riskiest, most exhilarating game a man can play. So I too trembled a little, but with an uplifting, strong-nerved excitement far different from the anxious tremor of suspense that tortured Margaret.
"For pity's sake, don't fail, boys!" she said, as if all rested upon us two. "Think of me waiting at home for the news! Heaven, how slow the hours will pass! I sha'n't have a moment's rest of mind or body till I know!"
"You shall know as soon as we can get back to New York," said I. "Ay--if we are able to come back," added Tom, with a queer smile.
She turned whiter, and new thoughts seemed to sweep into her mind. But she drove them back.
"Hush, Tom, we mustn't think of that!" she whispered. "No, no, it can't come to that! But I shall be a thousand times the more anxious! Good night! --that's all I shall say--good night and a speedy and safe return!"
She caught her brother's head between her hands, bestowed a fervent kiss upon his forehead, swiftly pressed my fingers, and opened the door for us.
We passed out into the dark, frosty evening. There was snow on the ground but none in the air. We mounted our waiting horses, waved back a farewell to the white-faced, white-handed figure in the doorway; and started toward the ferry. Margaret was left alone with her fast-beating heart, to her ordeal of mingled elation and doubt, her dread of crushing disappointment, her visions of glorious triumph.
At the ferry we reported to Captain Falconer, who was expeditiously sending each rider and horse aboard one of the waiting flat-boats as soon as each arrived. Thus was avoided the assemblage, for any length of time, of a special body of horsemen in the streets--for not even the army, let alone the townspeople, should know more of our setting forth than could not be hid. The departure of those who were to embark from the town was managed with exceeding quietness and rapidity. Captain Falconer and the man who was to guide us to Edward Faringfield's trysting-place were the last to board.
Upon rounding the lower end of the town, and crossing the Hudson to Paulus Hook, which post our troops had reoccupied after the rebel capture of its former garrison, we went ashore and were joined by men and horses from up the river, and by others from Staten Island. We then exchanged our hats for the caps taken from the rebel cavalry, donned the blue surtouts, and set out; Captain Falconer and the guide riding at the head.
For a short distance we kept to the Newark road, but, without proceeding to that town, we deviated to the right, and made Northwestwardly, the purpose being to pass through a hiatus in the semicircle of rebel detached posts, turn the extremity of the main army, and approach Morristown--where Washington had his headquarters--from a side whence a British force from New York might be the less expected.
Each man of us carried a sword and two pistols, having otherwise no burden but his clothes. At first we walked our horses, but presently we put them to a steady, easy gallop. The snow on the ground greatly muffled the sound of our horses' footfalls, and made our way less invisible than so dark a night might have allowed. But it made ourselves also the more likely to be seen; though scarce at a great distance nor in more than brief glimpses, for the wind raised clouds of fine snow from the whitened fields, the black growth of tree and brush along the road served now as curtain for us, now as background into which our outlines might sink, and a stretch of woods sometimes swallowed us entirely from sight. Besides, on such a night there would be few folk outdoors, and if any of these came near, or if we were seen from farmhouses or village windows, our appearance of rebel horse would protect our purpose. So, in silence all, following our captain and his guide, we rode forward to seize the rebel chief, and make several people's fortunes.
I must now turn to Philip Winwood, and relate matters of which I was not a witness, but with which I was subsequently made acquainted in all minuteness.
We had had no direct communication with Philip since the time after our capture of Mr. Cornelius, who, as every exchange of prisoners had passed him by, still remarked upon parole at Mr. Faringfield's. If Mr. Faringfield received news of Winwood through his surreptitious messenger, Bill Meadows, he kept it to himself, naturally making a secret of his being in correspondence with General Washington.
Though Philip knew of Meadows's perilous employment, he would not risk the fellow's discovery even to Margaret, and so refrained from laying upon him the task of a message to her. How she found out what Meadows was engaged in, I cannot guess, unless it was that, unheeded in the house as she was unheeding, she chanced to overhear some talk between her father and him, or to detect him in the bringing of some letter which she afterward took the trouble secretly to peep into. Nor did I ever press to know by what means she had induced him to serve as messenger between her and Ned, and to keep this service hidden from her father and husband and all the world. Maybe she pretended a desire to hear of her husband without his knowing she had so far softened toward him, and a fear of her father's wrath if he learned she made Ned her correspondent in the matter. Perhaps she added to her gentler means of persuasion a veiled threat of exposing Meadows to the British if he refused. In any event, she knew that, once enlisted, he could be relied on for the strictest obedience to her wishes. It needed not, in his case, the additional motive for secrecy, that a knowledge of his employment on Margaret's business would compromise him with General Washington and Mr. Faringfield.
How Meadows contrived to meet Ned, to open the matter to him, to convey the ensuing correspondence, to avoid discovery upon this matter in the rebel camp, as he avoided it upon Washington's business in New York, is beyond me: if it were not, I should be as skilful, as fit for such work, as Meadows himself. 'Tis well-known now what marvellously able secret agents Washington made use of; how to each side many of them had to play the part of spies upon the other side; how they were regarded with equal suspicion in both camps; and how some of them really served their enemies in order finally to serve their friends. More than one of them, indeed, played a double game, receiving pay from both sides, and earning it from both, each commander conceiving himself to be the one benefited. In comparison with such duplicity, the act of Meadows, in undertaking Margaret's private business as a secret matter adjunctive to his main employment, was honesty itself.
'Tis thus explained why, though Margaret might communicate with her brother in the enemy's camp, she got no word from her husband there. But his thoughts and his wishes had scarce another subject than herself. The desire to see her, possessed him more and more wholly. He imagined that her state of mind must in this be a reflection of his own. Long ago her anger must have died--nay, had it not passed in that farewell embrace when she held up her face to invite his kiss? The chastening years of separation, the knowledge of his toils and dangers, must have wrought upon her heart, to make it more tender to him than ever. She must grieve at their parting, long for his home-coming. So convinced was he of such feelings on her part, that he pitied her for them, felt the start of many a tear in sorrow for her sorrow.
"Poor girl!" he thought. "How her face would gladden if I were to walk into her presence at this moment!"
And the thought gave birth to the resolution. The joy of such a meeting was worth a thousand risks and efforts.
His first step was to get leave of absence and General Washington's permission to enter New York. The former was quickly obtained, the latter less so. But if he failed to demonstrate to the commander the possible profit of his secretly visiting the enemy's town, he convinced him that the entrance was not too difficult to one who knew the land so well, and who could so easily find concealment. Sympathising with Philip's private motive in the case, trusting him implicitly, and crediting his ability to take care of himself in even so perilous a matter, Washington finally gave consent.
Philip rode in proper manner from the rebel camp, bound apparently Southward, as if perchance he bore despatches to the rebel civil authorities at Philadelphia. Once out of observation, he concealed his uniform cap and outer coat, and provided himself at a New Jersey village with an ordinary felt hat, and a plain dark overcoat. He then turned from the Southward road, circled widely about the rebel camp, and arrived at a point some distance north of it. Here, in a hospitable farmhouse, he passed the night. The next day, he rode Eastward for the Hudson River, crossing undiscovered the scanty, ill-patrolled line of rebel outposts, and for the most part refraining from use of the main roads, deserted as these were. By woods and by-ways, he proceeded as best the snow-covered state of the country allowed. 'Twas near dusk on the second day, when he came out upon the wooded heights that looked coldly down upon the Hudson a few miles above the spot opposite the town of New York.
He looked across the river and Southeastward, knowing that beyond the low hills and the woods lay the town, and that in the town was Margaret. Then he rode back from the crest of the cliff till he came to the head of a ravine. Down this he led his beast, arriving finally at the narrow strip of river-bank at the cliff's foot. He followed this some distance Southward, still leading the horse. 'Twas not yet so dark that he could not make out a British sloop-of-war, and further down the river the less distinct outline of a frigate, serving as sentinels and protectors of this approach to the town. From these he was concealed by the bushes that grew at the river's edge.
At last he turned into the mouth of a second ravine, and, rounding a sharp side-spur of the interrupted cliff, came upon a log hut built upon a small level shelf of earth. At one end of this structure was a pent-roof. Philip tied his horse thereunder, and, noting a kind of dim glow through the oiled paper that filled the cabin's single window, gave two double knocks followed by a single one, upon the plank door. This was soon opened, and Philip admitted to the presence of the single occupant, an uncouth fellow, fisherman and hunter, whose acquaintance he had made in patrolling the New Jersey side at the head of his troop. The man was at heart with the rebels, and Winwood knew with whom he had to deal. Indeed Philip had laid his plans carefully for this hazardous visit, in accordance with his knowledge of the neighbourhood and of what he might rely upon.
"I wish to borrow one of your canoes, Ellis," said he, "and beg your attention to my horse, which is in the shed. Be so kind as to give it feed, and to cover it with a blanket if you have such a thing. But leave it in the shed, and ready saddled; I may have to ride in a hurry. I sha'n't need you with me in the canoe--nor any supper, I thank you, sir."
For the man, with the taciturn way of his kind, had motioned toward some pork frying at a fire. With no thought to press, or to question, he replied: "I'll fetch the canoe down the gully, cap'n. You stay here and warm yourself a minute. And don't worry about your hoss, sir."
A few minutes later, Philip was launched upon the dark current of the Hudson, paddling silently toward the Eastern shore. Darkness had now fallen, and he trusted it to hide him from the vigilance of the British vessels whose lights shone dim and uncertain down the river.
Much larger craft landed much larger crews within our lines, on no darker nights--as, for one case, when the Whigs came down in whaleboats and set fire to the country mansion of our General De Lancey at Bloomingdale. Philip made the passage unseen, and drew the canoe up to a safe place under some bushes growing from the face of a low bluff that rose from the slight beach. His heart galloped and glowed at sense of being on the same island with his wife. He was thrilled to think that, if all went well, within an hour or two he should hold her in his arms.
He saw to the priming of his pistols, and loosened the sword that hung beneath his overcoat; and then he glided some way down the strip of beach. Coming to a convenient place, he clambered up the bluff, to a cleared space backed by woods.
"Who goes there?"
'Twas the voice of a man who had suddenly halted in the clearing, half-way between the woods and the crest of the bluff. The snow on the ground enabled the two to descry each other. Winwood saw the man raise a musket to his shoulder.
"A word with you, friend," said Philip, and strode swiftly forward ere the sentinel (who was a loyalist volunteer, not a British regular) had the wit to fire. Catching the musket-barrel with one hand, Winwood clapped his pistol to the soldier's breast with the other.
"Now," says he, "if you give a sound, I'll send a bullet through you. If I pass here, 'twill bring you no harm, for none shall know it but us two. Let go your musket a moment--I'll give it back to you, man."
A pressure of the pistol against the fellow's ribs brought obedience. Philip dropped the musket, and, with his foot, dug its lock into the snow, spoiling the priming.
"Now," he continued, "I'll leave you, and remember, if you raise an alarm, you'll be blamed for not firing upon me."
Whereupon Philip dashed into the woods, leaving the startled sentinel to pick up his musket and resume his round as if naught had occurred. The man knew that his own comfort lay in secrecy, and his comfort outweighed his military conscience.
Through woods and fields Winwood proceeded, skirted swamps and ponds, and waded streams, traversing old familiar ground, the sight of which brought back memories of countless holiday rambles in the happy early days. Margaret's bright face and merry voice, her smiles, and her little displays of partiality for him, were foremost in each recollection; and that he was so soon to see her again, appeared too wonderful for belief. He went forward in the intoxication of joy, singing to himself as a boy would have done.
He knew where there were houses and barns to avoid, and where there were most like to be British cantonments. At length he was so near the town, that he was surprised to have come upon no inner line of sentries. Even as he wondered, he emerged from a copse into a field, and received the usual challenge--spoken this time in so quick, machine-like a manner, and accompanied by so prompt and precise a levelling of the musket, that he knew 'twas a British regular he had to deal with.
He made a pretence of raising a pistol to shoot down the sentry. This brought the sentry's fire, which--as it too was of a British regular of those days--Philip felt safe in risking. But though the shot went far wide, he gave a cry as if he had been hit, and staggered back into the woods. He was no sooner within its cover, than he ran swiftly Eastward with all possible silence. He had noted that the sentry had been pacing in that direction; hence the first of the sentry's comrades to run up would be the one approaching therefrom. This would leave a break in the line, at that part of it East of the scene of the alarm. Philip stopped presently; peered forth from the woods, saw the second sentry hasten with long steps Westward; and then made a dash across the latter's tracks, bending low his body as he went. He thus reached a cover of thicket, through which he forced his way in time to emerge toward the town ere any results of the alarming gun-shot were manifest.
Unless he were willing to attempt crossing what British defences he knew not, or other impediments that might bar passage to the town elsewhere than at the Bowery lane entrance, he must now pass the guard there, which served for the town itself as the outer barriers at Kingsbridge served for the whole island of Manhattan. He chose the less tedious, though more audacious alternative of facing the guard.
He could not employ in this case the method used in passing the shore patrol, or that adopted in crossing the line of sentinels above the town; for here the road was the only open way through, it was flanked by a guardhouse, it was lighted by a lantern that hung above the door, and the sentinels were disciplined men. Philip gathered these facts in a single glance, as he approached by slinking along the side of the road, into which he had crawled, through a rail fence, from an adjoining field.
He was close upon the sentinels who paced before the guardhouse, ere he was discovered. For the third time that night, he heard the challenge and saw the threatening movement.
"All's well," he replied. "I'll give an account of myself." And he stepped forward, grasping one of his pistols, not by the breech, but by the barrel.
"Stop where you are!" said the sentry, menacingly.
Philip stood still, raised the pistol, flung it at the lantern, and instantly dropped to his knees. The sentinel's musket flashed and cracked. Total darkness ensued. Philip glided forward between the two men, his footfalls drowned by the sound of their curses. When past them, he hurled his remaining pistol back over his shoulder toward a mass of bushes on the further side of the sentinels. Its descent through the brush had some sound of a man's leap, and would, he hoped, lead the enemy to think he might have escaped in that direction. By the time the noise of a commotion reached him, with orders to turn out the guard, he was past the building used as a prison for his fellow rebels, and was hastening along the side of the common--now diverted to camp uses of the British as it had been to those of the rebels--able to find the rest of his way in Egyptian blackness. He knew what alleys to take, what short cuts to make by traversing gardens, what ways were most like to be deserted. The streets in the part of the town through which he had to pass were nearly empty, the taverns, the barracks, and most of the officers' quarters being elsewhere. And so, with a heart elated beyond my power of expression, he leaped finally into the rear garden of the Faringfield mansion, and strode, as if on air, toward the veranda.
He had guessed that the family would be in the smaller parlour, or the library, and so he was not surprised to see all the lower windows dark that were visible from the direction of his approach. But, which gave him a thrill of delightful conjecture, two upper windows shone with light--those above the great parlour and hence belonging to one of the chambers formerly occupied by Margaret and him. He knew no reason why his wife should not still retain the same rooms. She would, then, be there, and probably alone. He might go to her while none was present to chill their meeting, none before whom her pride might induce her to conceal the completeness of her reconciliation, or to moderate the joy of her greeting. Would she weep? Would she laugh? Would she cry out? Would she merely fall into his arms with a glad smile and cling in a long embrace under his lingering kiss? He trembled like a schoolboy as he climbed the trellis-work to enter by a window.
Creeping up the sloping, snow-covered roof of the veranda, he came at length to the window, and looked in. The chamber was empty, but the door was ajar that led to the apartment in front, used as a sitting-room. She must be in that room, for his first glance had recognised many of her trinkets and possessions in the first chamber. He asked himself if the years had changed her: they would have made her a little graver, doubtless.
He opened the window so slowly that the noise was scarce perceptible. Then he clambered over the ledge into the chamber; strode tiptoe toward the next room, catching a mirrored glimpse of his face as he passed her dressing-table--the most joyous, eager face in the world. He pushed the door further open, and stepped across the threshold. She was there, in the centre of the room, standing in meditation, her face turned by chance toward the door through which he entered.
"My dear," said he, in a voice scarce above a whisper; and started toward her, with arms held out, and (I am sure) a very angel's smile of joy and love upon his face.
She opened her eyes and lips in wonder, and then stood pale and rigid as marble, and made a faint gesture to check his approach. As he halted in astonishment, his joy dying at her look, she whispered hoarsely: "You! You, of all men? And to-night, of all nights!"
'Twas the night of our setting forth upon her great design of seizing his commander-in-chief.
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_Their Interview. _ Philip took note, at the time, rather of her look than of her words.
"Why, dear," said he, "don't be frightened. Tis I, Philip--'tis not my ghost."
"Yes, 'tis you--I know that well enough."
"Then--" he began, and stepped toward her.
But she retreated with such a movement that he stopped again.
"What's the matter?" he questioned. "Why do you look so? --This is scarce the welcome I had imagined."
"Why are you here?" she asked, in a low voice, regarding him steadily. "How did you come? What does it mean?"
"It means I love you so much, I could stay no longer from seeing you. I came by horse, boat, and foot. I passed the British sentries."
"You risked your life, then?"
"Oh, of course. If they caught me inside their lines, they would hang me as a spy. But--" She could not but be touched at this. "Poor Philip!" she murmured, with a tremor in her voice.
"Not poor," said he, "now that I am with you--if you would not draw back, and look so. What is wrong? Am I--unwelcome?"
She saw that, to be true to her design, to her elaborate plan for the future, she must not soften toward him--for his reappearance, with the old-time boyish look and manner, the fond expression now wistful and alarmed, the tender eyes now startled and affrighted, revived much that had been dormant in her heart, and made Captain Falconer seem a very far-off and casual person. Against the influence of Philip's presence, and the effect of his having so imperilled himself to see her, she had to arm herself with coldness, or look upon the success of her project as going for naught to her advantage. She dared not contemplate the forfeit; so she hardened her heart.
"Why," she said, with a forced absence of feeling, "so many years have passed--so many things have happened--you appear so much a stranger--" "Stranger!" echoed he. "Why, not if you had thought of me half as constantly as I have of you! You have been in my mind, in my heart, every hour, every minute since that day--Can it be? Is it my Margaret that stands there and speaks so? So unmoved to see me! So cold! Oh, who would have expected this?"
He sat down and gazed wretchedly about the room, taking no cognisance of what objects his sight fell upon. Margaret seated herself, with a sigh of annoyance, and regarded him with a countenance of displeasure.
"Margaret, do you mean what you say?" he asked, after a short silence.
"I'm sure you shouldn't blame me," said she. "You enabled me to learn how to endure your absence. You stayed away all these years. Naturally I've come to consider you as--" "Nay, don't attempt to put me in the wrong. My heart is as warm to you as ever, in spite of the years of absence. Those years have made no change in me. Why should they have changed you, then? No--'tis not their fault if you are changed, nor mine neither. There is something wrong, I see. Be frank, dear, and tell me what it is. You need not be afraid of me--you know I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head. Oh, sweetheart, what has come between us? Tell me, I beg!"
"Why, nothing, of course--nothing but the gulf that time has widened. That's all--sure 'tis enough."
"But 'tis more than that. Were that all, and I came back to you thus, a minute's presence would bridge that gulf. All the old feelings would rush back. Why, if I were but a mere acquaintance whom you had once known in a friendly way, you wouldn't have greeted me so coldly. There would have been cordiality, smiles, a warm clasp of the hand, questions about my health and doings, at least a curiosity as to how I had passed the years. But you meet me, not merely with lack of warmth, but with positive coldness. Nay, you were shocked, startled, frightened! You turned white, and stood still as if you saw a spirit, or as if you were caught in some crime! Yes, 'twas for all the world like that! And what was't you said? It passed me then, I was so amazed at my reception--so different from the one I had pictured all the way thither, all the weeks and months. What was't you said?"
"Some word of surprise, I suppose; something of no meaning."
"Nay, it had meaning, too. I felt that, though I put it aside for the time. Something about the night--ah, yes: 'to-night of all nights.' And me of all men. Why so? Why to-night in particular? Why am I the most inconvenient visitor, and why _to-night_? Tell me that! Tell me--I have the right to know!"
"Nay, if you work yourself up into a fury so--" "'Tis no senseless fury, madam! There's reason at the bottom of it, my lady! I must know, and I will know, what it is that my visit interferes with. You were not going out, I can see by your dress. Nor expecting company. Unless--no, it couldn't be that! You're not capable of that! You are my wife, you are Margaret Faringfield, William Faringfield's daughter. God forgive the mistrust--yet every husband with an imagination has tortured himself for an instant sometime with that thought, suppose his wife's heart _might_ stray? I've heard 'em confess the thought; and even I--but what a hell it was for the moment it lasted! And how swiftly I put it from me, to dwell on your tenderness in the old days, your pride that has put you above the hopes of all men but me, the unworthy one you chose to reach down your hand to from your higher level!"
"So you have harboured _that_ suspicion, have you?" she cried, with flashing eyes.
"No, no; harboured it never! Only let my perverse imagination 'light, for the space of a breath, on the possibility, to my unutterable torment. All men's fancies play 'em such tricks now and then, to torture them and take down their vanity. Men would rest too easy in their security, were it not so."
"A man that suspects his wife, deserves to lose her allegiance," cried Margaret, with a kind of triumphant imputation of blame, which was her betrayal.
He gazed at her with the dawning horror of half-conviction.
"Then I have lost yours?" he asked, in a tone stricken with doubt and dread.
"I didn't say so," she replied, reddening.
"But your words imply that. You seemed to be justifying yourself by my suspicion. But there was no suspicion till now--nothing but a tormenting fancy of what I believed impossible. So you cannot excuse yourself that way."
"I'm not trying to excuse myself. There's nothing to excuse."
"I'm not sure of that! Your manner looks as if you realised having said too much--having betrayed yourself. Margaret, for God's sake, tell me 'tis not so! Tell me my fears are wrong! Assure me I have not lost you--no, no, I won't even ask you. 'Tis not possible. I won't believe it of you--that you could be inconstant! Forgive me, dear--your strange manner has so upset me--but forgive me, I beg, and let me take you in my arms." He had risen to approach her.
"No, no! Don't. Don't touch me!" she cried, rising in turn, for resistance. She kept her mind fixed upon the expected rewards of her project, and so fortified herself against yielding.
"By heaven, I'll know what this means!" he cried. He looked wildly about the room, as if the explanation might somewhere there be found. Her own glance went with his, as if there might indeed be some evidence, which she must either make shift to conceal, or invent an innocent reason for its presence. Her eye rested an instant upon a book that lay on the table. Philip noted this, picked up the book, turned the cover, and read the name on the first leaf. " 'Charles Falconer.' Who is he?"
[Illustration: "'HE IS A--AN ACQUAINTANCE.'"]
"No matter," she said quickly, and made to snatch the book away. "He is a--an acquaintance. He is quartered in the house, in fact--a British officer."
"An acquaintance? But why do you turn red? Why look so confused? Why try to take the book away from me? Oh, my God, it is true! it is true!" He dropped the volume, sank back upon a chair, and regarded her with indescribable grief.
"Why," she blundered, "a gentleman may lend a lady a novel--" "Oh, the lending is nothing! 'Twas your look and action when I read his name. 'Tis your look now, your look of guilt. Oh, to see that flush of discovered shame on _your_ face! You care for this man, I can see that!"
"Well, what if I do?"
"Then you confess it? Oh, can it be you that say this? --you that stand there with eyes that drop before mine for shame--nay, eyes that you raise with defiance! Brazen--oh, my God, my God, tell me 'tis all a mistake! Tell me I wrong you, dear; that you are still mine, my Margaret, my Madge--little Madge, that found me a home that day I came to New York; my pretty Madge, that cried when I was going to leave on Ned's account; that I loved the first moment I saw her, and--always--" He broke down at this, and leaned forward upon the table, covering his face with his hands. When he next looked up, with haggard countenance, he saw her lips twitching and tears in her eyes.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, with a flash of hope, and half rose to go to her.
"No, no! Let me alone!" she cried, escaping narrowly from that surrender to her feelings which would have meant forfeiting the fruits of her long planning.
His mood changed.
"I'll not endure this," he cried, rising and pacing the floor. "You'll find I'm no such weakling, though I can weep for my wife when I lose her love. _He_ shall find it so, too! I understand now what you meant by 'to-night of all nights.' He was to meet you to-night. He's quartered in the house, you say. He was to slink up, no doubt, when all were out of the way--your father divines little of this, I'll warrant. Well, he may come--but he shall find _me_ waiting at my wife's door!"
"You'll wait in vain, then. He is very far from here to-night."
"I'll believe that when it's proven. I find 'tis well that I, 'of all men,' came here to-night."
"Nay, you're mistaken. You had been more like to find him to-night where you came from, than where you've come to."
How true it is that a woman may always be relied on to say a word too much--whether for the sake of a taunt, or the mere necessity of giving an apt answer, I presume not to decide.
"What can that mean?" said he, arrested by the peculiarity of her tone and look. "Find him where I came from? Why, that's our camp. What does he do there, 'to-night of all nights?' Explain yourself."
"Nothing at all. I spoke without thinking."
"The likelier to have spoken true, then! So your--acquaintance--might be found in our camp to-night? Charles Falconer, a British officer. I can't imagine--not as a spy, surely. Oho! is there some expedition? Some attack, some midnight surprise? This requires looking into."
"I fear you will not find out much. And if you did, it would be too late for you to carry a warning."
"The expedition has too great a start of me--is that what you mean? That's to be seen. I might beat Mr. Falconer in this, as he has beaten me--elsewhere. I know the Jersey roads better than I have known my wife's heart, perchance. What is this expedition?"
"Do you think I would tell you--if there were one?"
"I'm satisfied there is some such thing. But I doubt no warning of mine is needed, to defeat it. Our army is alert for these night attempts. We've had too many of 'em. If there be one afoot to-night, so much the worse for those engaged in it."
This irritated her; and she never used the skill to guard her speech, at her calmest; so she answered quickly: "Not if it's helped by traitors in your camp!"
"What? --But how should you, a woman, know of such a matter?"
"You'll see, when the honours are distributed."
"This is very strange. You are in this officer's confidence, perhaps. He is unwise to trust you so far--you have told me enough to--" "There's no more need of secrecy. Captain Falconer's men are well on their way to Morristown. Even if you got out of our lines as easily as you got in, you could only meet our troops returning with your general."
Doubtless she conceived that by taunting him, at this safe hour, with this prevision of her success, she helped the estrangement which she felt necessary to her enjoyment of her expected rewards.
"Oho!" quoth he, with a bitter, derisive laugh. "Another attempt to seize Washington! What folly!"
"Not when we are helped by treason in your camp, as I said before. Folly, is it? You'll sing another song to-morrow!"
She smiled with anticipated triumph, and the smile had in it so much of the Madge of other days, that his bitterness forsook him, and admiration and love returned to sharpen his grief.
"Oh, Madge, dear, could I but win you back!" he murmured, wistfully.
"What, in that strain again!" she said, petulant at each revival of the self-reproach his sorrow caused in her.
"Ay, if I had but the chance! If I might be with you long enough, if I might reawaken the old tenderness! --But I forget; treason in our camp, you say. There is danger, then--ay, there's always the possibility. The devil's in it, that I must tear myself from you now; that I must part with you while matters are so wrong between us; that I must leave you when I would give ten years of life for one hour to win your love back! But you will take my hand, let me kiss you once--you will do that for the sake of the old times--and then I will be gone!"
"Be gone? Where?"
"Back to camp, of course, to give warning of this expedition." " 'Tis impossible! Tis hours--" "'Tis not impossible--I will outride them. They wouldn't have started before dark."
"You would only overtake them, at your best. Do you think they would let you pass?"
"Poh! I know every road. I can ride around them. I'll put the army in readiness for 'em, treason or no treason! For the present, good-bye--" The look in his face--of power and resolution--gave her a sudden sense of her triumph slipping out of her grasp.
"You must not go!" she cried, quite awakened to the peril of the situation to her enterprise.
"I must! Good-bye! One kiss, I beg!"
"But you sha'n't go!" As he came close to her, she clasped him tightly with both arms. She made no attempt to avoid his kiss, and he, taking this for acquiescence, bestowed the kiss upon unresponsive lips.
"Now let me go," said he, turning to stride toward the door by which he had entered from the rear chamber.
"No, no! Stay. Time to win back my love, you said. Take the time now. You may find me not so difficult of winning back. Nay, I have never ceased to love you, at the bottom of my heart. I love you now. You shall stay."
"I must not, I dare not. Oh, I would to God I could believe you! But whether 'tis true, or a device to keep me here, I will not stay. Let me go!"
"I will not! You will have to force me from you, first! I tell you I love you--my husband!"
"If you love me, you will let me go."
"If you love me, you will stay."
"Not a moment--though God knows how I love you! I will come to see you soon again."
"If you go now, I will never let you see me again! --Nay, you must drag me after you, then!"
He was moving toward the door despite her hold; and now he caught her wrists to force open the clasp in which she held him.
"Oh! you are crushing my arms!" she cried.
"Ay, the beautiful, dear arms--God bless them! But let me go, then!"
"I won't! You will have to kill me, first! You shall not spoil my scheme!"
"Yours!"
"Yes, mine! Mine, against your commander, against your cause!" She was wrought up now to a fury, at the physical force he exerted to release himself; and for the time, swayed by her feelings only, she let policy fly to the winds. "Your cause that I hate, because it ruined my hopes before! You are a fool if you think my being your wife would have kept me from fighting your hateful cause. I became your wife that I might go to England, and when that failed I was yours no longer. Love another? Yes! --and you shall not spoil his work and mine--not unless you kill me!"
For a moment his mental anguish, his overwhelming shame for her, unnerved him, and he stared at her with a ghastly face, relaxing his pressure for freedom. But this weakness was followed by a fierce reaction. His countenance darkened, and with one effort, the first into which he had put his real strength, he tore her arms from him. White-faced and breathing fast, with rage and fear of defeat, she ran to a front window, and flung it open.
"By heaven, I'll stop you!" she cried. "Help! A rebel--a spy! Ah, you men yonder--this way! A rebel spy!"
Philip looked over her head, out of the window. Far up the street swaggered five or six figures which, upon coming under a corner lamp whose rays yellowed a small circle of snow, showed to be those of British soldiers. Their unaltered movements evidenced that they had not heard her cry. Thereupon she shouted, with an increased voice: "Soldiers! Help! Surround this house! A rebel--" She got no further, for Philip dragged her away from the window, and, when she essayed to scream the louder, he placed one hand over her mouth, the other about her neck. Holding her thus, he forced her into the rear chamber, and then toward the window by which he meant to leave. At its very ledge he let her go, and made to step out to the roof of the veranda. But she grasped his clothes with the power of rage and desperation, and set up another screaming for help.
In an agony of mind at having to use such painful violence against a woman, and how much more so against the wife he still loved; and at the grievous appearance that she was willing to sacrifice him upon the British gallows rather than let him mar her purpose, he flung her away with all necessary force, so that, with a final shriek of pain and dismay, she fell to the floor exhausted.
He cast an anguished glance upon her, as she lay defeated and half-fainting; and, knowing not to what fate he might be leaving her, he moaned, "God pity her!" and stepped out upon the sloping roof. He scrambled to the edge, let himself half-way down by the trellis, leaped the rest of the distance, and ran through the back garden from the place he had so well loved.
While his wife, lying weak upon the floor of her chamber, gazed at the window through which he had disappeared, and, as if a new change had occurred within her, sobbed in consternation: "Oh, what have I done? He is a man, indeed! --and I have lost him!"
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{
"id": "15506"
}
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_Wherein Captain Winwood Declines a Promotion. _ Philip assumed that the greatest risk would lie in departing the town by the route over which he had made his entrance, and in which he had left a trail of alarm. His best course would be in the opposite direction.
Therefore, having leaped across the fence to the alley behind the Faringfield grounds, he turned to the right and ran; for he had bethought him, while fleeing through the garden, that he might probably find a row-boat at the Faringfield wharves. He guessed that, as the port of New York was open to all but the rebel Americans and their allies the French, Mr. Faringfield would have continued his trade in the small way possible, under the British flag, that his loss by the war might be the less, and his means of secretly aiding the rebel cause might be the more. So there would still be some little shipping, and its accessories, at the wharves.
Though the British occupation had greatly changed the aspect of the town by daylight, it had not altered the topography of that part which Philip had to traverse, and the darkness that served as his shield was to him no impediment. Many a time, in the old days, we had chased and fled through those streets and alleys, in make-believe deer-hunts or mimic Indian warfare. So, without a collision or a stumble, he made his way swiftly to the mouth of a street that gave upon the water-front, by the Faringfield warehouse where so many busy days of his boyhood and youth had passed, and opposite the wharves.
He paused here, lacking knowledge whether the river front was guarded or not. He saw no human being, but could not be sure whether or not some dark form might emerge from the dimness when he should cross to the wharves. These, like the street and the roofs, were snow-covered. Aloft beyond them, but close, two or three faint lights, tiny yellow islets in a sea of gloom, revealed the presence of the shipping on which he had counted. He could hear the slap of the inky water against the piles, but scarce another sound, save his own breathing.
He formed the intention of making a noiseless dash across the waterside street, with body bent low, to the part of the wharf where a small boat was most like to be. He was standing close to one side of a wooden building that fronted toward the wharf.
He sprang forward, and, just as he passed the corner of the edifice, his head struck something heavy but yielding, which toppled over sidewise with a grunt, and upon which Philip fell prone, forcing from it a second grunt a little less vigorous than the first. 'Twas a human body, that had come from the front of the house at the same instant in which Philip had darted from along the side.
"Shall I choke him to assure silence?" Phil hurriedly asked himself, and instinctively made to put his hands to the man's neck. But the body under him began to wriggle, to kick out with its legs, and to lay about with its hands.
"What the hell d'yuh mean?" it gasped. "Git off o' me!"
Philip scrambled promptly to his feet, having recognised the voice.
"I'll stake my life, it's Meadows!"
"Yes, it is, and who in the name of hellfire an' brimstone--?"
"Hush, Bill! Don't you know my voice? Let me help you up. There you are. I'm Philip Winwood!"
"Why, so y'are, boy! Excuse the way I spoke. But what on airth--?"
"No matter what I'm doing here. The thing is to get back to camp. Come! Is the wharf a safe place for me?"
"Yes, at this hour of a dark night. But I'd like to know--" "Keep with me, then," whispered Philip, and made for the wharf, holding the old watchman's arm. "Show me where there's a small boat. I must row to the Jersey side at once, and then ride--by heaven, I wish I might get a horse, over there, without going as far as Dan Ellis's! I left mine with him."
"Mebbe I can get you a hoss, yonder," said Meadows. "An' I reckon I can row you round an' acrost, 'thout their plaguey ships a-spyin' us."
"Then, by the Lord," said Philip, while Meadows began letting himself down the side of the wharf to the skiff which he knew rode there upon the black water, "'tis enough to make one believe in miracles, my running into you! What were you doing out so late?"
"Mum, sir! I was jest back from the same camp you're bound fur. 'Tain't five minutes since I crawled up out o' this yer skift."
"What! And did you meet a party going the other way--toward our camp, I mean?"
"Ay," replied Meadows, standing up in the boat and guiding the legs of Philip as the latter descended from the wharf. "I watched 'em from the patch o' woods beyont Westervelt's. I took 'em to be Major Lee's men, or mebbe yours, from their caps and plumes; but I dunno: I couldn't see well. But if they was goin' to the Morristown camp, they was goin' by a roundabout way, fur they took the road to the right, at the fork t'other side o' them woods!"
"Good, if 'twas a British troop indeed! If I take the short road, I may beat 'em. Caps and plumes like ours, eh! Here, I'll pull an oar, too; and for God's sake keep clear of the British ships."
"Trust me, cap'n. I guess they ain't shifted none since I come acrost awhile ago. I'll land yuh nearest where we can get the hoss I spoke of. 'Tis the beast 'ut brung me from the camp--but mum about that." The two men moved at the oars, and the boat shot out from the sluggish dock-water to the live current, down which it headed. "Don't you consarn yerse'f about them ships--'tis the dark o' the moon an' a cloudy night, an' as fur our course, I could _smell_ it out, if it come to that!"
They rounded the end of the town, and turned into the Hudson, gliding black over the surface of blackness. They pulled for some distance against the stream, so as to land far enough above our post at Paulus Hook. Going ashore in a little cove apparently well-known to Meadows, they drew up the boat, and hastened inland. Meadows had led the way about half a mile, when a dark mass composed of farmhouse and outbuildings loomed up before them.
"Here's where the hoss is; Pete Westervelt takes keer of him," whispered the watchman, and strode, not to the stables, but to the door of what appeared to be an outer kitchen, which he opened with a key of his own. A friendly whinny greeted him from the narrow dark space into which he disappeared. He soon came out, leading the horse he used in his journeys to and from the American camp, and bearing saddle and bridle on his arm. The two men speedily adjusted these, whereupon Philip mounted.
"Bring or send the beast back by night," said Meadows, handing over the key, with which he had meanwhile relocked the door of his improvised stable. "Hoss-flesh is damn' skeerce these times." This was the truth, the needs of the armies having raised the price of a horse to a fabulous sum.
Philip promised to return the horse or its equivalent; gave a swift acknowledgment of thanks, and a curt good-night; and made off, leaving old Meadows to foot it, and row it, once more back to New York.
'Twas now, till he should reach the camp, but a matter of steady galloping, with ears alert for the sound of other hoof-beats, eyes watchful at crossroads and open stretches for the party he hoped to forestall. While he had had ways and means to think of, and had been in peril of detection by the British, or in doubt of obtaining a horse without a long trudge to Ellis's hut, his mind had been diverted from the unhappy interview with Margaret. But now that swept back into his thoughts, inundating his soul with grief and shame, of the utmost degree of bitterness. These were the more complete from the recollection of the joyous anticipations with which he had gone to meet her.
Contemplation of this contrast, sense of his desertion, overcame his habitual resistance to self-pity, a feeling against which he was usually on the stronger guard for his knowledge that it was a concomitant of his inherent sensibility. He quite yielded to it for a time; and though 'twas sharpened by his comparison of the Margaret he had just left, with the pretty, soft-smiling Madge of other days, that comparison eventually supplanted self-pity with pity for her, a feeling no less laden with sorrow.
He dared not think of what her perverseness might yet lead her to. For himself he saw nothing but hopeless sorrow, unless she could be brought back to her better self. But, alas, he by whose influence that end might be achieved--for he could not believe that her heart had quite cast him out--was flying from her, and years might pass ere he should see her again: meanwhile, how intolerable would life be to him! His heart, with the instinct of self-protection, sought some interest in which it might find relief.
He thought of the cause for which he was fighting. That must suffice; it must take the place of wife and love. Cold, impersonal, inadequate as it seemed now, he knew that in the end it would suffice to fill great part of that inner heart which she had occupied. He turned to it with the kindling affection which a man ever has for the resource that is left him when he is scorned elsewhere. And he felt his ardour for it fanned by his deepened hate for the opposing cause, a hate intensified by the circumstance that his rival was of that cause. For that rival's sake, he hated with a fresh implacability the whole royal side and everything pertaining to it. He pressed his teeth together, and resolved to make that side pay as dearly as lay in him to make it, for what he had lost of his wife's love, and for what she had lost of her probity.
And the man himself, Falconer! 'Twas he that commanded this night's wild attempt, if she had spoken truly. Well, Falconer should not succeed this night, and Philip, with a kind of bitter elation, thanked God 'twas through him that the attempt should be the more utterly defeated. He patted his horse--a faithful beast that had known but a short rest since it had travelled over the same road in the opposite direction--and used all means to keep it at the best pace compatible with its endurance. Forward it sped, in long, unvarying bounds, seeing the road in the dark, or rather in the strange dusky light yielded by the snow-covered earth and seeming rather to originate there than to be reflected from the impenetrable obscurity overhead.
From the attempt which he was bent upon turning into a ridiculous abortion, if it lay in the power of man and horse to do so, Philip's thoughts went to the object of that attempt, Washington himself. He was thrilled at once with a greater love and admiration for that firm soul maintaining always its serenity against the onslaughts of men and circumstance, that soul so unshakable as to seem in the care of Fate itself. Capture Washington! Philip laughed at the thought.
And yet a British troop had seized General Charles Lee when he was the rebels' second in command, and, in turn, a party of Yankees had taken the British General Prescott from his quarters in Rhode Island. True, neither of these officers was at the time of his seizure as safely quartered and well guarded as Washington was now; but, on the other hand, Margaret had spoken of treachery in the American camp. Who were the traitors? Philip hoped he might find out their chief, at least.
It was a long and hard ride, and more and more an up-hill one as it neared its end. But Philip's thoughts made him so often unconscious of his progress, and of the passage of the hours, that he finally realised with a momentary surprise that he had reached a fork of the road, near which he should come upon the rebel pickets, and that the night was far spent. He might now take one road, and enter the camp at its nearest point, but at a point far from Washington's headquarters; or he might take the other road and travel around part of the camp, so as to enter it at a place near the general's house. 'Twas at or near the latter place that the enemy would try to enter, as they would surely be so directed by the traitors within the camp.
Heedless of the apparent advantage of alarming the camp at the earliest possible moment, at whatever part of it he could then reach, he felt himself impelled to choose the second road. He ever afterward held that his choice of this seemingly less preferable road was the result of a swift process of unconscious reasoning--for he maintained that what we call intuition is but an instantaneous perception of facts and of their inevitable inferences, too rapid for the reflective part of the mind to record.
He felt the pressure of time relaxed, for a troop of horse going by the circuitous route Meadows had indicated could not have reached the camp in the hours since they had passed the place where Meadows had seen them. So he let his horse breathe wherever the road was broken by ascents. At last he drew up, for a moment, upon an eminence which gave, by daylight, a wide view of country. Much of this expanse being clear of timber, and clad in snow, it yielded something to a night-accustomed eye, despite the darkness. A low, far-off, steady, snow-muffled beating, which had imperceptibly begun to play on Winwood's ear, indicated a particular direction for his gaze. Straining his senses, he looked.
Against the dusky-white background of snow, he could make out an indistinct, irregular, undulating line of moving dark objects. He recognised this appearance as the night aspect of a distant band of horsemen. They were travelling in a line parallel to his own. Presently, he knew, they would turn toward him, and change their linear appearance to that of a compact mass. But he waited not for that. He gently bade his horse go on, and presently he turned straight for the camp, having a good lead of the horsemen.
He was passing a little copse at his right hand, when suddenly a dark figure stepped from behind a tree into the road before him. Thinking this was a soldier on picket duty, he recollected the word of the night, and reined in to give it upon demand. But the man, having viewed him as well as the darkness allowed, seemed to realise having made a mistake, and, as suddenly as he had appeared, stalked back into the wood.
"What does this mean?" thought Philip; and then he remembered what Margaret had said of treachery. Was this mysterious night-walker a traitor posted there to aid the British to their object?
"Stop or I'll shoot you down!" cried Philip, remembering too late that he had parted with both his pistols at the Bowery lane guard-house.
But the noise of the man's retreat through the undergrowth told that he was willing to risk a shot.
Philip knew the importance of obtaining a clue to the traitors. The rebels had suffered considerably from treachery on their own side; had been in much danger from the treason of Doctor Church at Boston; had owed the speedier loss of their Fort Washington to that of Dumont; and (many of them held) the retreat which Washington checked at Monmouth, to the design of their General Charles Lee. So the capture of this man, apart from its possible effect upon the present business, might lead to the unearthing of a nest of traitors likely at some future time, if not to-night, to menace the rebel cause.
Philip leaped from his horse, and, trusting to the animal's manifest habit of awaiting orders, stopped not to tie it, but plunged directly into the wood, drawing his sword as he went.
The sound of the man's flight had ceased, but Philip continued in the direction it had first taken. He was about to cross a row of low bushes, when he unexpectedly felt his ankle caught by a hand, and himself thrown forward on his face. The man had crouched amongst the bushes and tripped him up as he made to pass.
The next moment, the man was on Philip's back, fumbling to grasp his neck, and muttering: "Tell me who you are, quick! Who are you from? You don't wear the dragoon cap, I see. Now speak the truth, or by God I'll shoot your head off!"
Philip knew, at the first word, the voice of Ned Faringfield. It took him not an instant to perceive who was a chief--if not _the_ chief--traitor in the affair, or to solve what had long been to him also a problem, that of Ned's presence in the rebel army. The recognition of voice had evidently not been mutual; doubtless this was because Philip's few words had been spoken huskily. Retaining his hoarseness, and taking his cue from Ned's allusion to the dragoon cap, he replied: "'Tis all right. You're our man, I see. Though I don't wear the dragoon cap, I come from New York about Captain Falconer's business."
"Then why the hell didn't you give the word?" said Ned, releasing his pressure upon Philip's body.
"You didn't ask for it. Get up--you're breaking my back."
Ned arose, relieving Philip of all weight, but stood over him with a pistol.
"Then give it now," Ned commanded.
"I'll be hanged if you haven't knocked it clean out of my head," replied Philip. "Let me think a moment--I have the cursedest memory."
He rose with a slowness, and an appearance of weakness, both mainly assumed. He still held his sword, which, happily for him, had turned flat under him as he fell. When he was quite erect, he suddenly flung up the sword so as to knock the pistol out of aim, dashed forward with all his weight, and, catching Ned by the throat with both hands, bore him down upon his side among the briars, and planted a knee upon his neck. Instantly shortening his sword, he held the point close above Ned's eye.
"Now," said Phil, "let that pistol fall! Let it fall, I say, or I'll run my sword into your brain. That's well. You traitor, shall I kill you now? or take you into camp and let you hang for your treason?"
Ned wriggled, but finding that Philip held him in too resolved a grasp, gave up.
"Is it you, brother Phil?" he gasped. "Why, then, you lied; you said you came from New York, about Falconer's business. I'd never have thought _you'd_ stoop to a mean deception!"
"I think I'd better take you to hang," continued Philip. "If I kill you now, we sha'n't get the names of the other traitors."
"You wouldn't do such an unbrotherly act, Phil! I know you wouldn't. You've too good a heart. Think of your wife, my sister--" "Ay, the traitress!"
"Then think of my father; think of the mouth that fed you--I mean the hand that fed you! You'll let me go, Phil--sure you'll let me go. Remember how we played together when we were boys. I'll give you the names of the other traitors. I'm not so much to blame: I was lured into this--lured by your wife--so help me God, I was--and you're responsible for her, you know. _You_ ought to be the last man in the world--" Philip's mood had changed at thought of Ned's father; the old man's pride of the name, his secret and perilous devotion to the rebel cause: he deserved better of that cause than that his son should die branded as a traitor to it; and better of Phil than that by his hand that son should be slain.
"How can you let me have the names without loss of time, if I let you go, on condition of your giving our army a wide berth the rest of your days?" Philip asked, turning the captive over upon his back.
"I can do it in a minute, I swear," cried Ned. "Will you let me go if I do?"
"If I'm convinced they're the right names and all the names; but if so, and I let you go, remember I'll see you hanged if you ever show your face in our army again."
"Rest easy on that. I take you at your word. The names are all writ down in my pocketbook, with the share of money each man was to get. If I was caught, I was bound the rest should suffer, too. The book is in my waistcoat lining--there; do you feel it? Rip it out."
Philip did so, and, sitting on Ned's chest, with a heel ready to beat in his skull at a treacherous movement, contrived to strike a light and verify by the brief flame of the tow the existence of a list of names. As time was now of ever-increasing value, Philip took it for granted that the list was really what Ned declared it. He then possessed himself of Ned's pistol, and rose, intending to conduct him as far as to the edge of the camp, and to release him only when Philip should have given the alarm, so that Ned could not aid the approach of Falconer's party. But Philip had no sooner communicated this intention than Ned suddenly whipped out a second pistol from his coat pocket, in which his hand had been busy for some time, and aimed at him. Thanks to a spoiled priming, the hammer fell without effect.
"You double traitor!" cried Philip, rushing upon Ned with threatening sword. But Ned, with a curse, bent aside, and, before Philip could bring either of his weapons into use, grappled with him for another fall. The two men swayed together an instant; then Philip once more shortened his sword and plunged the point into Ned's shoulder as both came down together.
"God damn your soul!" cried Ned, and for the time of a breath hugged his enemy the tighter. But for the time of a breath only; the hold then relaxed; and Philip, rising easily from the embrace of the limp form, ran unimpeded to the road, mounted the waiting horse, and galloped to the rebel lines.
When our party, all the fatigue of the ride forgotten in a thrill of expectation, reached the spot where Ned Faringfield was to join us, our leader's low utterance of the signal, and our eager peerings into the wood, met no response. As we stood huddled together, there broke upon us from the front such a musketry, and there forthwith appeared in the open country at our left such a multitude of mounted figures, that we guessed ourselves betrayed, and foresaw ourselves surrounded by a vastly superior force if we stayed for a demonstration. " 'Tis all up, gentlemen!" cried Captain Falconer, in a tone of resignation, and without even an oath; whereupon we wheeled in disappointment and made back upon our tracks; being pursued for some miles, but finally abandoned, by the cavalry we had seen, which, as we did not learn till long afterward, was led by Winwood. We left some dead and wounded near the place where we had been taken by surprise; and some whose horses had been hurt were made prisoners.
For his conduct in all this business, an offer was made to Philip of promotion to a majority; but he firmly declined it, saying that he owed the news of our expedition to such circumstances that he chose not, in his own person, to profit by it. [6]
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{
"id": "15506"
}
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14
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None
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_The Bad Shilling Turns up Once More in Queen Street. _ "This will be sad news to Mrs. Winwood, gentlemen," said Captain Falconer to Tom and me, as we rode toward the place where we should take the boats for New York. The day was well forward, but its gray sunless light held little cheer for such a silent, dejected crew as we were.
The captain was too much the self-controlled gentleman to show great disappointment on his own account, though he had probably set store upon this venture, as an opportunity that he lacked in his regular duties on General Clinton's staff, where he served pending the delayed enlistment of the loyalist cavalry troop he had been sent over to command. But though he might hide his own regrets, now that we were nearing Margaret, it was proper to consider our failure with reference to her.
"Doubtless," he went on, "there was treachery against us somewhere; for we cannot suppose such vigilance and preparation to be usual with the rebels. But we must not hint as much to her. The leak may have been, you see, through one of the instruments of her choosing--the man Meadows, perhaps, or--" (He stopped short of mentioning Ned Faringfield, whose trustworthiness on either side he was warranted, by much that he had heard, in doubting.) "In any case," he resumed, "'twould be indelicate to imply that her judgment of men, her confidence in any one, could have been mistaken. We'd best merely tell her, then, that the rebels were on the alert, and fell upon us before we could meet her brother."
We thought to find her with face all alive, expectant of the best news, or at least in a fever of impatience, and that therefore 'twould be the more painful to tell her the truth. But when the captain's servant let the three of us in at the front door (Tom and I had waited while Falconer briefly reported our fiasco to General Clinton) and we found her waiting for us upon the stairs, her face was pale with a set and tragic wofulness, as if tidings of our failure had preceded us. There was, perhaps, an instant's last flutter of hope against hope, a momentary remnant of inquiry, in her eyes; but this yielded to despairing certainty at her first clear sight of our crestfallen faces. " 'Twas all for nothing, then?" she said, with a quiet weariness which showed that her battle with disappointment had been fought and had left her tired out if not resigned.
"Yes," said the captain, apparently relieved to discover that no storm of disappointment or reproach was to be undergone. "They are too watchful. We hadn't yet come upon your brother, when a heavy fire broke out upon us. We were lucky to escape before they could surround us. Nine of our men are missing."
She gave a shudder, then came to us, kissed Tom with more than ordinary tenderness, grasped my hand affectionately, and finally held the captain's in a light, momentary clasp.
"You did your best, I'm sure," she said, in a low voice, at the same time flashing her eyes furtively from one to another as if to detect whether we hid any part of the news.
We were relieved and charmed at this resigned manner of receiving our bad tidings, and it gave me, at least, a higher opinion of her strength of character. This was partly merited, I make no doubt; though I did not know then that she had reason to reproach herself for our failure.
"And that's all you have to tell?" she queried. "You didn't discover what made them so ready for a surprise?"
"No," replied the captain, casually. "Could there have been any particular reason, think you? To my mind, they have had lessons enough to make them watchful."
She looked relieved. I suppose she was glad we should not know of her interview with Philip, and of the imprudent taunts by which she herself had betrayed the great design.
"Well," said she. "They may not be so watchful another time. We may try again. Let us wait until I hear from Ned."
But when she stole an interview with Bill Meadows, that worthy had no communication from Ned; instead thereof, he had news that Captain Faringfield had disappeared from the rebel camp, and was supposed by some to have deserted to the British. Something that Meadows knew not at the time, nor I till long after, was of the treasonable plot unearthed in the rebel army, and that two or three of the participants had been punished for the sake of example, and the less guilty ones drummed out of the camp. This was the result of Philip's presentation to General Washington of the list of names obtained from Ned, some of the men named therein having confessed upon interrogation. Philip's account of the affair made it appear to Washington that his discovery was due to his accidental meeting with Ned Faringfield, and that Faringfield's escape was but the unavoidable outcome of the hand-to-hand fight between the two men--for Philip had meanwhile ascertained, by a personal search, that Ned had not been too severely hurt to make good his flight.
Well, there passed a Christmas, and a New Year, in which the Faringfield house saw some revival of the spirit of gladness that had formerly prevailed within its comfortable walls at that season. Mr. Faringfield, who had grown more gray and taciturn each year, mellowed into some resemblance to his former benevolent, though stately, self. He had not yet heard of Ned's treason. His lady, still graceful and slender, resumed her youth. Fanny, who had ever forced herself to the diffusion of merriment when there was cheerlessness to be dispelled, reflected with happy eyes the old-time jocundity now reawakened. My mother, always a cheerful, self-reliant, outspoken soul, imparted the cordiality of her presence to the household, and both Tom and I rejoiced to find the old state of things in part returned. Margaret, perhaps for relief from her private dejection, took part in the household festivities with a smiling animation that she had not vouchsafed them in years; and Captain Falconer added to their gaiety by his charming wit, good-nature, and readiness to please. Yet he, I made no doubt, bore within him a weight of dashed hopes, and could often have cursed when he laughed.
The happy season went, leaving a sweeter air in the dear old house than had filled it for a long time. All that was missing, it seemed to us who knew not yet as much as Margaret knew, was the presence of Philip. Well, the war must end some day, and then what a happy reunion! By that time, if Heaven were kind, I thought, the charm of Captain Falconer would have lost power over Margaret's inclinations, and all would be well that ended well.
One night in January, we had sat very late at cards in the Faringfield parlour, and my mother had just cried out, "Dear bless me, look at the clock!" --when there sounded a dull, heavy pounding upon the rear hall door. There were eight of us, at the two card-tables: Mr. Faringfield and his lady, my mother, Margaret and Fanny, Mr. Cornelius, Tom, and myself. And every one of us, looking from face to face, showed the same thought, the same recognition of that half-cowardly, half-defiant thump, though for so long we had not heard it. How it knocked away the years, and brought younger days rushing back upon us!
Mr. Faringfield's face showed a sweep of conjectures, ranging from that of Ned's being in New York in service of his cause, to that of his being there as a deserter from it. Margaret flushed a moment, and then composed herself with an effort, for whatever issue this unexpected arrival might portend. The rest of us waited in a mere wonder touched with the old disquieting dread of painful scenes.
Old Noah, jealous of the single duty that his years had left him, and resentful of its frequent usurpation by Falconer's servant, always stayed up to attend the door till the last of the family had retired. We now heard him shuffling through the hall, heard the movement of the lock, and then instantly a heavy tread that covered the sound of Noah's. The parlour door from the hall was flung open, and in strode the verification of our thoughts.
Ned's clothes were briar-torn and mud-spattered; his face was haggard, his hair unkempt, his left shoulder humped up and held stiff. He stopped near the door, and stared from face to face, frowning because of the sudden invasion of his eyes by the bright candlelight. When his glance fell upon Margaret, it rested; and thereupon, just as if he were not returned from an absence of three years and more, and heedless of the rest of us, confining his address to her alone, he bellowed, with a most malignant expression of face and voice: "So you played a fine game with us, my lady--luring us into the dirty scheme, and then turning around and setting your husband on us in the act! I see through it all now, you underhanded, double-dealing slut!"
"Are you speaking to me, sir?" asked Margaret, with dignity.
"Of course I am; and don't think I'll hold my tongue because of these people. Let 'em hear it all, I don't care. It's all up now, and I'm a hanged man if ever I go near the American camp again. But I'm safe here in New York, though I was damn' near being shot when I first came into the British lines. But I've been before General Knyphausen,[7] and been identified, and been acknowledged by your Captain Falconer as the man that worked your cursed plot at t'other end; and I've been let go free--though I'm under watch, no doubt. So you see there's naught to hinder me exposing you for what you are--the woman that mothered a British plot, and worked her trusting brother into it, and then betrayed him to her husband."
"That's a lie!" cried Margaret, crimson in the face.
"What does all this mean?" inquired Mr. Faringfield, rising.
Paying no attention to his father, Edward retorted upon Margaret, who also rose, and who stood between him and the rest of us: "A lie, is it? Perhaps you can make General Knyphausen and Captain Falconer believe that, now I've told 'em whose cursed husband it was that attacked me at the meeting-place, and alarmed the camp. You didn't think I'd live to tell the tale, did you? You thought to hear of my being hanged, and your husband promoted for his services, and so two birds killed with one stone! But providence had a word to say about that. The Lord is never on the side of plotters and traitors, let me tell you, and here I am to outface you. A lie, is it? A lie that your husband spoiled the scheme? Why, you brazen hussy, he came from New York that very night--he told me so himself! He had seen you, and you had told him all, I'll lay a thousand guineas!"
'Twas at the time a puzzle to me that Margaret should condescend to explanations with him as she forthwith did. But I now see how, realising that proofs of Philip's visit might turn up and seem to bear out Ned's accusation, she must have felt the need of putting herself instantly right with Tom and me, lest she might eventually find herself wrong with General Clinton and Captain Falconer.
"I own that Philip saw me that night," she said, with a self-control compelled by her perilous situation. "He came here by stealth, and took me by surprise. He found reason to suspect our plot, but till now I never knew 'twas really he that put the rebels on their guard. I thought he would be too late. 'Twas through no intention of mine that he guessed what was afoot. I never told Tom and Bert" (these words were meant for our ears) "--or Captain Falconer--of his visit, for fear they might think, as you seem to, that I was to blame. That's all the truth, and we shall see whether Captain Falconer will believe you or me."
Here Mr. Faringfield, whose patience at being so far ignored, though 'twas supported by the hope of receiving the desired enlightenment from their mutual speeches, was at length exhausted, put in with some severity.
"Pray, let us into these mysteries, one of you. Margaret, what is it I hear, of a visit from Philip? of a British plot? By heaven, if I thought--but explain the matter, if you please."
"I have no right to," said she, her face more and more suffused with red. " 'Tis not my secret alone; others are concerned."
"It appears," rejoined Mr. Faringfield, "it is a secret that abides in my house, and therefore I have a right to its acquaintance. I command you to explain."
"Command?" she echoed lightly, with astonishment. "Is a married woman subject to her father's commands?"
"An inmate of my house is subject to my commands," he replied, betraying his hidden wrath by a dark look.
"I beg your pardon," said she. "That part of the house which Philip has paid, or will pay, for my living in, is my own, for the time being. I shall go there--" "You shall not leave this room," cried her father, stalking toward the door. "You fall back upon Philip's name. Very well, he has delegated the care of you to me in his absence. 'Tis time I should represent his authority over you, when I hear of your plotting against his country."
"I have a right to be loyal to the king, above the authority of a husband."
"If your loyalty extends to plotting against your husband's cause, you have not the right under my roof--or under Philip Winwood's part of it. I will know what this scheme is, that you have been engaged in."
"Not from me!" said Margaret, with a resolution that gave a new, unfamiliar aspect to so charmingly feminine a creature.
"Oh, let her alone, father," put in Ned, ludicrously ready for the faintest opportunity either to put his father under obligation or to bring down Margaret. "I'll be frank with you. I've no reason to hide what's past and gone. She and Captain Falconer had a plan to make Washington a prisoner, by a night expedition from New York, and some help in our camp--" "Which you were to give, I see, you treacherous scoundrel!" said his father, with contempt.
"Oh, now, no hard names, sir. You see, several of us--some good patriots, too, with the country's best interests at heart--couldn't swallow this French alliance; we saw that if we ever did win by it, we should only be exchanging tyrants of our own blood for tyrants of frog-eaters. We began to think England would take us back on good terms if the war could be ended; and we considered the state of the country, the interests of trade--indeed, 'twas chiefly the thought of _your_ business, the hope of seeing it what it once was, that drove _me_ into the thing."
"You wretched hypocrite!" interposed Mr. Faringfield.
"Oh, well; misunderstand me, as usual. Call me names, if you like. I'm only telling the truth, and what you wished to know--what _she_ wouldn't tell you. I'm not as bad as some; I can up and confess, when all's over. Well, as I was about to say, we had everything ready, and the night was set; and then, all of a sudden, Phil Winwood swoops down on me; treats me in a most unbrotherly fashion, I must say" (Ned cast an oblique look at his embarrassed shoulder); "and alarmed the camp. And when the British party rode up, instead of catching Washington they caught hell. And I leave it to you, sir, whether your daughter there, after playing the traitor to her husband's cause, for the sake of her lover; didn't turn around and play the traitor to her own game, for the benefit of her husband, and the ruin of her brother. Such damnableness!" " 'For the sake of her lover,'" Mr. Faringfield repeated. "What do you mean by that, sir?" The phrase, indeed, had given us all a disagreeable start.
"What I say, sir. How could he be otherwise? I guessed it before; and I became sure of it this evening, from the way he spoke of her at General Knyphausen's quarters."
"What a lie!" cried Margaret. "Captain Falconer is a gentleman; he's not of a kind to talk about women who have given him no reason to do so. 'Tis ridiculous! You maligning villain!"
"Oh, 'twasn't what he said, my dear; 'twas his manner whenever he mentioned you. When a man like him handles a woman's name so delicate-like, as if 'twas glass and might break--so grave-like, as if she was a sacred subject--it means she's put herself on his generosity."
Margaret affected a derisive laugh, as at her brother's pretensions to wisdom.
"Oh, I know all the stages," he continued, watching her with a malicious calmness of self-confidence. "When gentry of his sort are first struck with a lady, but not very deep, they speak out their admiration bold and gallant; when they find they're hit seriously, but haven't made sure of her, they speak of her with make-believe carelessness or mere respect: they don't like to show how far gone they are. But when she's come to an understanding with 'em, and put 'em under obligations and responsibilities--it's only then they touch her name so tender and considerate, as if it was so fragile. But that stage doesn't last for ever, my young lady--bear that in mind!"
"You insolent wretch!" said Margaret, ready to cry with rage and confusion.
"This is outrageous," ventured Mrs. Faringfield, daring to look her indignation at Ned. "William, how can you tolerate such things said about your daughter?"
But Mr. Faringfield had been studying his daughter's countenance all the while. Alas for Margaret, she had never given pains to the art of dissimulation, or taken the trouble to learn hypocrisy, or even studied self-control: a negligence common to beauties, who rely upon their charms to carry them through all emergencies without resort to shifts. She was equal to a necessary lie that had not to be maintained with labour, or to a pretence requiring little effort and encountering no suspicion, but to the concealment of her feelings when she was openly put to the question, her powers were inadequate. If ever a human face served its owner ill, by apparently confessing guilt, where only folly existed, Margaret's did so now.
"What I may think of the rascal who says these things," replied Mr. Faringfield, with the unnatural quietness that betrays a tumult of inward feelings, "I will tolerate them till I am sure they are false." His eyes were still fixed on Margaret.
"What!" said she, a little hysterically. "Do you pay attention to the slanders of such a fellow? To an accusation like that, made on the mere strength of a gentleman's manner of mentioning me?"
"No, but I pay attention to your manner of receiving the accusation: your telltale face, your embarrassment--" "'Tis my anger--" "There's an anger of innocence, and an anger of guilt. I would your anger had shown more of contempt than of confusion." Alas! he knew naught of half-guilt and _its_ manifestations.
"How can you talk so? --I won't listen--such insulting innuendoes! --even if you are my father--why, this knave himself says I betrayed Captain Falconer's scheme: how could he think that, if--" "That proves nothing," said Ned, with a contemptuous grin. "Women do unaccountable things. A streak of repentance, maybe; or a lovers' quarrel. The point is, a woman like you wouldn't have entered into a scheme like that, with a man like him, if there hadn't already been a pretty close understanding of another kind. Oh, I know your whole damn' sex, begad! --no offence to these other ladies."
"William, this is scandalous!" cried Mrs. Faringfield. My mother, too, looked what it was not her place to speak. As for Tom and me, we had to defer to Mr. Faringfield; and so had Cornelius, who was very solemn, with an uneasy frown between his white eyebrows. Poor Fanny, most sensitive to disagreeable scenes, sat in self-effacement and mute distress.
Mr. Faringfield, not replying to his wife, took a turn up and down the room, apparently in great mental perplexity and dismay.
Suddenly he was a transformed man. Pale with wrath, his lips moving spasmodically, his arms trembling, he turned upon Margaret, grasped her by the shoulders, and in a choked, half-articulate voice demanded: "Tell the truth! Is it so--this shame--crime? Speak! I will shake the truth from you!"
"Father! Don't!" she screamed, terrified by his look; and from his searching gaze, she essayed to hide, by covering her face with her hands, the secret her conscience magnified so as to forbid confession and denial alike. I am glad to recall this act of womanhood, which showed her inability to brazen all accusation out.
But Mr. Faringfield saw no palliating circumstance in this evidence of womanly feeling. Seeing in it only an admission of guilt, he raised his arms convulsively for a moment as if he would strike her down with his hands, or crush her throat with them. But, overcoming this impulse, he drew back so as to be out of reach of her, and said, in a low voice shaken with passion: "Go! From my house, I mean--my roof--and from Philip's part of it. God! that a child of mine should plot against my country, for England--that was enough; but to be false to her husband, too--false to Philip! I will own no such treason! I turn you out, I cast you off! Not another hour in my house, not another minute! You are not my daughter, not Philip's wife! --You are a thing I will not name! We disown you. Go, I bid you; let me never see you again!"
She had not offered speech or motion; and she continued to stand motionless, regarding her father in fear and sorrow.
"I tell you to leave this house!" he added, in a slightly higher and quicker voice. "Do you wait for me to thrust you out?"
She slowly moved toward the door. But her mother ran and caught her arm, and stood between her and Mr. Faringfield.
"William!" said the lady. "Consider--the poor child--your favourite, she was--you mustn't send her out. I'm sure Philip wouldn't have you do this, for all she might seem guilty of."
"Ay, the lad is too kind of heart. So much the worse her treason to him! She _shall_ go; and you, madam, will not interfere. 'Tis for me to command. Be pleased to step aside!"
His passion had swiftly frozen into an implacable sternness which struck fear to the childish heart of his wife, and she obeyed him dumbly. Dropping weakly upon a chair, she added her sobs to those of Fanny, which had begun to break plaintively upon the tragic silence.
Margaret raised her glance from the floor, in a kind of wistful leave-taking, to us who looked on and pitied her.
"Indeed, sir," began Mr. Cornelius softly, rising and taking a step toward Mr. Faringfield. But the latter cut his good intention short, by a mandatory gesture and the harshly spoken words: "No protests, sir; no intercessions. I am aware of what I do."
"But at midnight, sir. Think of it. Where can she find shelter at this hour?"
"Why," put in my mother, "in my house, and welcome, if she _must_ leave this one."
"Thank you, Mrs. Russell," said Margaret, in a stricken voice. "For the time being, I shall be glad--" "For all time, if you wish," replied my mother. "And we shall have your things moved over tomorrow."
"By the Lord, sis," cried Ned, with a sudden friendliness quite astonishing after the part he had taken, and to be accounted for only by the idea that had struck him, "here's a blessing in disguise! There's a ship sails next Wednesday--so I found out this evening--and damn me if you sha'n't go to London with me! That's the kind of a forgiving brother I am!"
She had utterly ignored his first words, but when he reached the point, she looked at him thoughtfully, with a check upon her resentment. She made no reply, however; but he had not missed her expression. Tom and I exchanged side glances, remembering Ned's former wish that he might imitate his Irish friend by taking his sister to London to catch a fortune with. As for Margaret, as matters stood, it would be something to go to London, relying on her beauty. I fancied I saw that thought in her look.
Mr. Faringfield, who had heard with cold heedlessness my mother's offer and Ned's, now rang the bell. Noah appeared, with a sad, affrighted face--he had been listening at the door--and cast a furtive glance at Margaret, in token of commiseration.
"Bring Mrs. Winwood's cloak," said Mr. Faringfield to the old negro. "Then open the door for her and Mr. Edward."
While Noah was absent on this errand, and Margaret waited passively, Tom went to her, kissed her cheek, and then came away without a word.
"You'll accept Mrs. Russell's invitation, dear," said Mrs. Faringfield, in tears, "and we can see you every day."
"Certainly, for the present," replied Margaret, who did not weep, but spoke in a singularly gentle voice.
"And I, too, for to-night, with my best thanks," added Ned, who had not been invited, but whom my mother preferred not to refuse.
Noah brought in the cloak, and placed it around Madge with an unusual attentiveness, prolonging the slight service to its utmost possible length, and keeping an eye for any sign of relenting on the part of his master.
My mother and I stood waiting for Margaret, while Mrs. Faringfield and Fanny weepingly embraced her. That done, and with a good-night for Tom and Mr. Cornelius, but not a word or a look for her father, who stood as silent and motionless as marble, she laid her hand softly upon my arm, and we went forth, leaving my mother to the unwelcome escort of Ned. The door closed upon us four--'twas the last time it ever closed upon one of us--and in a few seconds we were at our steps. And who should come along at that moment, on his way to his quarters, but Captain Falconer? He stopped, in pleased surprise, and, peering at our faces in the darkness, asked in his gay, good-natured way what fun was afoot.
"Not much fun," said Margaret. "I have just left my father's house, at his command."
He stood in a kind of daze. As it was very cold, we bade him good night, and went in. Reopening the door, and looking out, I saw him proceeding homeward, his head averted in a meditative attitude. I knew not till the next day what occurred when he arrived in the Faringfield hall.
"Sir," said Tom Faringfield, stepping forth from where he had been leaning against the stair-post, "I must speak low, because my parents and sister are in the parlour there, and I don't wish them to hear--" "With all my heart," replied Falconer. "Won't you come into my room, and have a glass of wine?"
"No, sir. If I had a glass of wine, I should only waste it by throwing it in your face. All I have to say is, that you are a scoundrel, and I desire an opportunity to kill you as soon as may be--" "Tut, tut, my dear lad--" "I'll think of a pretext, and send my friend to you to-morrow," added Tom, and, turning his back, went quietly up-stairs to his room; where, having locked the door, he fell face forward upon his bed, and cried like a heart-broken child.
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{
"id": "15506"
}
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15
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_In Which There Is a Flight by Sea, and a Duel by Moonlight. _ It appeared, from Ned Faringfield's account of himself, that after his encounter with Philip, and his fall from the shock of his wound, he had awakened to a sense of being still alive, and had made his way to the house of a farmer, whose wife took pity on him and nursed him in concealment to recovery. He then travelled through the woods to Staten Island, where, declaring himself a deserter from the rebel army, he demanded to be taken before the British commander.
Being conveyed to headquarters in the Kennedy House, near the bottom of the Broadway, he told his story, whereupon witnesses to his identity were easily found, and, Captain Falconer having been brought to confront him, he was released from bodily custody. He must have had a private interview with Falconer, and, perhaps, obtained money from him, before he came to the Faringfield house to vent his disappointment upon Madge. Or else he had got money from some other source; he may have gambled with what part of his pay he received in the early campaigns. He may, on some occasion, have safely violated Washington's orders against private robbery under the cover of war. He may have had secret dealings with the "Skinners" or other unattached marauders. In any case, his assured manner of offering Madge a passage to England with him, showed that he possessed the necessary means.
He had instantly recognised a critical moment of Madge's life, the moment when she found herself suddenly deprived of all resource but a friendly hospitality which she was too proud to make long use of, as a heaven-sent occasion for his ends. At another time, he would not have thought of making Madge his partner in an enterprise like the Irishman's--he feared her too much, and was too sensible of her dislike and contempt.
He set forth his scheme to her the next day, taking her acquiescence for granted. She listened quietly, without expressing her thoughts; but she neither consented nor refused. Ned, however, made full arrangements for their voyage; considering it the crowning godsend of a providential situation, that a vessel was so soon to make the trip, notwithstanding the unlikely time of year. When Margaret's things were brought over to our house, he advised her to begin packing at once, and he even busied himself in procuring additional trunks from his mother and mine, that she might be able to take all her gowns to London. The importance of this, and of leaving none of her jewelry behind, he most earnestly impressed upon her.
Yet she did not immediately set about packing, Ned probably had moments of misgiving, and of secret cursing, when he feared he might be reckoning without his host. The rest of us, at the time, knew nothing of what passed between the two: he pretended that the extra trunks were for some mysterious baggage of his own: nor did we then know what passed between her and Captain Falconer late in the day, and upon which, indeed, her decision regarding Ned's offer depended.
She had watched at our window for the captain's passing. When at length he appeared, she was standing so close to the glass, her eyes so unmistakably met his side-look, that he could not pretend he had not seen her. As he bowed with most respectful civility, she beckoned him with a single movement of a finger, and went, herself, to let him in. When he had followed her into our parlour, his manner was outwardly of the most delicate consideration, but she thought she saw beneath it a certain uneasiness. They spoke awhile of her removal from her father's house; but he avoided question as to its cause, or as to her intentions. At last, she said directly, with assumed lightness: "I think of going to London with my brother, on the _Phoebe_."
She was watching him closely: his face brightened wonderfully.
"I vow, you could do nothing better," he said. " _There_ is _your_ world. I've always declared you were a stranger in this far-off land. 'Tis time you found your proper element. I can't help confessing it; 'tis due to you I should confess it--though alas for us whom you leave in New York!"
She looked at him for a moment, with a slight curling of the lip; witnessed his recovery from the fear that she might throw herself upon his care; saw his comfort at being relieved of a possible burden he was not prepared to assume; and then said, very quietly: "I think Mrs. Russell is coming. You had best go."
With a look of gallant adoration, he made to kiss her hand first. But she drew it away, and put her finger to her lip, as if to bid him depart unheard. When he had left the house, she fell upon the sofa and wept, but only for wounded vanity, for chagrin that she had exposed her heart to one of those gentry who will adore a woman until there is danger of her becoming an embarrassment.
Before long, she arose, and dried her eyes, and went up-stairs to pack her trunks. Thus ended this very light affair of the heart; which had so heavy consequences for so many people.
But Captain Falconer's inward serenity was not to escape with this unexpectedly easy ordeal. When he reached his room, he found me awaiting him, as the representative of Tom Faringfield. I had, in obedience to my sense of duty, put forth a few conventional dissuasions against Tom's fighting the captain; and had presumed to hint that I was nearer to him in years and experience than Tom was. But the boy replied with only a short, bitter laugh at the assured futility of my attempts. Plainly, if there was to be fighting over this matter, I ought not to seek a usurpation of Tom's right. And fighting there would be, I knew, whether I said yea or nay. Since Tom must have a second, that place was mine. And I felt, too, with a young man's foolish faith in poetic justice, that the right must win; that his adversary's superiority in age--and therefore undoubtedly in practice, Falconer being the man he was--would not avail against an honest lad avenging the probity of a sister. And so I yielded countenance to the affair, and went, as soon as my duty permitted, to wait upon Captain Falconer.
"Why," said he, when I had but half told my errand, "I was led to expect this. The young gentleman called me a harsh name, which I'm willing to overlook. But he finds himself aggrieved, and, knowing him as I do, I make no doubt he will not be content till we have a bout or two. If I refuse, he will dog me, I believe, and make trouble for both of us, till I grant him what he asks. So the sooner 'tis done, the better, I suppose. But lookye, Mr. Russell, 'tis sure to be an embarrassing business. If one or other of us _should_ be hurt, there'd be the devil to pay, you know. I dare say the General would be quite obdurate, and go the whole length of the law. There's that to be thought of. Have a glass of wine, and think of it."
Tom and I had already thought of it. We had been longer in New York than the captain had, and we knew how the embarrassment to which he alluded could be provided against. " 'Tis very simple," said I, letting him drink alone, which it was not easy to do, he was still so likeable a man. "We can go from Kingsbridge as if we meant to join Captain De Lancey in another of his raids. And we can find some spot outside the lines; and if any one is hurt, we can give it out as the work of rebel irregulars who attacked us."
He regarded me silently a moment, and then said the plan seemed a good one, and that he would name a second with whom I could arrange details. Whereupon, dismissing the subject with a civil expression of regret that Tom should think himself affronted, he went on to speak of the weather, as if a gentleman ought not to treat a mere duel as a matter of deep concern.
I came away wishing it were not so hard to hate him. The second with whom I at length conferred--for our duties permitted not a prompt despatching of the affair, and moreover Captain Falconer's disposition was to conduct it with the gentlemanly leisure its pretended unimportance allowed--was Lieutenant Hugh Campbell, one of several officers of that name who served in the Highland regiment that had been stationed earlier at Valentine's Hill; he therefore knew the debatable country beyond Kingsbridge as well as I. He was a mere youth, a serious-minded Scot, and of a different sort from Captain Falconer: 'twas one of the elegant captain's ways, and evidence of his breadth of mind, to make friends of men of other kinds than his own. Young Campbell and I, comparing our recollections of the country, found that we both knew of a little open hollow hidden by thickets, quite near the Kingsbridge tavern, which would serve the purpose. Captain Falconer's duties made a daylight meeting difficult to contrive without exposing his movements to curiosity, and other considerations of secrecy likewise preferred a nocturnal affair. We therefore planned that the four of us, and an Irish surgeon named McLaughlin, should appear at the Kingsbridge tavern at ten o'clock on a certain night for which the almanac promised moonlight, and should repair to the meeting-place when the moon should be high enough to illumine the hollow. The weapons were to be rapiers. The preliminary appearance at the tavern was to save a useless cold wait in case one of the participants should, by some freak of duty, be hindered from the appointment; in which event, or in that of a cloudy sky, the matter should be postponed to the next night, and so on.
The duel was to occur upon a Wednesday night. On that afternoon I was in the town, having carried some despatches from our outpost to General De Lancey, and thence to General Knyphausen; and I was free for a few minutes to go home and see my mother.
"What do you think?" she began, handing me a cup of tea as soon as I had strode to the parlour fire-place.
"I think this hot tea is mighty welcome," said I, "and that my left ear is nigh frozen. What else?"
"Margaret has gone," she replied, beginning to rub my ear vigorously.
"Gone! Where?" I looked around as if to make sure there was no sign of her in the room.
"With Ned--on the _Phoebe_."
"The deuce! How could you let her do it--you, and her mother, and Fanny?"
"We didn't know. I took some jelly over to old Miss Watts--she's very feeble--and Madge and Ned went while I was out; they had their trunks carted off at the same time. 'Twasn't for an hour or two I became curious why she kept her room, as I thought; and when I went up to see, the room was empty. There were two letters there from her, one to me and one to her mother. She said she left in that way, to save the pain of farewells, and to avoid our useless persuasions against her going. Isn't it terrible? --poor child! Why it seems only yesterday--" And my good mother's lips drew suddenly down at the corners, and she began to sniff spasmodically.
"But is it too late?" I asked, in a suddenly quieted voice. That the brightness and beauty of Madge, which had been a part of my world since I could remember, should have gone from about us, all in a moment! --'twas a new thought, and a strange one. What a blank she left, what a dulness!
"Too late, heaven knows!" said my mother, drying her eyes with a handkerchief, and speaking brokenly. "As soon as Mrs. Faringfield read the letters, which I had taken over at once, Fanny and Mr. Cornelius started running for the wharves. But when they got there, the _Phoebe_ wasn't in sight. It had sailed immediately their trunks were aboard, I suppose. Oh, to think of pretty Madge--what will become of her in that great, bad London?"
"She has made her plans, no doubt, and knows what she is doing," said I, with a little bitterness. "Poor Phil! Her father is much to blame."
When I told Tom, as soon as I reached the outpost, he gave a sudden, ghastly, startled look; then collected himself, and glanced at the sword with which he meant to fight that night.
"Why, I was afraid she would go," said he, in a strained voice; and that was all.
Whenever I saw him during the rest of the evening, he was silent, pale, a little shaky methought. He was not as I had been before my maiden duel: blustering and gay, in a trance-like recklessness; assuming self-confidence so well as to deceive even myself and carry me buoyantly through. He seemed rather in suspense like that of a lover who has to beg a stern father for a daughter's hand. As a slight hurt will cause a man the greatest pain, and a severe injury produce no greater, so will the apprehensions of a trivial ordeal equal in effect those of a matter of life and death; there being a limit to possible sensation, beyond which nature leaves us happily numb. Sometimes, upon occasion, Tom smiled, but with a stiffness of countenance; when he laughed, it was in a short, jerky, mechanical manner. As for me, I was in different mood from that preceding my own first trial of arms: I was now overcast in spirit, tremulous, full of misgivings.
The moon did not disappoint us as we set out for the tavern. There were but a few fleecy clouds, and these not of an opaqueness to darken its beams when they passed across it. The snow was frozen hard in the fields, and worn down in the road. The frost in the air bit our nostrils, and we now and again worked our countenances into strange grimaces, to free them from the sensation of being frozen hard. " 'Tis a beautiful night," said Tom, speaking in more composure than he had shown during the early evening. The moonlight had a calming effect, as the clear air had a bracing one. His eyes roamed the sky, and then the moonlit, snow-clad earth--hillock and valley, wood and pond, solitary house bespeaking indoor comfort, and a glimpse of the dark river in the distance--and he added: "What a fine world it is!"
When we entered the warm tap-room of the tavern--the house above Kingsbridge, outside the barriers where the passes were examined and the people searched who were allowed entrance and departure; not Hyatt's tavern, South of the bridge--we found a number of subalterns there, some German, some British, some half-drunk, some playing cards. Our Irish surgeon sat in a corner, reading a book--I think 'twas a Latin author--by the light of a tallow candle. He nodded to us indifferently, as if he had no engagement with us, and continued to read. Tom and I ordered a hot rum punch mixed for us, and stood at the bar to drink it.
"You look pale and shaky, you two," said the tavern-keeper, who himself waited upon us. " 'Tis the cold," said I. "We're not all of your constitution, to walk around in shirt-sleeves this weather."
"Why," says the landlord, "I go by the almanac. 'Tis time for the January thaw, 'cordin' to that. Something afoot to-night, eh? One o' them little trips up the river, or out East Chester way, with De Lancey's men, I reckon?"
We said nothing, but wisely looked significant, and the host grinned.
"More like 'tis a matter of wenches," put in a half-drunken ensign standing beside us at the bar. "That's the only business to bring a gentleman out such a cursed night. Damn such a vile country, cold as hell in winter, and hot as hell in summer! Damn it and sink it! and fill up my glass, landlord. Roast me dead if _I_ stick _my_ nose outdoors to-night!"
"A braw, fine nicht, the nicht, gentlemen," said a sober, ruddy-faced Scot, very gravely, with a lofty contempt for the other's remarks. "Guid, hamelike weather."
But the feelings and thoughts prevailing in the tap-room were not in tune with those agitating our hearts, and as soon as Captain Falconer and his friend came in, we took our leave, exchanging a purposely careless greeting with the newcomers. We turned in silence from the road, crossed a little sparsely wooded hill, and arrived in the thicket-screened hollow.
'Twas in silence we had come. I had felt there was much I would like, and ought, to say, but something in Tom's mood or mine, or in the situation, benumbed my thoughts so they would not come forth, or jumbled them so I knew not where to begin. Arrived upon the ground with a palpitating sense of the nearness of the event, we found ourselves still less fit for utterance of the things deepest in our minds.
"There'll be some danger of slipping on the frozen snow," said I, trying to assume a natural, even a cheerful, tone. " 'Tis an even danger to both of us," said Tom, speaking quickly to maintain a steadiness of voice, as a drunken man walks fast to avoid a crookedness of gait.
While we were tramping about to keep warm, the Irish surgeon came to us through the bushes, vowing 'twas "the divvle's own weather, shure enough, barrin' the hivvenly moonlight." Opening his capacious greatcoat, he brought from concealment a small case, which Tom eyed askance, and I regarded ominously, though it had but a mere professional aspect to its owner.
We soon heard the tread, and the low but easy voices, of Captain Falconer and Lieutenant Campbell; who joined us with salutations, graceful on Falconer's part, and naturally awkward on that of Campbell. How I admired the unconcerned, leisurely manner in which Falconer, having gone a little aloof from Tom and me, removed his overcoat, laced coat, and waistcoat, giving a playful shiver, purposely exaggerated, as he stood in his ruffled shirt and well-fitting boots and breeches. I was awkward in helping Tom off with his outer clothes. The moonlight, making everything in the hollow well-nigh as visible as by day, showed Tom's face to be white, his eyes wide-open and darkly radiant; while in Falconer's case it revealed a countenance as pleasant and gracious as ever, eyes neither set nor restless.
Campbell and I perfunctorily compared the swords, gave them a bend or two, and handed them to the principals. We then stood back. Doctor McLaughlin looked on with a mild interest. There was a low cry, a ring of steel, and the two men were at it.
I recall the moonshine upon their faces, the swift dartings of their faintly luminous blades, their strangely altering shadows on the snow as they moved, the steady attention of us who looked on, the moan of the wind among the trees upon the neighbouring heights, the sound of the men's tramping on the crusted snow, the clear clink of their weapons, sometimes the noise of their breathing. They eyed each other steadfastly, seeming to grudge the momentary winks enforced by nature. Falconer's purpose, I began to see, was but to defend himself and disarm his opponent. But Tom gave him much to do, making lightning thrusts with a suddenness and persistence that began at length to try the elder man. So they kept it up till I should have thought they were tired out.
Suddenly Tom made a powerful lunge that seemed to find the captain unready. But the latter, with a sharp involuntary cry, got his blade up in time to divert the point, by pure accident, with the guard of his hilt. His own point was thus turned straight toward his antagonist; and Tom, throwing his weight after his weapon, impaled himself upon the captain's. For an infinitesimal point of time, till the sword was drawn out, the lad seemed to stand upon his toes, leaning forward, looking toward the sky with a strange surprise upon his face, eyes and mouth alike open. And then he collapsed as if his legs and body were but empty rags; and fell in a huddle upon the snow: with a convulsive movement he stretched himself back to the shape of a man; and lay perfectly still.
The captain bent over him with astonishment. The surgeon ran to him, and turned him flat upon his back. I was by this time kneeling opposite the surgeon, who tore open Tom's shirts and examined his body.
"Bedad, gentlemen," said the Irishman sadly, in a moment, "he's beyont the need of my profession. 'Tis well ye had that sthory ready, in case of accident."
I stared incredulously at the surgeon, and then buried my face upon the dear body of the dead, mingling my wild tears with his blood.
"Oh, Madge, Madge," thought I, "if you could see what your folly has led to!"
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{
"id": "15506"
}
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_Follows the Fortunes of Madge and Ned. _ But Madge could know nothing yet of that night's occurrence. She was then many miles out to sea, her thoughts perhaps still lingering behind with her old life, but bound soon to overtake her, and to pass far ahead to the world she was sailing for, the world of her long-cherished desires.
I shall briefly relate a part of what she afterward recounted to me. The voyage from New York to Bristol lasted six weeks. She suffered much from her cramped quarters, from the cold weather, from seasickness; but she bore up against her present afflictions, in the hope of future compensations. She put away from her, with the facility of an ambitious beauty, alike her regrets for the past, and her misgivings of the future.
Not to risk any increase of those misgivings, she refrained from questioning Ned as to his resources, nor did she require of him a minute exposition of his plans. She preferred to leave all to him and to circumstance, considering that, once launched upon the sea of London, and perfectly unrestricted as to her proceedings, she could make shift to keep afloat. She had an earnest of the power of her beauty, in its effect upon the ship's captain, who, in the absence of passengers, was the only person aboard whose admiration was worth playing for. She had the place of honour at his table, and in her presence he was nothing but eyes and dumb confusion, while the extraordinary measures he took for her comfort proclaimed him her willing slave.
She listened without objection or comment when Ned, in confidential moods, forced his purposes upon her attention.
"We'll make 'em stare, my dear," said he. "We'll make 'em open their eyes a bit; just you wait! We'll find lodgings somewhere in the thick of the town, and I'll take you to the theatres, and to walk in St. James Park, and to the public assemblies, and wherever you're sure to be seen. I wish 'twere Summer; then there'd be Vauxhall and Ranelagh, and all that. 'Tis a bad time of year in London now; but we'll do our best. There'll be young sparks of quality enough, to ask each other who that goddess is, and that Venus, and that angel, and all that kind of thing; and they'll be mad to make your acquaintance. They'll take note of me, and when they see me at the coffee-houses and faro-tables, they'll fall over one another in the rush to know me, and to be my friends. And I'll pick out the best, and honour 'em with invitations to call at our lodgings, and there'll be my pretty sister to mix a punch for us, or pour out tea for us; and once we let 'em see we're as good quality as any of 'em, and won't stand any damn' nonsense,' why, you leave it to brother Ned to land a fat fish, that's all!"
She had a fear that his operations might at length become offensive to her taste, might stray from the line of her own ambitions; but she saw good reason to await developments in silence; and to postpone deviating from Ned's wishes, until they should cease to forward hers.
Upon her landing at Bristol, and looking around with interest at the shipping which reminded her of New York but to emphasise her feeling of exile therefrom, her thrilling sense of being at last in the Old World, abated her heaviness at leaving the ship which seemed the one remaining tie with her former life. If ever a woman felt herself to be entering upon life anew, and realised a necessity of blotting the past from memory, it was she; and well it was that the novelty of her surroundings, the sense of treading the soil whereon she had so long pined to set foot, aided her resolution to banish from her mind all that lay behind her.
The time-worn, weather-beaten aspect of the town, its old streets thronged with people of whom she was not known to a soul, would have made her disconsolate, had she not forced herself to contemplate with interest the omnipresent antiquity, to her American eyes so new. And so, as she had heroically endured seasickness, she now fought bravely against homesickness; and, in the end, as nearly conquered it as one ever does.
'Twas a cold ride by stage-coach to London, at that season; there were few travellers in the coach, and those few were ill-natured with discomfort, staring fiercely at the two strangers--whose strangeness they instantly detected by some unconscious process--as if the pair were responsible for the severe February weather, or guilty of some unknown crime. At the inns where they stopped, for meals and overnight, they were subjected to a protracted gazing on the part of all who saw them--an inspection seemingly resentful or disapproving, but indeed only curious. It irritated Madge, who asked Ned what the cause might be.
"Tut! Don't mind it," said he. " 'Tis the way of the English, everywhere but in London. They stare at strangers as if they was in danger of being insulted by 'em, or having their pockets picked by 'em, or at best as if they was looking at some remarkable animal; but they mean no harm by it."
"How can they see we are strangers?" she queried. "We're dressed like them."
"God knows! Perhaps because we look more cheerful than they do, and have a brisker way, and laugh easier," conjectured Ned. "But you'll feel more at home in London."
By the time she arrived in London, having slept in a different bed each night after landing, and eaten at so many different inns each day, Madge felt as if she had been a long while in England. [8] She came to the town thus as to a haven of rest; and though she was still gazed at for her beauty, it was not in that ceaseless and mistrustful way in which she had been scrutinised from top to toe in the country; moreover, the names of many of the streets and localities were familiar to her, and in her thoughts she had already visited them: for these reasons, which were more than Ned had taken account of, she did indeed feel somewhat at home in London, as he had predicted.
The night of their arrival was passed at the inn, in the Strand, where the coach had set them down. The next morning Ned chose lodgings in Craven Street: three rooms, constituting the entire first floor; which Madge, though she thought the house had a dingy look, found comfortable enough in their faded way; and wherein the two were installed by noon. They spent the afternoon walking about the most famous streets, returning to their lodgings for dinner.
"I think," said Ned, while they were eating, "'twon't do any harm to get on one of your best gowns, and your furbelows, and we'll go to the play, and begin the campaign this very night."
"Bless me, no! I'm tired to death with sightseeing," replied Madge. "I could fall asleep this moment. Besides, who's here to dress my hair? I couldn't go without a commode."
"Oh, well, just as you like. Only be pleased to remember, ma'am, my purse isn't a widow's mite--widow's cruse of oil, I mean, that runs for ever. I've been at a great expense to bring you here, and pounds and shillings don't rain from heaven like--like that stuff the Jews lived on for forty years in the wilderness. The sooner we land our fish, the sooner we'll know where the money's coming from. I sha'n't be able to pay for lodgings and meals very long."
"Why, 'tis a pretty pass if you've no more money--" "Well, it _is_ a pretty pass, and that's just what it is. I didn't count the cost when I made the generous offer to bring you. Oh, we can last a week or so yet, but the sooner something is done, the sooner we shall be easy in our minds. On second thoughts, though, you'd better go to bed and rest. It mightn't be well to flash on the town to-night, looking fagged, and without your hair dressed, and all that. So you go to bed and I'll go around and--call upon a few friends I made when I was here before."
Ned had so improved his attire, by acquisitions in New York, Bristol, and London, that his appearance was now presentable in the haunts of gentlemen. So he went out, leaving her alone. She could no longer postpone meditating upon what was before her.
Now that she viewed it for the first time in definite particulars, its true aspect struck her with a sudden dismay. She was expected to do nothing less than exhibit herself for sale, put herself up at auction for the highest bidder, set out her charms as a bait. And when the bait drew, and the bidders offered, and the buyer awaited--what then? She would never, her pride alone would never let her, degrade herself to a position at the very thought of which she caught her breath with horror. Come what may, the man who purchased her must put the transaction into the form of marriage. True, she was already married, in the view of the law; but, with a woman's eye for essentials, she felt her divorce from Philip already accomplished. The law, she allowed, would have to be satisfied with matters of form: but that was a detail to be observed when the time came; Philip would not oppose obstacles.
So she would let matters take their course, would wait upon occurrences. In very truth, to put herself on view with intent of catching a husband, of obtaining an establishment in life, was no more than young ladies of fashion, of virtue, of piety, did continually, under the skilled direction of the most estimable mothers. In Madge's case, the only difference was, on the one side, the excuse of necessity; on the other side, the encumbrance of her existing marriage. But the latter could be removed, whereas the former would daily increase.
She must, therefore, benefit by Ned's operations as long as they did not threaten to degrade her. By the time they did threaten so, she would have gained some experience of her own, circumstances would have arisen which she could turn to her use. Of actual destitution, never having felt it, she could not conceive; and therefore she did not take account of its possibility in her case.
So, having recovered from her brief panic, she went to bed and slept soundly.
The next morning Ned was in jubilant spirits. His visit the previous night had been to a gaminghouse in Covent Garden, and fortune had showered him with benefactions. He saw the margin of time at their disposal lengthened by several weeks. He bade his sister put herself at her best, drank with her to their success, and went and engaged a hairdresser and a maid. They went that night, in a hackney-coach, to the play at Drury Lane.
The open-mouthed gazing of her new maid, the deftly spoken admiration of her hairdresser, and the mirror upon her dressing-table, had prepared Madge for triumph. Her expectations were not disappointed, but they were almost forgotten. Her pleasure at sight of the restless, chattering crowd; her interest in the performance; her joy in seeing, in fine: supplanted half the consciousness of being seen. But she was, indeed, stared at from all parts of the house; people looked, and nudged one another; and the powdered bucks and beauties in the side-boxes, glancing up, forgot their own looks in examining hers.
Ned was elated beyond measure. He praised her all the way home in the coach, and when they stood at last on the step of their lodging-house, he waited a moment before going in, and looked back toward the Strand, half-thinking that some susceptible and adventurous admirer might have followed their conveyance to the door.
The next day, Sunday, he took her to church, at St. James's in Piccadilly, where they had difficulty in getting seats, and where several pious dowagers were scandalised at the inattention of their male company to the service. Ned walked out alone in the afternoon, but, to his surprise, he was not accosted by any gentleman pretending to recognise him as some one else, as a means of knowing him as himself.
On Monday he made himself seen at numerous coffee-houses and taverns, but, although he came upon two or three faces that he had noted in the theatre, no one looked at him with any sign of recollection. "Well, well," thought he, and afterward said to Madge, "in time they will come to remember me as the lovely creature's escort; at first their eyes will be all for the lovely creature herself."
They went to Covent Garden that evening, and to the Haymarket the next; and subsequently to public assemblies: Madge everywhere arresting attention, and exciting whispers and elbowings among observers wherever she passed. At the public balls, she was asked to dance, by fellows of whom neither she nor Ned approved, but who, Ned finally came to urge, might be useful acquaintances as leading to better ones. But she found all of them contemptible, and would not encourage any of them.
"If we could only get an invite to some private entertainment, the thing would be done in a jiffy," said Ned, "but damn it, you won't lead on any of these fellows--sure they must know ladies to whom they would mention you."
"I shouldn't think much of ladies that sought acquaintances on _their_ recommendation."
"Why, curse it, we must begin somewhere, to get in."
"If we began where these could open the doors, I warrant we shouldn't get very far in."
"Rat me if I understand why the men that are taken with you at the play, and elsewhere--real gentlemen of quality, some of 'em--never try to follow you up through me. I've put myself in their way, the Lord knows. Maybe they think I'm your husband. Curse it, there _is_ a difficulty! If you walked alone, in St. James Park, or past the clubs--?"
"You scoundrel, do you think I've come to that?"
Her look advised him not to pursue his last suggestion. By this time his expectations from their public appearances together had been sadly dampened. They must make acquaintances; creditable ones, that is to say, for of another kind he had enough and to spare.
But at last, after some weeks, during which he remained unapproached, and at the end of which he came to a belated perception of the insuperable barrier between the elect and the undesirable, and of his own identity with the latter class, he decided he must fall back upon his friends for what they might be worth. He had undergone many snubs in his efforts to thrust himself upon fine gentlemen in taverns, coffee-houses, and gaming-places. As for Madge, her solitude had been mitigated by her enjoyment of plays and sights, of the external glimpses of that life to which her entrance seemed impossible.
Ned began therefore to bring his associates to their lodgings: chiefly, a gambling barrister of Lincoln's Inn, a drunken cashiered captain of marines, and a naval surgeon's mate with an unhealthy outbreak on his face. One meeting with each rascal sufficed to make Madge deny her presence upon his next visit. At this Ned raged, declaring, that these gentlemen, though themselves in adverse circumstances, had relations and friends among the quality or the wealthy. And at length he triumphantly made good his assertion by introducing a youth to whom the barrister had introduced him, and who, he whispered to Madge, though not blessed with a title, was the heir in prospect of an immense fortune. It came out that he was the son of a prosperous fishmonger in the city.
He was a fat, good-humoured fellow, expensively dressed, and clean, being in all these points an exception among Ned's acquaintances. Madge found him, as a mere acquaintance, more amusing than intolerable; but as a possible husband, not to be thought of save with laughter and contempt.
Her refusal to consider him in the desired light, made Ned very wroth; and in revenge he went out, and, between drink and gaming, rid himself of every penny he possessed. He thereupon begged that Madge would let him pawn some of her jewelry. She refused to do so; until their landlady threatened ejection and suit.
After that, matters went from bad to worse. With part of the money obtained upon what trinkets she gave him, Ned tried to repair his fortunes at the gaming-table; and that failing, he consoled himself in drunkenness. More of her valuables were demanded; yielded up after terrible quarrels with Ned, and humiliating scenes with the landlady. The visits to the play ceased, the maid was discharged, the hairdresser was no more brought into requisition. Their fall to destitution was worthy of the harebrained design, the bungling conduct, of Ned; the childish inexperience, the blind confidence, of Madge. 'Twas a fall as progressive as a series of prints by Hogarth. The brother was perpetually in liquor; he no longer took Madge out with him. Often he stayed away nights and days at a time.
She resolved to entrust nothing further to him, but to dispose of her ornaments herself, and to devote the proceeds to necessities alone, as he had wasted them in drink and gaming. When she acted upon this resolution, he behaved like a madman. Fearful quarrels ensued. He blamed her for defeating his plans, she upbraided him for alluring her to London. Recriminations and threats filled the hours when he was with her; loneliness and despondency occupied the periods of his absence. Finally, while she slept, he robbed her of money she had got upon a bracelet; then of some of the jewelry itself. She dared no longer sleep soundly, lest he might take away her last means of subsistence. She was in daily and nightly terror of him.
She made up her mind, at last, to flee to some other part of the town, and hide from him; that her few resources left might be devoted to herself alone, and thus postpone the day of destruction to the furthest possible time. After her last jewel, she might dispose of her dresses. It was on a moonlight night in spring that she came to this determination; and, as Ned had gone out in a mood apparently presaging a long absence, she set about packing her clothes into her trunks, so as to take them with her when she left by hackney-coach at early daylight to seek new lodgings.
Suddenly she heard the door below slam with a familiar violence, and a well-known heavy tread ascend the stairs. There was no time to conceal what she was at, ere Ned flung open the door, and stumbled in. He stared in amazement at her trunks and dresses.
"What's this?" he cried. "Why is all this trash lying around? Why, damme, you're packing your trunks!"
She had passed the mood for dissembling. "Well," she retorted, "I may pack my trunks if I please. They're my trunks, and my things in 'em."
"What! You thankless hussy, were you going to run away?" " 'Tis no concern of yours, what I was going to do!"
"Oh, isn't it? We'll see about that! Begad, 'tis lucky I came back! So you were going to desert me, eh? Well, I'm damned if there was ever such ingratitude! After all I've done and suffered!"
[Illustration: "HE FINALLY DREW BACK TO GIVE HER A MORE EFFECTUAL BLOW."]
She gave a derisive laugh, and defiantly resumed her packing.
"What! you're rebellious, are you?" quoth he. "But you'll not get away from me so easy, my lady. Not with those clothes, at least; for yourself, it doesn't much matter. I'll just put those things back into the press, and after this I'll carry the key. But your rings and necklace--I'll take charge of them first."
He stepped forward to lay hands upon the ornaments, which, for their greater security from him, she now wore upon her person at all times. She sprang away, ready to defend them by every possible means, and warning him not to touch her. Her flashing eyes and fiery mien checked him for a moment; then, with a curse, he seized her by the neck and essayed to undo the necklace. Thereupon she screamed loudly for help. To intimidate her into silence, he struck her in the face. At that she began to struggle and hit, so that he was hard put to it to retain hold of her and to save his face from her hands. Enraged by her efforts, he finally drew back to give her a more effectual blow; which he succeeded in doing, but at the cost of relaxing his grasp, so that she slipped from him and escaped by the door. She hastened down the stairs and into the street, he in wrathful pursuit. She fled toward the Strand.
At the corner of that thoroughfare, she ran into a trio of gentlemen who just at the moment reached the junction of the two streets.
"The deuce!" cried one of the three, flinging his arms around her. "What have we here? Beauty in distress?"
"Let me go!" she cried. "Don't let _him_ take me."
"Him!" echoed the gentleman, releasing her. He was a distinguished-looking fellow of twenty-eight or so, with a winning face and very fine eyes. "Oh, I see. The villain in pursuit!"
"Egad, that makes you the hero to the rescue, Dick," said one of the young gentleman's companions.
"Faith, I'll play the part, too," replied Dick. "Fear not, madam."
"Thank you, sir, for stopping her," said Ned, coming up, panting.
"Pray, don't waste your thanks. What shall I do to the rascal, madam?"
"I don't care," she answered. "Don't let him have me."
"None of that, sir," spoke up Ned. "She's a runaway, and I'm her natural protector."
"Her husband?" inquired Dick.
"No--" "I congratulate you, madam."
"I'm her brother," said Ned.
"And condole with you in the same breath," finished Dick, to Margaret. "You're a lady, I see. Pardon my familiarity at first. Sure you needn't fear me--I have a wife as beautiful as yourself. As for this relation of yours--" "He tried to rob me of my necklace and rings. We lodge yonder, where the light is in the window. He found me packing my trunks to leave him--" "And leave him you shall. Shall she not, gentlemen?"
His two companions warmly assented. Ned savagely measured them with his eyes, but did not dare a trial of prowess against three. Moreover, their courtly address and easy manners disconcerted him.
"Oh, I sha'n't harm her," he grumbled. " 'Twas but a tiff. Let her come back home; 'twill be all well."
But Madge was not for resigning herself a moment to his mercy. She briefly explained her situation and her wishes. The upshot of all was, that the young gentleman called Dick turned to his friends and said: "What say you, gentlemen? Our friends at Brooks's can wait, I think. Shall we protect this lady while she packs her trunks, find lodgings for her this very night, and see her installed in them?"
"Ay, and see that this gentle brother does not follow or learn where she goes," answered one.
"Bravo!" cried the other. " 'Twill be like an incident in a comedy, Dick."
"Rather like a page of Smollett," replied Dick. "With your permission, madam, we'll accompany you to your lodgings."
They sat around the fireplace, with their backs to her, and talked with easy gaiety, while she packed her possessions; Ned having first followed them in, and then fled to appease his mind at an ale-house. Finally Dick and one of the gentlemen closed her trunks for her, while the other went for a coach; wherein all three accompanied her to the house of a wigmaker known to Dick, in High Holborn; where they roused the inmates, made close terms, and left her installed in a decent room with her belongings.
As they took their leave, after an almost tearful burst of thanks on her part, Dick said: "From some of your expressions, madam, I gather that your resources are limited--resources of one kind, I mean. But in your appearance, your air, and your voice, you possess resources, which if ever you feel disposed to use, I beg you will let me know. Pray don't misunderstand me; the world knows how much I am in love with my wife." [9] When he had gone, leaving her puzzled and astonished, she turned to the wigmaker's wife, who was putting the room to rights, and asked: "Pray what is that last gentleman's name?"
"Wot, ma'am! Can it be you don't know _'im? _" "He forgot to tell me."
"Sure 'e thought as you must know already. Everybody in London knows the great Mr. Sheridan."
"What! Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the dramatist?"
"And manager of Drury Lane Theaytre. Didn't you 'ear 'im hoffer to put you on the stage, w'en 'e spoke about your looks and voice?"
Madge turned to the mirror; and saw, for the--first time in weeks, a sudden light of hope, a sense of triumphs yet in her power, dawn upon her face.
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_I Hear Again from Winwood. _ Meanwhile we passed through a time of deep sorrow at the Faringfield house and ours. The effect of Tom's untimely fate, coming upon Margaret's departure and the disclosures regarding her and Ned, was marked in Mr. Faringfield by a haggardness of countenance, an averted glance, a look of age, pitiful to see. His lady considered herself crushed by affliction, as one upon whom grief had done its worst; and she resigned herself to the rôle of martyr in the comfortably miserable way that some people do, without losing her appreciation of the small consolations of life, such as morning chocolate, afternoon tea, and neighbourly conversation upon the subject of her woes. Poor Fanny bore up for the sake of cheering her parents, but her face, for a long time, was rarely without the traces of tears shed in solitude. Of that household of handsome, merry children, whose playful shouts had once filled the mansion and garden with life, she was now the only one left. I sighed to think that my chances of taking her away from that house were now reduced to the infinitesimal. Her parents, who had brought into the world so promising a family, to find themselves now so nearly alone, must not be left entirely so: such would be her answer to any pleas I might in my selfishness offer.
What a transformation had been wrought in that once cheerful household! How many lives were darkened! --Mr. Faringfield's, his wife's, Fanny's, Philip's (when he should know), Madge's (sooner or later), the sympathetic Cornelius's, my mother's, my own. And what a promising, manly, gentle life had been cut short in its earliest bloom! I knew that Tom's life alone had been worth a score of lives like Captain Falconer's. And the cause of all this, though Margaret was much to blame, was the idle resolve of a frivolous lady-killer to add one more conquest to his list, in the person of a woman for whom he did not entertain more than the most superficial feelings. What a sacrifice had been made for the transient gratification of a stranger's vanity! What bitter consequences, heartrending separations, had come upon all of us who had lived so close together so many pleasant years, through the careless self-amusement of a chance interloper whose very name we had not known six months before!
And now, the pleasure-seeker's brief pastime in that quarter being ended, the lasting sorrows of his victims having begun; his own career apparently not altered from its current, their lives diverted rudely into dark channels and one of them stopped short for ever: was the matter to rest so?
You may easily guess what my answer was to this question. When I pondered on the situation, I no longer found Captain Falconer a hard man to hate. The very lightness of his purpose, contrasted with the heaviness of its consequences, aggravated his crime. To risk so much upon other people, to gain so little for himself, was the more heinous sin than its converse would have been. That he might not have foreseen the evil consequences made possible, was no palliation: he ought to have examined the situation; or indeed he ought to have heeded what he must have known, that little offences may always entail dire evils. Measured by their possibility to work havoc with lives, there are no _small_ sins. The man who enters carelessly upon a trivial deviation is therefore as much to be held responsible as he that walks deliberately into the blackest crime. Not to know this, is not to have studied life; and not to have studied life is, in a person of mature years, a mighty sin of omission, because of the great evils that may arise from ignorance. But Captain Falconer must have known life, must have seen the hazards of his course. Therefore he was responsible in any view; and therefore I would do my utmost toward exacting payment from him. Plainly, in Philip's absence, the right fell to me, as his friend and Tom's--nay, too, as the provisionally accepted husband of Mr. Faringfield's second daughter.
But before I got an opportunity to make a quarrel with Falconer (who had moved his quarters from the Faringfield house, wherein he had not slept or eaten since the night of Margaret's leaving it, though he had spent some time in his rooms there on the ensuing day) I had a curious interview with Mr. Faringfield.
While in the town one day, I had stopped as usual to see my mother. Just as I was about to remount my horse, Mr. Faringfield appeared at his garden gate. Beckoning me to him, he led the way into the garden, and did not stop until we were behind a fir-tree, where we could not be seen from the house.
"Tell me the truth," said he abruptly, his eyes fixed piercingly upon mine, "how Tom met his death."
After a moment's confusion, I answered: "I can add nothing to what has been told you, sir."
He looked at me awhile in silence; then said, with a sorrowful frown: "I make no doubt you are tongue-tied by a compact. But you need not fear me. The British authorities are not to be moved by any complaint of mine. My object is not to procure satisfaction for my son's death. I merely wish to know whether he took it upon himself to revenge our calamities; and whether that was not the true cause of his death."
"Why, sir," I said awkwardly, as he still held me in a searching gaze that seemed to make speech imperative, "how should you think that?"
"From several things. In the first place, I know Tom was a lad of mettle. The account of the supposed attack that night, has it that Falconer was in your party; he was one of those who returned with you. What would Tom have been doing in Falconer's society, when not under orders, after what had occurred? Other people, who know nothing of that occurrence, would see nothing strange in their being together. But I would swear the boy was not so lost to honourable feeling as to have been Falconer's companion after what had taken place here." " 'Twas no loss of honourable feeling that made him Falconer's companion!" said I, impulsively.
"Then," cried he, quickly, with eagerness in his voice, "'twas to fight Falconer?"
"I didn't say that."
"Thank God, then, if he had to die, 'twas not as that man's friend, but his antagonist! My poor, brave Tom! My noble boy! Oh, would I had known him better while he lived!"
"He was all that is chivalrous and true, sir."
"I wanted only this assurance. I felt it in my heart. Don't fear my betraying you; I understand how these affairs have to be managed at such times. Alas, if I had but known in time to prevent! Well, well, 'tis too late now. But there is one person I must confide this to--Philip."
"But I haven't told you anything, sir."
"Quite true; and therefore what I shall confide to Philip will not be of your telling. He will be silent, too. We shall make no disclosures. Falconer shall receive his punishment in another manner."
"He shall, sir," said I, with a positiveness which, in his feeling of sorrow, and yet relief, to know that Tom had died as champion of the family honour, escaped his notice. I thereupon took my leave.
As I afterward came to know, he sent Philip an account of the whole lamentable affair, from Ned's reappearance to Tom's death; it was written in a cipher agreed upon between the two, and 'twas carried by Bill Meadows. Mr. Faringfield deemed it better that Philip should know the whole truth from his relation, than learn of Madge's departure, and Tom's fate, from other accounts, which must soon reach his ears in any case.
I know not exactly how many days later it was, that, having a free evening in the town, I went to the Faringfield house in hope of bearing some cheer with me. But 'twas in vain. Mrs. Faringfield was keeping her chamber, and requiring Fanny's attendance. Mr. Faringfield sat in a painful reverie, before the parlour fire; scarce looked up when I entered; and seemed to find the lively spirits I brought in from the cold outer world, a jarring note upon his mood. He had not ordered candles: the firelight was more congenial to his meditations. Mr. Cornelius sat in a dark corner of the room, lending his silent sympathy, and perhaps a fitting word now and then, to the merchant's reflections.
Old Noah, the only servant I saw, reflected in his black face the sorrow that had fallen on the home, and stepped with the tread of a ghost. I soon took my leave, having so far failed to carry any brightness into the stricken house, that I came away filled with a sadness akin to its own. I walked forward aimlessly through the wintry dusk, thinking life all sorrow, the world all gloom.
Suddenly the sound of laughter struck my ears. Could there indeed be mirth anywhere--nay, so near at hand--while such woe dwelt in the house I had left? The merriment seemed a violence, a sacrilege, an insult. I looked angrily at the place whence the noise proceeded. 'Twas from the parlour of the King's Arms tavern--for, in my doleful ponderings, my feet had carried me, scarce consciously, so far from Queen Street. I peered in through the lighted window. A number of officers were drinking, after dinner, at a large table, and 'twas the noise of their boisterous gaiety that my unhappy feelings had so swiftly resented.
While the merry fellows dipped their punch from the great bowl steaming in the centre of the table, and laughed uproariously at the story one was telling, I beheld in sharp contrast this jocund scene and the sad one I had so recently looked upon. And, coming to observe particulars, I suddenly noticed that the cause of all this laughter, himself smiling in appreciation of his own story as he told it, his face the picture of well-bred light-hearted mirth, was Captain Falconer. And he was the cause of the other scene, the sorrow that abode in the house I loved! The thought turned me to fire. I uttered a curse, and strode into the tavern; rudely flung open the parlour door, and stood in the presence of the laughing officers.
Falconer himself was the first to recognise me, though all had turned to see who made so violent an entrance.
"Why, Russell," cried he, showing not a whit of ill-humour at the interruption to his story, "this is a pleasure, by George! I haven't seen you in weeks. Find a place, and dive into the punch. Ensign Russell, gentlemen--if any of you haven't the honour already--and my very good friend, too!"
"Ensign Russell," I assented, "but not your friend, Captain Falconer. I desire no friends of your breed; and I came in here for the purpose of telling you so, damn you!"
Falconer's companions were amazed, of course; and some of them looked resentful and outraged, on his behalf. But the captain himself, with very little show of astonishment, continued his friendly smile to me.
"Well acted, Russell," said he, in a tone so pleasant I had to tighten my grip upon my resolution. "On my conscience, anybody who didn't know us would never see your joke."
"Nor would anybody who did know us," I retorted. "If an affront before all this company, purposely offered, be a joke, then laugh at this one. But a man of spirit would take it otherwise."
"Sure the fellow means to insult you, Jack," said one of the officers to Falconer.
"Thank you," said I to the officer.
"Why, Bert," said the captain, quickly, "you must be under some delusion. Have you been drinking too much?"
"Not a drop," I replied. "I needn't be drunk, to know a scoundrel. Come, sir, will you soon take offence? How far must I go?"
"By all that's holy, Jack," cried one of his friends, "if you don't knock him down, I shall!"
"Ay, he ought to have his throat slit!" called out another.
"Nay, nay!" said Falconer, stopping with a gesture a general rising from the table. "There is some mistake here. I will talk with the gentleman alone. After you, sir." And, having approached me, he waited with great civility, for me to precede him out of the door. I accepted promptly, being in no mood to waste time in a contest of politeness.
"Now, lad, what in the name of heaven--" he began, in the most gentle, indulgent manner, as we stood alone in the passage.
"For God's sake," I blurted irritably, "be like your countrymen in there: be sneering, resentful, supercilious! Don't be so cursed amiable--don't make it so hard for me to do this!"
"I supercilious! And to thee, lad!" he replied, with a reproachful smile.
"Show your inward self, then. I know how selfish you are, how unscrupulous! You like people for their good company, and their admiration of you, their attachment to you. But you would trample over any one, without a qualm, to get at your own pleasure or enrichment, or to gratify your vanity."
He meditated for a moment upon my words. Then he said, good-naturedly: "Why, you hit me off to perfection, I think. And yet, my liking for some people is real, too. I would do much for those I like--if it cost not too many pains, and required no sacrifice of pleasure. For you, indeed, I would do a great deal, upon my honour!"
"Then do this," quoth I, fighting against the ingratiating charm he exercised. "Grant me a meeting--swords or pistols, I don't care which--and the sooner the better."
"But why? At least I may know the cause."
"The blight you have brought on those I love--but that's a cause must be kept secret between us."
"Must I fight twice on the same score, then?"
"Why not? You fared well enough the first time. Tom fought on his family's behalf. I fight on behalf of my friend--Captain Winwood. Besides, haven't I given you cause to-night, before your friends in there? If I was in the wrong there, so much the greater my offence. Come--will you take up the quarrel as it is? Or must I give new provocation?"
He sighed like a man who finds himself drawn into a business he would have considerately avoided.
"Well, well," said he, "I can refuse you nothing. We can manage the affair as we did the other, I fancy. It must be a secret, of course--even from my friends in there. I shall tell them we have settled our difference, and let them imagine what they please to. I'll send some one to you--that arrangement will give you the choice of weapons." " 'Tis indifferent to me."
"To me also. But I prefer you should have that privilege. I entreat you will choose the weapons you are best at."
"Thank you. I shall expect to hear from you, then. Good-night!"
"Good-night! 'Tis a foggy evening. I wish you might come in and warm yourself with a glass before you go; but of course--well, good-night!"
I went out into the damp darkness, thanking heaven the matter was settled beyond undoing; and marvelling that exceptional, favoured people should exist, who, thanks to some happy combination of superficial graces, remain irresistibly likable despite all exposure of the selfish vices they possess at heart.
But if my prospective opponent was one who could not be faced antagonistically without a severe effort, the second whom he chose was one against whose side I could fight with the utmost readiness, thanks to the irritating power he possessed upon me. He was Lieutenant Chubb, whom I had worsted in the affair to which I have alluded earlier, which grew out of his assumption of superiority to us who were of American birth. I had subjected this cock to such deference in my presence, that he now rejoiced at what promised to be my defeat, and his revenge by proxy, so great reliance he placed upon Captain Falconer's skill with either sword or pistol. I chose the latter weapon, however, without much perturbation, inwardly resolved that the gloating Chubb should so far fail of his triumph, as to suffer a second humiliation in the defeat of his principal. For my own second, Lieutenant Berrian, of our brigade, did me the honour to go out with me. A young New York surgeon, Doctor Williams, obliged us by assuming the risk which it would have been too much to ask Doctor McLaughlin to undertake a second time. At my desire, the place and hour set were those at which Tom Faringfield had met his death. I felt that the memory of his dying face would be strongest, there and then, to make my arm and sight quick and sure.
A thaw had carried away much of the snow, and hence we had it not as light as it had been for Tom's duel; although the moon made our outlines and features perfectly distinct as we assembled in the hollow, and it would make our pistol-barrels shine brightly enough when the time came, as I ascertained by taking aim at an imaginary mark.
Falconer and I stood each alone, while the seconds stepped off the paces and the surgeon lighted a small lantern which might enable him to throw, upon a possible wound, rays more to the purpose than the moon afforded. I was less agitated, I think, than the doctor himself, who was new to such an affair. I kept my mind upon the change wrought in the Faringfield household, upon the fate of Tom, upon what I imagined would be Philip's feelings; and I had a thought, too, for the disappointment of my old enemy Chubb if I could cap the firing signal with a shot the fraction of a second before my antagonist could. We were to stand with our backs toward each other, at the full distance, and, upon the word, might turn and fire as soon as possible. To be the first in wheeling round upon a heel, and covering the foe, was my one concern, and, as I took my place, I dismissed all else from my mind, to devote my entire self, bodily and mental, to that one series of movements: all else but one single impression, and that was of malicious exultation upon the face of Chubb.
"You'll smile on t'other side of your face in a minute," thought I, pressing my teeth together.
I was giving my hand its final adjustment to the pistol, when suddenly a man dashed out of the covert at one side of the hollow, and ran toward us, calling out in a gruff voice: "Hold on a minute. Here's su'thin' fur you, Ensign Russell."
We had all turned at the first sound of the man's tread, fearing we had been spied upon and discovered. But I now knew there was no danger of that kind, for the voice belonged to old Bill Meadows.
"What do you mean?" I asked sharply, annoyed at the interruption.
"Nothin'. Read this here. I've follered yuh all evenin', thinkin' to ketch yuh alone. I gev my word to get it to yuh, fust thing; an' fur my own sake, I tried to do it unbeknownst. But now I must do it anyhow I ken. So take it, an' my compliments, an' I trust yuh to keep mum an' ask no questions, an' furget 'twas me brung it. And I'll keep a shet mouth about these here goings on. Only read it now, fur God's sake."
He had handed me a sealed letter. My curiosity being much excited, I turned to Falconer, and said: "Will you grant me permission? 'Twill take but a moment."
"Certainly," said he.
"Ay," added Chubb, against all the etiquette of the situation, "it can be allowed, as you're not like to read any more letters."
I tore it open, disdaining to reply in words to a gratuitous taunt I could soon answer by deed. The doctor having handed me his lantern, I held it in one hand, the letter in the other. The writing was that of Philip Winwood, and the letter read as follows: "DEAR BERT:--I have learned what sad things have befallen. You will easily guess my informant; but I know you will not use your knowledge of my communication therewith, to the detriment thereof. And I am sure that, since I ask it, you will not betray (or, by any act or disclosure, imperil or hamper) the messenger who brings this at risk of his life; for the matter is a private one.
"Pondering upon all that has occurred, I am put in a fear of your forgetting whose right it is to avenge it, and of your taking that duty to yourself, which belongs by every consideration to me. This is to beg, therefore, that you will not forestall me; that while I live you will leave this matter to me, at whatsoever cost though it be to your pride and your impatience. Dear Bert, I enjoin you, do not usurp my prerogative. By all the ties between us, past and to come, I demand this of you. _The man is mine to kill_. Let him wait my time, and I shall be the more, what I long have been, Ever thine, "PHILIP."
I thought over it for a full minute. He asked of me a grievous disappointment; nay, something of a humiliation, too, so highly had I carried myself, so triumphant had my enemy Chubb become in anticipation, so derisive would he be in case of my withdrawal.
If I receded, Chubb would have ground to think the message a device to get me out of a peril at the last moment, after I had pretended to face it so intrepidly thereunto. For I could not say what my letter contained, or who it was from, without betraying Meadows and perhaps Mr. Faringfield, which both Philip's injunction and my own will prohibited my doing. Thus, I hesitated awhile before yielding to Philip what he claimed so rightly as his own. But I am glad I had the courage to face Chubb's probable suspicions and possible contempt.
"Gentlemen," said I, folding up the letter for concealment and preservation, "I am very sorry to have brought you out here for nothing. I must make some other kind of reparation to you, Captain Falconer. I can't fight you."
There was a moment's pause; during which Lieutenant Chubb looked from me to his principal, with a mirthful grin, as much as to say I was a proven coward after all my swagger. But the captain merely replied: "Oh, let the matter rest as it is, then. I'm sorry I had to disappoint a lady, to come out here on a fool's errand, that's all."
He made that speech with intention, I'm sure, by way of revenge upon me, though doubtless 'twas true enough; for he must have known how it would sting a man who thought kindly of Madge Faringfield. It was the first cutting thing I had ever heard him say; it showed that he was no longer unwilling to antagonise me; it proved that he, too, could throw off the gentleman when he chose: and it made him no longer difficult for me to hate.
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_Philip Comes at Last to London. _ A human life will drone along uneventfully for years with scarce a perceptible progress, retrogression, or change; and then suddenly, with a few leaps, will cover more of alteration and event in a week than it has passed through in a decade. So will the critical occurrences of a day fill chapters, after those of a year have failed to yield more material than will eke out a paragraph. Experience proceeds by fits and starts. Only in fiction does a career run in an unbroken line of adventures or memorable incidents.
The personal life of Philip Winwood, as distinguished from his military career, which had no difference from that of other commanders of rebel partisan horse, and which needs no record at my hands, was marked by no conspicuous event from the night when he learned and defeated Madge's plot, to the end of the war. The news of her departure, and of Tom's death, came to him with a fresh shock, it is true, but they only settled him deeper in the groove of sorrow, and in the resolution to pay full retribution where it was due.
He had no pusillanimous notion of the unworthiness of revenge. He believed retaliation, when complete and inflicted without cost or injury to the giver, to be a most logical and fitting thing. But he knew that revenge is a two-edged weapon, and that it must be wielded carefully, so as not to cause self-damage. He required, too, that it should be wielded in open and honourable manner; and in that manner he was resolved to use it upon Captain Falconer. As for Madge, I believe he forgave her from the first, holding her "more in sorrow than in anger," and pitying rather than reproaching.
Well, he served throughout the war, keeping his sorrow to himself, being known always for a quietly cheerful mien, giving and taking hard blows, and always yielding way to others in the pressure for promotion. Such was the state of affairs in the rebel army, that his willingness to defer his claims for advancement, when there were restless and ambitious spirits to be conciliated and so kept in the service, was availed of for the sake of expediency. But he went not without appreciation. On one occasion, when a discontented but useful Pennsylvanian was pacified with a colonelcy, General Washington remarked to Light Horse Harry Lee: "And yet you are but a major, and Winwood remains a captain; but let me tell you, there is less honour in the titles of general and colonel, as borne by many, than there is in the mere names of Major Lee and Captain Winwood."
When Lee's troop was sent to participate in the Southern campaign, Philip's accompanied it, and he had hard campaigning under Greene, which continued against our Southernmost forces until long after the time of the capitulation of Lord Cornwallis's army at Yorktown, to the combined rebel and French armies under Washington. It happened that our battalion, wherein I was promoted to a lieutenantcy shortly after my abortive meeting with Captain Falconer near Kingsbridge, went South by sea for the fighting there, being the only one of De Lancey's battalions that left the vicinity of New York. We had bloody work enough then to balance our idleness in the years we had covered outposts above New York, and 'twas but a small fraction of our number that came home alive at last. I never met Philip while we were both in the South, nor saw him till the war was over.
Shiploads of our New York loyalists left, after Cornwallis's defeat at Yorktown showed what the end was to be; some of them going to England but many of them sailing to Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, there to begin afresh the toiling with the wilderness, and to build up new English colonies in North America. Others contrived to make their way by land to Canada, which thereby owes its English population mainly to those who fled from the independent states rather than give up their loyalty to the mother country. The government set up by the victorious rebels had taken away the lands and homes of the loyalists, by acts of attainder, and any who remained in the country did so at the risk of life or liberty. What a time of sad leave-taking it was! --families going forth poor to a strange land, who had lived rich in that of their birth--what losses, what wrenches, what heart-rendings! And how little compensation England could give them, notwithstanding all their claims and petitions! Well, they would deserve little credit for their loyalty if they had followed it without willingness to lose for it.
But my mother and I had possessed nothing to lose in America but our house and ground, our money being in the English funds. Fortunately, and thanks to our insignificance, we had been overlooked in the first act of attainder, and, taking warning by that, my mother had gratefully accepted Mr. Faringfield's offer to buy our home, for which we had thereafter paid him rent. Thus we had nothing to confiscate, when the war was over. As for Mr. Faringfield, he was on the triumphant side of Independence, which he had supported with secret contributions from the first; of course he was not to be held accountable for the treason of his eldest son, and the open service of poor Tom on the king's side.
My mother feared dreadful things when the victorious rebels should take possession--imprisonment, trial for treason, and similar horrors; and she was for sailing to England with the British army. But I flatly refused to go, pretending I was no such coward, and that I would leave when I was quite ready. I was selfish in this, of course; but I could not bring myself to go so far from Fanny. Our union was still as uncertain a possibility as ever. Only one thing was sure: she would not leave her parents at present.
The close of the war did not bring Philip back to us at once. On that day when, the last of the British vessels having gone down the bay, with the last British soldier aboard, the strangely empty-looking town took on a holiday humour, and General Washington rode in by the Bowery lane, with a number of his officers, and a few war-worn troops to make up a kind of procession of entry, and the stars and stripes were run up at the Battery--on that day of sadness, humiliation, and apprehension to those of us loyalists who had dared stay, I would have felt like cheering with the crowd, had Philip been one of those who entered. But he was still in the South, recovering from a bullet wound in his shoulder.
My mother and I were thereafter the recipients of ominous looks, and some uncomfortable hints and jeers, and our life was made constantly unpleasant thereby. The sneers cast by one Major Wheeler upon us loyalists, and upon our reasons for standing by the king, got me into a duel with him at Weehawken, wherein I gave him the only wound he ever received through his attachment to the cause of Independence. Another such affair, which I had a short time afterward, near the Bowery lane, and in which I shot a Captain Appleby's ear off, was attributed by my mother to the same cause; but the real reason was that the fellow had uttered an atrocious slander of Philip Winwood in connection with the departure of Phil's wife. This was but one of the many lies, on both sides of the ocean, that moved me at last to attempt a true account of my friend's domestic trouble.
My mother foresaw my continual engagement in such affairs if we remained in a place where we were subject to constant offence, and declared she would become distracted unless we removed ourselves. I resisted until she vowed she would go alone, if I drove her to that. And then I yielded, with a heart enveloped in a dark mist as to the outcome. Well, I thought with a sigh, I can always write to Fanny, and some day I shall come back for her.
It was now Summer. One evening, I sat upon our front step, in a kind of torpid state of mind through my refusal to contemplate the dismal future. My eye turned listlessly down the street. The only moving figure in it was that of a slender man approaching on the further side of the way. He carried two valises, one with each hand, and leaned a little forward as he strode, as if weary. Instantly I thought of years ago, and another figure coming up that street, with both hands laden, and walking in a manner of fatigue. I rose, gazed with a fast-beating heart at the man coming nearer at every step, stifled a cry that turned into a sob, and ran across the street. He saw me, stopped, set down his burdens, and waited for me, with a tired, kind smile. I could not speak aloud, but threw my arms around him, and buried my clouded eyes upon his shoulder, whispering: "Phil! 'Tis you!"
"Ay," said he, "back at last. I thought I'd walk up from the boat just as I did that first day I came to New York."
"And just as then," said I, having raised my face and released him, "I was on the step yonder, and saw you coming, and noticed that you carried baggage in each hand, and that you walked as if you were tired."
"I am tired," said he, "but I walk as my wounds let me."
"But there's no cat this time," said I, attempting a smile.
"No, there's no cat," he replied. "And no--" His eye turned toward the Faringfield garden gate, and he broke off with the question: "How are they? and your mother?"
I told him what I could, as I picked up one of his valises and accompanied him across the street, thinking how I had done a similar office on the former occasion, and of the pretty girl that had made the scene so bright to both him and me. Alas, there was no pretty girl standing at the gate, beside her proud and stately parents, and her open-eyed little brother, to receive us. I remembered how Ned and Fanny had come upon the scene, so that for a moment the whole family had stood together at the gateway. " 'Tis changed, isn't it?" said Philip, quietly, reading my thoughts as we passed down the garden walk, upon which way of entrance we had tacitly agreed in preference to the front door. "I can see the big dog walking ahead of me, and hear the kitten purring in the basket, and feel little Tom's soft hand, and see at the other side of me--well, 'tis the way of the world, Bert!"
He had the same boyish look; notwithstanding his face was longer and more careworn, and his hair was a little sprinkled with gray though he was but thirty-one.
I left him on the rear veranda, when old Noah had opened the hall door and shouted a hysterical "Lor' bress me! --it's Massa Phil!" after a moment's blinking inspection to make sure. From the cheered look on Mr. Faringfield's face that evening, and the revived lustre in Mrs. Faringfield's eyes, I could guess what welcome Philip had received from the stricken pair.
I told him the next day, in our garden, how matters stood with Fanny and me, and that Captain Falconer had sailed for England with the royal army.
"I don't think Mr. Faringfield will hold out for ever," said Philip, alluding to my hopes of Fanny. " 'Faith, he ought to welcome the certainty of happiness for at least one of his children. Maybe I can put the matter to him in that light."
"But Fanny herself will not leave, as long as she thinks they need her."
"Why, then, he must use his parental authority, and bid her come to you. He's not the man who would have his child wait upon his death for happiness. We must use the hope of grandchildren as a means of argument. For you'll come back to America at last, no doubt, when old hurts are forgot. And if you can come with a houseful of youngsters--egad, I shall paint a picture to his mind, will not let him rest till he sees it in way of accomplishment! Go to England without fear, man; and trust me to bring things to pass before you've been long away."
"But you? Surely--" "Oh, I shall follow you soon. I have matters of my own to look to, over there."
He did not confide to me, at this time, his thoughts and intentions regarding his wife (of whom we were then ignorant whether she was dead or alive, but supposed she must be somewhere in London), or regarding Captain Falconer; but I knew that it was to her future, and to his settlement with Falconer, that he alluded. I guessed then, and ascertained subsequently, that Phil gave Fanny also encouragement to believe all should come right between her and me, and yet not to the further sorrow of her parents. I divined it at the time, from the hopeful manner in which she supported our departure, both in the busy days preceding it, and in the hour of leave-taking. True, she broke down on the ship, whither Philip and Cornelius had brought her to bid us farewell; and she wept bitter tears on my mother's breast, which I knew were meant chiefly for me. But at last she presented a brave face for me to kiss, though 'twas rather a cold, limp hand I pressed as she started down the ladder for the boat where Cornelius awaited.
"Good-bye, lad," said Phil, with the old smile, which had survived all his toils and hurts and sorrows; "I shall see you in London next, I hope. And trust me--about Fanny."
"Thank you, dear Phil, and God bless you! Always working for other people's happiness, when your own--well, good-bye!"
He had made no request as to my course in the possibility of my meeting Madge in London; but he knew that _I_ knew what he would wish, and I was glad he had not thought necessary to tell me.
Philip and Cornelius rowed the boat back, Fanny waving her handkerchief. We saw them land, and stand upon the wharf to watch our ship weigh anchor. My mother would wave her handkerchief a moment, and then apply it to her eyes, and then give it another little toss, and then her eyes another touch. I stood beside her, leaning upon the gunwale, with a lump in my throat. Suddenly I realised we were under way. We continued to exchange farewell motions with the three upon the wharf. How small Fanny looked! how slender was Philip! how the water widened every instant between us and them! how long a time must pass ere we should see them again! A kind of sudden consternation was upon my mother's face, and in my heart, at the thought. 'Twas a foretaste--indeed it might prove the actuality--of eternal separation. Our three friends were at last hidden from our sight, and in the despondency of that moment I thought what fools men are, to travel about the world, and not cling all their days to the people, and the places, that they love.
* * * * * We lodged at first in Surrey Street, upon our arrival in London; but when October came, and we had a preliminary taste of dirty fog, my mother vowed she couldn't endure the damp climate and thick sky of the town; and so we moved out to Hampstead, where we furnished a small cottage, and contrived with economy to live upon the income of our invested principal, which was now swelled by money we had received from Mr. Faringfield for our home in New York. The proceeds of the sale of our furniture there had paid our passage, and given us a start in our new abode. Meanwhile, as an American loyalist who had suffered by the war, and as a former servant of the king; though I had no claim for a money indemnity, such as were presented on behalf of many; I was lucky enough, through Mr. De Lancey's offices, to obtain a small clerkship in the custom-house. And so we lived uneventfully, in hope of the day when Phil should come to us, and of that when I might go and bring back Fanny.
The letters from Philip and Fanny informed us merely of the continued health, and the revived cheerfulness, of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield; and presently of the good fortune of Mr. Cornelius in being chosen to fill two pulpits in small towns sufficiently near New York to permit his residence in Queen Street. Mr. Faringfield and Philip were occupied in setting the former's business upon its feet again, and something like the old routine had been resumed in the bereaved house. I knew that all this was due to Phil's imperceptible work. At last there came great news: Philip was to follow his letter to England, in the next Bristol vessel after the one that carried it. 'Twas but a brief note in which he told us this. "There is some news," wrote he, "but I will save it for word of mouth. Be prepared for a surprise that I shall bring."
With what expectation we awaited his coming, what conjectures we made regarding the promised surprise as we talked the news over every evening in the little parlour where we dined on my return from the city, I leave my reader to imagine. I had my secret notion that it concerned Fanny and me.
At the earliest time when a ship might be expected to follow the one by which the letter came, I began to call every evening, ere starting for Hampstead, at the inn where the Bristol coaches arrived. Many a long wait I had in vain when a coach happened to be late. I grew so accustomed to the disappointment of seeing no familiar figure among the passengers alighting, that sometimes I felt as if Phil's letter were a delusion and he never would appear.
But one evening as I stared as usual with the crowd in the coach yard, and had watched three portly strangers already emerge from the open door to the steps, and was prepared for the accustomed sinking of my heart, what did that heart do but give a great bound so as almost to choke me! There he was in the doorway, the same old Phil, with the same kindly face. I rushed forward. Before I reached him, he had turned around toward the inside of the coach, as if he would help some one out after him. "Some decrepit fellow traveller," thought I, and looked up indifferently to see what sort of person it might be: and there, as I live, stepping out from the coach, and taking his offered hand, was Fanny!
I was at her other side before either of them knew it, holding up my hand likewise. They glanced at me in the same instant; and Phil's glad smile came as the accompaniment to Fanny's joyous little cry. I had an arm around each in a moment; and we created some proper indignation for a short space by blocking up the way from the stage-coach.
"Come!" I cried. "We'll take a hackney-coach! How happy mother will be! --But no, you must be hungry. Will you eat here first? --a cup of coffee? a glass of wine?"
But they insisted upon waiting till we got to Hampstead; and, scarce knowing what I was about, yet accomplishing wonders in my excitement, I had a coach ready, and their trunks and bags transferred, and all of us in the coach, before I stopped to breathe. And before I could breathe twice, it seemed, we were rolling over the stones Northward.
"Sure it's a dream!" said I. "To think of it! Fanny in London!"
"My father would have it so," said she, demurely.
"Ay," added Phil, "and she's forbidden to go back to New York till she takes you with her. 'Faith, man, am I not a prophet?"
"You're more than a prophet; you're a providence," I cried. " 'Tis your doing!"
"Nonsense. 'Tis Mr. Faringfield's. And that implacable man, not content with forcing an uncongenial marriage upon this helpless damsel, requires that you immediately resign your high post in the king's service, and live upon the pittance he settles upon you as his daughter's husband." " 'Tis too generous. I can't accept."
"You must, Bert," put in Fanny, "or else you can't have me. 'Tis one of papa's conditions."
"But," Phil went on, "in order that this unhappy child may become used to the horrible idea of this marriage by degrees, she is to live with your mother a few months while I carry you off on a trip for my benefit and pleasure: and that's one of my conditions: for it wouldn't do for you to go travelling about the country after you were married, leaving your wife at home, and Fanny abominates travelling. But as soon as you and I have seen a very little of this part of the world, you're to be married and live happy ever after."
We had a memorable evening in our little parlour that night. 'Twas like being home again, my mother said--thereby admitting inferentially the homesickness she had refused to confess directly. The chief piece of personal news the visitors brought was that the Rev. Mr. Cornelius had taken a wife, and moved into our old house, which 'twas pleasant to know was in such friendly hands; and that the couple considered it their particular mission to enliven the hours of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, with whom they spent half their time.
Philip's first month in England was spent in exploring London, sometimes with me, sometimes alone, for 'tis needless to say in whose society I chose to pass much of my time. What sights he saw; what unlikely corners he sought out because some poet had been born, or died, or drunk wine there; what streets he roamed: I am sure I never could tell. I know that all the time he kept eyes alert for a certain face, ears keen for a certain name; but neither in the streets, nor at the shops, nor in the parks, nor at the play, did he catch a glimpse of Margaret; nor in the coffee-house, or tavern, or gaming-place, or in the region of the clubs, did he hear a chance mention of the name of Falconer. And so, presently, we set about making the tour he had spoken of.
There was a poor family of Long Island loyalists named Doughty, that had settled in the seacoast town of Hastings in Sussex, in order that they might follow the fisheries, which had been their means of livelihood at home. Considering that a short residence in the more mild and sunny climate of the Channel might be a pleasant change for my mother, and not disagreeable to Fanny, we arranged that, during the absence of Phil and me, we should close our cottage, and the ladies should board with these worthy though humble people, who would afford them all needful masculine protection. Having seen them comfortably established, we set forth upon our travels.
We visited the principal towns and historic places of England and Scotland, Philip having a particular interest in Northamptonshire, where his father's line sprang from (Sir Ralph Winwood having been a worthy of some eminence in the reigns of Elizabeth and James),[10] and in Edinburgh, the native place of his mother. Cathedrals, churches, universities, castles, tombs of great folk, battle-fields--'twould fill a book to describe all the things and places we saw; most of which Phil knew more about than the people did who dwelt by them. From England we crossed to France, spent a fortnight in Paris, went to Rheims, thence to Strasburg, thence to Frankfort; came down the Rhine, and passed through parts of Belgium and Holland before taking vessel at Amsterdam for London. "I must leave Italy, the other German states, and the rest till another time," said Philip. It seemed as if we had been gone years instead of months, when at last we were all home again in our cottage at Hampstead.
After my marriage, though Mr. Faringfield's handsome settlement would have enabled Fanny and me to live far more pretentiously, we were content to remain in the Hampstead cottage. Fanny would not hear to our living under a separate roof from that of my mother, whose constant society she had come to regard as necessary to her happiness.
Philip now arranged to pursue the study of architecture in the office of a practitioner of that art; and he gave his leisure hours to the improving of his knowledge of London. He made acquaintances; passed much time in the Pall Mall taverns; and was able to pilot me about the town, and introduce me to many agreeable habitués of the coffee-houses, as if he were the elder resident of London, and I were the newcomer. And so we arrived at the Spring of 1786, and a momentous event.
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_We Meet a Play-actress There. _ It was Philip's custom, at this time, to attend first nights at the playhouses, as well from a love of the theatre as from the possibility that he might thus come upon Captain Falconer. He always desired my company, which I was the readier to grant for that I should recognise the captain in any assemblage, and could point him out to Phil, who had never seen him. We took my mother and Fanny excepting when they preferred to stay at home, which was the case on a certain evening in this Spring of 1786, when we went to Drury Lane to witness the reappearance of a Miss Warren who had been practising her art the previous three years in the provinces. This long absence from London had begun before my mother and I arrived there, and consequently Philip and I had that evening the pleasurable anticipation of seeing upon the stage a much-praised face that was quite new to us.
[Illustration: "IT WAS PHILIP'S CUSTOM, AT THIS TIME, TO ATTEND FIRST NIGHTS AT THE PLAYHOUSES."]
There was the usual noisy throng of coaches, chairs, people afoot, lackeys, chair-men, boys, and such, in front of the playhouse when we arrived, and though we scanned all faces on whom the light fell, we had our wonted disappointment regarding that of Captain Falconer. We made our way to the pit, and passed the time till the bell and the chorus "Hats off!" signalled the rising of the green curtain, in watching the chattering assemblage that was every moment swelled from the doors; but neither among the lace-ruffled bucks and macaronis who chaffed with the painted and powdered ladies in the boxes, nor among those dashing gentry who ogled the same towering-haired ladies from the benches around us in the pit, did I perceive the elegant and easy captain. We therefore fell back upon the pleasure to be expected from the play itself, and when the curtain rose, I, for one, was resigned to the absence of him we had come partly in quest of.
No sooner had Miss Warren come upon the stage, in her favourite part of Fanny in "The Clandestine Marriage," revived for the occasion, than I knew her as Madge Faringfield. I bent forward, with staring eyes and gaping mouth; if I uttered any exclamation it was drowned in the sound of the hand-clapping that greeted her. While she curtseyed and pleasantly smiled, in response to this welcome, I turned abruptly to Phil, my eyes betokening my recognition. He nodded, without a word or any other movement, and continued to look at her, his face wearing a half-smiling expression of gentle gladness.
I knew, from my old acquaintance with him, that he was under so great emotion that he dared not speak. It was, indeed, a cessation of secret anxiety to him, a joy such as only a constant lover can understand, to know that she was alive, well, with means of livelihood, and beautiful as ever. Though she was now thirty-one, she looked, on the stage, not a day older than upon that sad night when he had thrown her from him, six years and more before--nay, than upon that day well-nigh eleven years before, when he had bade her farewell to go upon his first campaign. She was still as slender, still had the same girlish air and manner.
Till the curtain fell upon the act, we sat without audible remark, delighting our eyes with her looks, our ears with her voice, our hearts (and paining them at the same time) with the memories her every movement, every accent, called up.
"How shall we see her?" were Phil's first words at the end of the act.
"We may be allowed to send our names, and see her in the greenroom," said I. "Or perhaps you know somebody who can take us there without any preliminaries."
"Nay," returned Philip, after a moment's thought, "there will be other people there. I shouldn't like strangers to see--you understand. We shall wait till the play is over, and then go to the door where the players come out. 'Twill take her some time to dress for going home--we can't miss her that way."
I sympathised with his feelings against making their meeting a scene for the amusement of frivolous lookers-on, and we waited patiently enough. Neither of us could have told, when the play was over, what was the story it presented. Even Madge's speeches we heard with less sense of their meaning than emotion at the sound of her voice. If this was the case with me, how much more so, as I could see by side-glances at his face, was it with Philip! Between the acts, we had little use for conversation. One of our thoughts, though neither uttered it, was that, despite the reputation that play-actresses generally bore, a woman _could_ live virtuously by the profession, and in it, and that several women since the famous Mrs. Bracegirdle were allowed to have done so. 'Twas only necessary to look at our Madge, to turn the possibility in her case into certainty.
When at last the play was ended, we forced our way through the departing crowd so as to arrive almost with the first upon the scene of waiting footmen, shouting drivers, turbulent chair-men, clamorous boys with dim lanterns or flaming torches, and such attendants upon the nightly emptying of a playhouse. Through this crush we fought our way, hastened around into a darker street, comparatively quiet and deserted, and found a door with a feeble lamp over it, which, as a surly old fellow within told us, served as stage entrance to the theatre. We crossed the dirty street, and took up our station in the shadow opposite the door; whence a few actors not required in the final scene, or not having to make much alteration of attire for the street, were already emerging, bent first, I suppose, for one or other of the many taverns or coffee-houses about Covent Garden near at hand.
While we were waiting, two chair-men came with their vehicle and set it down at one side of the door, and a few boys and women gathered in the hope of obtaining sixpence by some service of which a player might perchance be in need on issuing forth. And presently a coach appeared at the corner of the street, and stopped there, whereupon a gentleman got out of it, gave the driver and footman some commands, and while the conveyance remained where it was, approached alone, at a blithe gait, and took post near us, though more in the light shed by the lamp over the stage door.
"Gad's life!" I exclaimed, in a whisper.
"What is it?" asked Phil, in a similar voice.
"Falconer!" I replied, ere I had thought.
Philip gazed at the newcomer, who was heedless of our presence. Phil seemed about to stride forward to him, but reconsidered, and whispered to me, in a strange tone: "What can he be doing here, where _she_--? You are sure that's the man?"
"Yes--but not now--'tis not the place--we came for another purpose--" "I know--but if I lose him!"
"No fear of that. I'll keep track of him--learn where he's to be found--while you meet her."
"But if he--if she--" "Wait and see. His being here, may not in any way concern her. Mere coincidence, no doubt."
"I hope to God it is!" whispered Phil, though his voice quivered. "Nay, I'll believe it is, too, till I see otherwise."
"Good! And when I learn his haunts, as I shall before I sleep, you may find him at any time."
And so we continued to wait, keeping in the darkness, so that the captain, even if he had deigned to be curious, could not have made out our faces from where he stood. Philip watched him keenly, to stamp his features upon memory, as well as they could be observed in the yellow light of the sickly lamp; but yet, every few moments Phil cast an eager glance at the door. I grant I was less confident that Falconer's presence was mere coincidence, than I had appeared, and I was in a tremble of apprehension for what Madge's coming might reveal.
The captain, who was very finely dressed, and, like us, carried a cane but no sword, allowed impatience to show upon his usually serene countenance: evidently he was unused to waiting in such a place, and I wondered why he did not make free of the greenroom instead of doing so. But he composed himself to patience as with a long breath, and fell to humming softly a gay French air the while he stood leaning motionlessly, in an odd but graceful attitude, upon his slender cane. Sometimes he glanced back toward the waiting coach, and then, without change of position as to his body, returned his gaze to the door.
Two or three false alarms were occasioned him, and us, by the coming forth of ladies who proved, as soon as the light struck them, to be other than the person we awaited. But at last she appeared, looking her years and cares a little more than upon the stage, but still beautiful and girlish. She was followed by a young waiting-woman; but before we had time to note this, or to step out of the shadow, we saw Captain Falconer bound across the way, seize her hand, and bend very gallantly to kiss it.
So, then, it was for her he had waited: such was the bitter thought of Phil and me; and how our hearts sickened at it, may be imagined when I say that his hope and mine, though unexpressed, had been to find her penitent and hence worthy of all forgiveness, in which case she would not have renewed even acquaintance with this captain. And there he was, kissing her hand!
But ere either of us could put our thought into speech, our sunken hearts were suddenly revived, by Madge's conduct.
She drew her hand instantly away, and as soon as she saw who it was that had seized it, she took on a look of extreme annoyance and anger, and would have hastened past him, but that he stood right in her way.
"You again!" she said. "Has my absence been for nothing, then?"
"Had you stayed from London twice three years, you would have found me the same, madam," he replied.
"Then I must leave London again, that's all," said she.
"It shall be with me, then," said he. "My coach is waiting yonder."
"And my chair is waiting here," said she, snatching an opportunity to pass him and to step into the sedan, of which the door was invitingly open. It was not her chair, but one that stood in solicitation of some passenger from the stage door; as was now shown by one of the chair-men asking her for directions. She bade her maid hire a boy with a light, and lead the way afoot; and told the chair-men to follow the maid. The chair door being then closed, and the men lifting their burden, her orders were carried out.
Neither Philip nor I had yet thought it opportune to appear from our concealment, and now he whispered that, for the avoidance of a scene before spectators, it would be best for him to follow the chair, and accost her at her own door. I should watch Falconer to his abode, and each of us should eventually go home independently of the other. Our relief to find that the English captain's presence was against Madge's will, needed no verbal expression; it was sufficiently manifest otherwise.
Before Philip moved out to take his place behind the little procession, Falconer, after a moment's thought, walked rapidly past to his coach, and giving the driver and footman brief orders, stepped into it. 'Twas now time for both Phil and me to be in motion, and we went down the way together. The chair passed the coach, which immediately fell in behind it, the horses proceeding at a walk.
"He intends to follow her," said I. "Then we shall follow both," said Phil, "and await events. 'Tis no use forcing a scene in this neighbourhood."
So Philip's quest and mine lay together, and we proceeded along the footway, a little to the rear of the coach, which in turn was a little to the rear of the chair. Passing the side of Drury Lane Theatre, the procession soon turned into Bow Street, and leaving Covent Garden Theatre behind, presently resumed a Southwestward course, deflecting at St. Martin's Lane so as to come at last into Gerrard Street, and turning thence Northward into Dean Street. Here the maid led the chair-men along the West side of the way; but Philip and I kept the East side. At last the girl stopped before a door with a pillared porch, and the carriers set down the chair.
Instantly Captain Falconer's footman leaped from the box of the coach, and, while the maid was at the chair door to help her mistress, dashed into the porch and stood so as to prevent any one's reaching the door of the house. The captain himself, springing out of the coach, was at Madge's side as soon as she had emerged from the chair. Philip and I, gliding unseen across the street, saw him hand something to the front chair-man which made that rascal open his mouth in astonishnent--'twas, no doubt, a gold piece or two--and heard him say: "You and your fellow, begone, and divide that among you. Quick! Vanish!"
The men obeyed with alacrity, bearing their empty chair past Phil and me toward Gerrard Street at a run. The captain, by similar means, sent the boy with the light scampering off in the opposite direction. Meanwhile, Philip and I having stopped behind a pillar of the next porch for a moment's consultation, Madge was bidding the footman stand aside from before her door. This we could see by the rays of a street lamp, which were at that place sufficient to make a carried light not absolutely necessary.
"Come into the coach, madam," said Falconer, seizing one of her hands. "You remember my promise. I swear I shall keep it though I hang for it! Don't make a disturbance and compel me to use force, I beg. You see, the street is deserted."
"You scoundrel!" she answered. "If you really think you can carry me off, you're much--" "Nay," he broke in, "actresses _are_ carried off, and not always for the sake of being talked about, neither! Fetch the maid, Richard--I wouldn't deprive a lady of her proper attendance. Pray pardon this--you put me to it, madam!"
With which, he grasped her around the waist, lifted her as if she were a child, and started with her toward the coach. The footman, a huge fellow, adopted similar measures with the waiting-woman, who set up a shrill screaming that made needless any cries on Madge's part.
Philip and I dashed forward at this, and while I fell upon the footman, Phil staggered the captain with a blow. As Falconer turned with an exclamation, to see by whom he was attacked, Madge tore herself from his relaxed hold, ran to the house door, and set the knocker going at its loudest. A second blow from Philip sent the captain reeling against his coach wheel. I, meanwhile, had drawn the footman from the maid; who now joined her mistress and continued shrieking at the top of her voice. The fellow, seeing his master momentarily in a daze, and being alarmed by the knocking and screaming, was put at a loss. The house door opening, and the noise bringing people to their windows, and gentlemen rushing out of Jack's tavern hard by, Master Richard recovered from his irresolution, ran and forced his master into the coach, got in after him to keep him there, and shouted to the coachman to drive off.
"Very well, madam," cried Falconer through the coach door, before it closed with a bang, "but I'll keep my word yet, I promise you!" Whereupon, the coach rolled away behind galloping horses.
Forgetting, in the moment's excitement, my intention of dogging the captain to his residence, I accompanied Philip to the doorway, where stood Madge with her maid and a house servant. She was waiting to thank her protectors, whom, in the rush and partial darkness, she had not yet recognised. It was, indeed, far from her thoughts that we two, whom she had left so many years before in America, should turn up at her side in London at such a moment.
We took off our hats, and bowed. Her face had already formed a smile of thanks, when we raised our heads into the light from a candle the house servant carried. Madge gave a little startled cry of joy, and looked from one to the other of us to make sure she was not under a delusion: then fondly murmuring Phil's name and mine in what faint voice was left her, she made first as if she would fall into his arms; but recollecting with a look of pain how matters stood between them, she drew back, steadied herself against the door-post, and dropped her eyes from his.
"We should like to talk with you a little, my dear," said Phil gently. "May we come in?"
There was a gleam of new-lighted hope in her eyes as she looked up and answered tremulously: "'Twill be a happiness--more than I dared expect."
We followed the servant with the candle up-stairs to a small drawing-room, in which a table was set with bread, cheese, cold beef, and a bottle of claret. " 'Tis my supper," said Madge. "If I had known I should have such guests--you will do me the honour, will you not?"
Her manner was so tentative and humble, so much that of one who scarce feels a right even to plead, so different from that of the old petted and radiant Madge, that 'twould have taken a harder man than Philip to decline. And so, when the servant had placed additional chairs, down we sat to supper with Miss Warren, of Drury Lane Theatre, who had sent her maid to answer the inquiries of the alarmed house concerning the recent tumult in the street.
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_We Intrude upon a Gentleman at a Coffee-house. _ Little was eaten at that supper, to which we sat down in a constraint natural to the situation. Philip was presently about to assume the burden of opening the conversation, when Madge abruptly began: "I make no doubt you recognised him, Bert--the man with the coach."
"Yes. Philip and I saw him outside the theatre."
"And followed him, in following you," added Philip. "We had intended--" "You must not suppose--" she interrupted; but, after a moment's halt of embarrassment, left the sentence unfinished, and made another beginning: "I never saw him or heard of him, after I left New York, till I had been three years on the stage. Then, when the war was over, he came back to London, and chanced to see me play at Drury Lane. He knew me in spite of my stage name, and during that very performance I found him waiting in the greenroom. I had no desire for any of his society, and told him so. But it seems that, finding me--admired, and successful in the way I had resorted to, he could not be content till he regained my--esteem. If I had shown myself friendly to him then, I should soon have been rid of him: but instead, I showed a resolution to avoid him; and he is the kind of man who can't endure a repulse from a woman. To say truth, he thinks himself invincible to 'em all, and when he finds one of 'em proof against him, even though she may once have seemed--when she didn't know her mind--well, she is the woman he must be pestering, to show that he's not to be resisted.
"And so, at last, to be rid of his plaguing, I went away from London, and took another stage name, and acted in the country. Only Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan were in the secret of this: 'twas Mr. Sheridan gave me letters to the country managers. That was in the Fall of '83. Well, I heard after awhile that he too had gone into the country, to dance attendance on an old aunt, whose heir he had got the chance of being, through his cousin's death. But I knew if I came back to London he would hear of it, and then, sure, farewell to all my peace! He had continually threatened to carry me off in a coach to some village by the Channel, and take me across to France in a fishing-smack. When I declared I would ask the magistrates for protection, he said they would laugh at me as a play-actress trying to make herself talked about. I took that to be true, and so, as I've told you, I left London.
"Well, after more than two years, I thought he must have put me out of his mind, and so I returned, and made my reappearance to-night. And, mercy on me! --there he was, waiting outside the theatre. From his appearance, I suppose the aunt has died and he has come into the money. He followed me home, as you saw; and for a moment, when he was carrying me toward the coach, I vow I had a fear of being rushed away to a seaport, and taken by force, on some fisherman's boat, across the Channel. And then, all of a sudden, 'twas as if you two had sprung out of the earth. Where did you come from? How was it? Oh, tell me all--all the news! Poor Tom! I thought I should die when I heard of his death. 'Twas--'twas Falconer told me--how he was killed in a skirmish with the--What's the matter? Why do you look so? Isn't it true? I entreat--!"
"Did Falconer tell you Tom died that way?" I blurted out, hotly, ere Phil could check me.
"In truth, he did! How was it?" She had turned white as a sheet. " 'Twas Falconer killed him in a duel," said I, with indignation, "the very night after you sailed!"
"What, Fal--! A duel! My God, on my account, then! Oh, I never knew that! Oh, Tom--little Tom--the dear little fellow--'twas I killed him!" She flung her head forward upon the table, and sobbed wildly, so that I repented of my outspoken anger at Falconer's deception of her. For some minutes her grief was pitiful to see. If ever there was the anguish of remorse, it was then. I sat sobered, leaving it to Phil to apply comfort, which, when her outburst of tears had spent its violence, he undertook to do.
"Well, well, Madge," said he, softly, "'tis done and past now, and not for us to recall. 'Twas an honourable death, such as he would never have shrunk from; and he has long been past all sorrow. The most of his life, while it lasted, was happy; and you could never have foreseen. He will not be unavenged, take my word of that!"
But it was a long time ere Phil could restore her to composure. When he had done so, he asked her what had become of Ned. Thereupon she told us all that I have recorded in a former chapter, of their first days in London, and the events leading to her acceptance of Mr. Sheridan's offer. After she had been acting for some time, under the name of Miss Warren, Ned chanced to come to the play, and recognised her. He thereupon dogged her, in miserable plight, claiming some return of the favours which he vowed he had lavished upon her. She put him upon a small pension, but declared that if he molested her with further demands she would send him to jail for robbing her. She had not seen him since; he had called regularly upon her man of business for his allowance, until lately, when he had ceased to appear.
Of what had occurred before she turned actress, she told us all, I say; for the news of Tom's real fate had put her into a state for withholding nothing. Never was confession more complete; uttered as it was in a stricken voice, broken as it was by convulsive sobs, marked as it was by falling tears, hesitations for phrases less likely to pain Philip, remorseful lowerings of her eyes. She reverted, finally, to her acquaintance with Falconer in New York, and finished with the words: "But I protest I have never been guilty of the worst--the one thing--I swear it, Philip; before God, I do!"
If any load was taken from Phil's mind by this, he refrained from showing it.
"I came in search of you," said he, in a low voice, "to see what I could do toward your happiness. I knew that in your situation, a wife separated from her husband, dependent on heaven knew what for a maintenance, you must have many anxious, distressful hours. If I had known where to find you, I should have sent you money regularly from the first, and eased your mind with a definite understanding. And now I wish to do this--nay, I _will_ do it, for it is my right. Whatever may have happened, you are still the Madge Faringfield I--I loved from the first; nothing can make you another woman to me: and though you chose to be no longer my wife, 'tis impossible that while I live I can cease to be your husband."
The corners of her lips twitched, but she recovered herself with a disconsolate sigh. "Chose to be no longer your wife," she repeated. "Yes, it appeared so. I wanted to shine in the world. I have shone--on the stage, I mean; but that's far from the way I had looked to. A woman in my situation--a wife separated from her husband--can never shine as I had hoped to, I fancy. But I've been admired in a way--and it hasn't made me happy. Admiration can't make a woman happy if she has a deeper heart than her desire of admiration will fill. If I could have forgot, well and good; but I couldn't forget, and can't forget. And one must have love, and devotion; but after having known yours, Philip, whose else could I find sufficient?"
And now there was a pause while each, fearing that the other might not desire reunion, hesitated to propose it; and so, each one waiting for the other to say the word, both left it unsaid. When the talk was finally renewed, it was with a return of the former constraint.
She asked us, with a little stiffness of manner, when we had come to London; which led to our relation, between us, of all that had passed since her departure from New York. She opened her eyes at the news of our residence in Hampstead, and lost her embarrassment in her glad, impulsive acceptance of my invitation to come and see us as soon as possible. While Philip and she still kept their distance, as it were, I knew not how far to go in cordiality, or I should have pressed her to come and live with us. She wept and laughed, at the prospect of seeing Fanny and my mother, and declared they must visit her in town. And then her tongue faltered as the thought returned of Falconer's probable interference with the quiet and safety of her further residence in London; and her face turned anxious. " 'Faith! you need have no fear on that score," said Philip, quietly. "Where does he live?"
She did not know, but she named a club, and a tavern, from which he had dated importunate letters to her before she left London.
"Well," said Philip, rising, "I shall see a lawyer to-morrow, and you may expect to hear from him soon regarding the settlement I make upon you."
"You are too kind," she murmured. "I have no right to accept it of you."
"Oh, yes, you have. I am always your husband, I tell you; and you will have no choice but to accept. I know not what income you get by acting; but this will suffice if you choose to leave the stage."
"But you?" she replied faintly, rising. "Shall I not see--?"
"I shall leave England in a few days: I don't know how long I shall be abroad. But there will be Bert, and Fanny, and Mrs. Russell--I know you may command them for anything." There was an oppressive pause now, during which she looked at him wistfully, hoping he might at the last moment ask her that, which he waited to give her a final opportunity of asking him. But neither dared, for fear of the other's hesitation or refusal. And so, at length, with a good-bye spoken in an unnatural voice on each side, the two exchanged a hand-clasp, and Philip left the room. She stood pale and trembling, bereft of speech, while I told her that I should wait upon her soon. Then I followed Philip down-stairs and to the street.
"I will stay to-night at Jack's tavern yonder," said he. "I can watch this house, in case that knave should return to annoy her. Go you home--Fanny and your mother will be anxious. And come for me to-morrow at the tavern, as early as you can. You may tell them what you see fit, at home. That's all, I think--'tis very late. Good night!"
I sought a hackney-coach, and went home to relieve the fears of the ladies, occasioned by our long absence. My news that Margaret was found (I omitted mention of Captain Falconer in my account) put the good souls into a great flutter of joy and excitement, and they would have it that they should go in to see her the first thing on the morrow, a resolution I saw no reason to oppose. So I took them with me to town in the morning, left them at Madge's lodgings, and was gone to join Philip ere the laughing and crying of their meeting with her was half-done.
As there was little chance to find Captain Falconer stirring early, Phil and I gave the forenoon to his arrangements with his man of law at Lincoln's Inn. When these were satisfactorily concluded, and a visit incidental to them had been made to a bank in the city, we refreshed ourselves at the Globe tavern in Fleet Street, and then turned our faces Westward.
At the tavern that Madge had named, we learned where Falconer abode, but, proceeding to his lodgings, found he had gone out. We looked in at various places whither we were directed; but 'twas not till late in the afternoon, that Philip caught sight of him writing a letter at a table in the St. James Coffeehouse.
Philip recognised him from the view he had obtained the previous night; but, to make sure, he nudged me to look. On my giving a nod of confirmation, Philip went to him at once, and said: "Pray pardon my interrupting: you are Captain Falconer, I believe."
The captain looked up, and saw only Philip, for I stood a little to the rear of the former's elbow.
"I believe so, too, sir," he replied urbanely.
"Our previous meeting was so brief," said Philip, "that I doubt you did not observe my face so as to recall it now."
"That must be the case," said the captain, "for I certainly do not remember having ever met you."
"And yet our meeting was no longer ago than last night--in Dean Street."
The captain's face changed: he gazed, half in astonishment, half in a dawning resentment.
"The deuce, sir! Have you intruded upon me to insult me?" " 'Faith, sir, I've certainly intruded upon you for no friendly purpose."
Falconer continued to gaze, in wonder as well as annoyance.
"Who the devil are you, sir?" he said at last.
"My name is Winwood, sir--Captain Winwood, late of the American army of Independence."
Falconer opened his eyes wide, parted his lips, and turned a little pale. At that moment, I shifted my position; whereupon he turned, and saw me.
"And Russell, too!" said he. "Well, this is a--an odd meeting, gentlemen."
"Not a chance one," said Philip. "I have been some time seeking you."
"Well, well," replied the captain, recovering his self-possession. "I imagine I know your purpose, sir."
"That will spare my explaining it. You will, of course, accommodate me?"
"Oh, yes; I see no way out of it. Gad, I'm the most obliging of men--Mr. Russell will vouch for it."
"Then I beg you will increase the obligation by letting us despatch matters without the least delay."
"Certainly, if you will have it so--though I abominate hurry in all things."
"To-morrow at dawn, I hope, will not be too soon for your preparations?"
"Why, no, I fancy not. Let me see. One moment, I pray."
He called a waiter, and asked: "Thomas, is there any gentleman of my acquaintance in the house at present?"
"Oh, a score, sir. There's Mr. Hidsleigh hup-stairs, and--" "Mr. Idsleigh will do. Ask him to grant me the favour of coming down for a minute." The waiter hastened away. "Mr. Russell, of course, represents you, sir," the captain added, to Philip.
"Yes, sir; and you are the challenged party, of course."
"I thank you, sir. If Mr. Russell will wait, I will introduce my friend here, and your desire for expedition may be carried out."
"I am much indebted, sir," said Philip; and requesting me to join him later at the tavern in Dean Street, he took his leave.
When Mr. Idsleigh, a fashionable young buck whom I now recalled having once seen in the company of Lord March, had presented himself, a very brief explanation on Falconer's part sufficed to enlist his services as second; whereupon the captain desired affably that he might be allowed to finish his letter, and Idsleigh and I retired to a compartment at the farther end of the room. Idsleigh regarded me with disdainful indifference, and conducted his side of the preliminaries in a bored fashion, as if the affair were of even less consequence than Falconer had pretended to consider it. He set me down as a nobody, a person quite out of the pale of polite society, and one whom it was proper to have done with in the shortest time, and with the fewest words, possible. I was equally chary of speech, and it was speedily settled that our principals should fight with small swords, at sunrise, at a certain spot in Hyde Park; and Idsleigh undertook to provide a surgeon. He then turned his back on me, and walked over to Falconer, without the slightest civility of leave-taking.
I went first in a hackney-coach to Hyde Park, to ascertain exactly the spot which Mr. Idsleigh had designated. Having done so, I returned to Dean Street; and, in order that I might without suspicion accompany Philip before daybreak, I called at Madge's lodgings, and suggested that my mother and Fanny should pass the night in her house (in which I had observed there were rooms to let) and take her to Hampstead the next day; while I should sleep at the tavern. This plan was readily adopted. Thereupon, rejoining Philip, I went with him to the Strand, where he engaged a post-chaise to be in waiting for him and me the next morning, for our flight in the event of the duel having the fatal termination he desired.
"We'll take a hint from Captain Falconer's threat," said Phil: "ride post to Hastings, and have the Doughty boys sail us across to France. You'd best write a letter this evening, to leave at Madge's lodgings after the affair, explaining your departure, to Fanny and your mother. Afterward, you can either send for them to come to France, or you can return to Hampstead when the matter blows over. I might have spared you these inconveniences and risks, by getting another second; but I knew you wouldn't stand that."
And there, indeed, he spoke the truth.
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_The Last, and Most Eventful, of the History. _ I took my mother and Fanny to the play that night, to see Madge act, and we three met her after the performance and were driven to her lodgings with her. I then bade the ladies good-night, with a secret tenderness arising from the possibility, unknown to them, that our parting then might be for as many months as they supposed hours.
Returning to Philip at the tavern, I found he had passed the evening in writing letters; among others, one for me to copy in my own name, to be left at Madge's lodgings in case of my having to flee the country for awhile. It was so phrased that the result of the duel, whether in Philip's death or his antagonist's, could be told by the insertion of a single line, after its occurrence.
Phil and I rose betimes the next morning, and went by hackney-coach, in the darkness, to a place in the Oxford road, near Tyburn; where we left our conveyance waiting, and proceeded afoot to the chosen spot in the Park.
No one was there when we arrived, and we paced to and fro together to keep in exercise, talking in low voices, and beguiling our agitation by confining our thoughts to a narrow channel. The sod was cool and soft to our tread, and the smell of the leaves was pleasant to our nostrils. As the sky whitened above the silent trees, and the gray light penetrated to the grassy turf at our feet, Phil quoted softly the line from Grey's Elegy in which the phrase of "incense-breathing morn" occurs; and from that he went to certain parts of Milton's "L'Allegro" and then to Shakespeare's songs, "When Daisies Pied" and "Under the Greenwood Tree." " 'Faith," said he, breaking off from the poetry, "'tis a marvel how content I feel! You would not believe it, the serene happiness that has come over me. 'Tis easy to explain, though: I have adjusted my affairs, provided for my wife, left nothing in confusion or disorder, and am as ready for death as for life. I feel at last responsible to no one; free to accept whatever fate I may incur; clear of burdens. The great thing, man, is to have one's debts paid, one's obligations discharged: then death or life matters little, and the mere act of breathing fresh air is a joy unspeakable."
We now descried the figures of Falconer, Idsleigh, and a third gentleman, approaching under the trees. Civil greetings passed as they came up, and Falconer overwent the demands of mere courtesy so far as to express himself upon the coolness and sweetness of the morning. But he was scrutinising Philip curiously the while, as if there were some reason why he should be less indifferent regarding this antagonist than he had shown himself regarding Tom Faringfield and me.
The principals removed their hats, coats, and waistcoats. As they were not booted, but appeared in stockings and low shoes, they made two fine and supple figures to look upon. The formalities between Mr. Idsleigh and me were as brief as possible. Falconer chose his sword with a pretence of scarce looking at it, Philip gave his the usual examination, and the two men stood on guard.
There was a little wary play at first, while each sought an inkling of the other's method. Then some livelier work, in which they warmed themselves and got their muscles into complete facility, followed upon Phil's pretending to lose his guard. All this was but overture, and it came to a stop for a short pause designed as preliminary to the real duel. Both were now perspiring, and breathing into their lungs deep draughts of air. Falconer's expression showed that he had recognised better fencing in Phil's work than he had thought to find; but Phil's face conveyed no such surprise, for he had counted upon an adversary possessed of the first skill.
'Twas Falconer who began what we all felt was to be the serious part of the combat. Phil parried the thrust neatly; made a feint, but, instantly recovering, availed himself of his opponent's counter movement, and sank his point fair into Falconer's left breast. The English captain tumbled instantly to the ground. The swiftness of the thing startled us. Idsleigh and his medical companion stared in amazement, wondering that the fallen man should lie so still. It took a second or two for that which their eyes had informed them, to penetrate to their understanding. But Philip and I knew that the lunge had pierced the heart, and that the accomplished Lovelace on the ground would charm no more women.
'Twas only when we were hastening back to our hackney-coach, that Philip trembled. Then for a few moments his teeth chattered as if he were taken with a chill, and his face was deathly pale. " 'Tis terrible," he said, in an awed tone, "to kill a man this way. 'Tis not like in war. On a morning like this, in the civil manner of gentlemen, to make of such a marvellous living, thinking, feeling machine a poor heap of senseless flesh and bone that can only rot:--and all in the time of a sword-thrust!"
"Tut!" said I, "the world is the better for the riddance. Think of Tom, and all else!"
"I know it," said Phil, conquering his weakness. "And such men know what they risk when they break into the happiness of others. I could not have lived in peace while he lived. Well, that is all behind us now. Yonder is our coach."
We got in, and were driven to the tavern in Dean Street. We there dismissed the coach, and Philip started afoot for the inn, in the Strand, where our post-chaise was to be in readiness. I was to join him there after completing the letter and leaving it at Madge's lodgings, Philip using the mean time in attending to the posting of certain letters of his own. We had no baggage to impede us, as we intended to purchase new wearables in France: we had, on the previous day, provided ourselves with money and letters of credit. My affairs had been so arranged that neither my wife nor my mother could be pecuniarily embarrassed by my absence. Philip's American passport, used upon our former travels, was still in force and had been made to include a travelling companion. So all was smoothed for our flight.
Taking my letter to the house in which Madge lived, I asked for her maid, telling the house servant I would wait at the street door: for, as I did not wish to meet any of the three ladies, I considered it safer to entrust the letter to Madge's own woman. The girl came down; but I had no sooner handed her the letter, and told her what to do with it, than I heard Madge's voice in the hall above. She had come out to see who wanted her maid, suspecting some trick of Falconer's; and, leaning over the stair-rail, had recognised my voice.
"What is it, Bert? Why don't you come up?"
"I can't--I'm in haste," I blundered. "Good morning!"
"But wait! What's wrong? A moment, I entreat! Nay, you shall--!" And at that she came tripping swiftly down the stairs. The maid, embarrassed, handed her the letter. Without opening it, she advanced to me, while I was wildly considering the propriety of taking to my heels; and demanded: "What is it you had to write? Sure 'tis your own hand. Why can't you tell me?"
"Not so loud," I begged. "My mother and Fanny mustn't know till I am gone."
"Gone!" With this she tore open the letter, and seemed to grasp its general sense in a glance. "A duel! I suspected--from what Philip said. Oh, my God, was he--?" She scanned the writing wildly, but in her excitement it conveyed nothing to her mind.
"Captain Falconer will not annoy you again," I said, "and Philip and I must go to France for awhile. Good-bye! Let mother and Fanny see the letter in half an hour."
"But wait--thank God, he's not hurt! --France, you say? How? Which road?"
She was holding my coat lapel, to make me stay and tell her. So I answered: "By post to Hastings; there we shall get the Doughty boys to--" At this, there broke in another voice from above stairs--that of Fanny: "Is that Bert, Madge dear?"
"Tell her 'no,'" I whispered, appalled at thought of a leave-taking, explanations, weeping, and delay. "And for God's sake, let me--ah, thank you! Read the letter--you shall hear from us--God bless you all!"
The next moment I was speeding from the house, leaving Madge in a tumult of thoughts at the door. I turned into Gerrard Street without looking back; and brisk walking soon brought me to the Strand, where Philip himself was just ready to take the post-chaise.
"A strange thing delayed me," said he, as we forthwith took our seats in the vehicle; which we had no sooner done than the postilions set the four horses going and our journey was begun.
"What was it?" I asked, willing to reserve the account of my interview with Madge till later.
"The most remarkable thing, for me to witness on this particular morning," he replied; and told me the story as we rattled through Temple Bar and Fleet Street, on our way to the bridge and the Surrey side. "After I left you, I don't know what it was that kept me from coming through St. Martin's Lane to the Strand, and made me continue East instead. But something did; and finally I turned to come through Bow Street. When I was nearly in front of the magistrate's house, a post-chaise stopped before it, and a fellow got out whom I took to be a Bow Street runner. Several people ran up to see if he had a prisoner in the chaise, and so the footway was blocked; and I stopped to look on for a moment with the rest. A man called out to the constable, 'What you got, Bill?' The constable, who had turned around and reached into the chaise, stopped to look at the speaker, and said, 'Nobody much--only the Soho Square assault and robbery--I ran him down at Plymouth, waiting for a vessel--he had a mind to travel for his health.' The constable grinned, and the other man said, 'Sure that's a hanging business, and no mistake!'"
"And so it is," said I, interrupting Philip. "I read of the affair at the time. A fellow named Howard knocked down his landlady, robbed her money-box, and got away before she came to."
"Yes," Phil went on, "I remembered it, too. And I waited for a glimpse of the robber's face. He stepped out, and the constable, with a comrade from inside the chaise, led him to where they hold prisoners for examination. He was all mud-stained, dishevelled, and frowsy: for two seconds, though he didn't notice me, I had a good view of him. And who do you think this Howard really was?"
"Bless me, how should I know? My acquaintance among the criminal classes isn't what it might be." " 'Twas Ned Faringfield!" said Philip. "I should have known him anywhere--heavens, how little a man's looks change, through all vicissitudes!"
"Well, upon my soul!" I exclaimed, in a chill. "Who'd have thought it? Yet hanging is what we always predicted for him, in jest. That it should come so soon--for they'll make short work of that case, 'tis certain."
"Yes, I fear they'll not lose much time over it, at the Old Bailey. We may expect to read his name among the Newgate hangings in a month or two. Poor devil! --I'll send him some money through my lawyer, and have Nobbs see that he gets decent counsel. Money will enable him to live his last weeks at Newgate in comfort, at least; though 'tis beyond counsel to save his neck. His people must never know. Nor Fanny."
"Unless he gives his real name at the trial, or in his 'last dying speech and confession.'"
"Why, even then it may not come to their ears. Best bring Fanny and your mother soon to France. Madge will never tell, if she learns; I'll warrant her for that. To think of it! --the dear old house in Queen Street, and the boys and girls we used to play with--Tom's fate--and now Ned's--Fanny in England--and Madge--! Was ever such diversity of destinies in so small a family?"
He fell into his thoughts: of what strange parts we play in the world, how different from those anybody would predict for us in our childhood--how different, from those we then predict for ourselves. And so we were borne across the Thames, looking back to get our last view of St. Paul's dome for some time to come; through Southwark, and finally into the country. The postilions kept the horses at a good gait Southward. We did not urge them to this, for indeed we saw but little necessity for great haste, as there was likely to be some time ere Falconer's death became known to the authorities, and some time longer ere it was traced to us. But as Mr. Idsleigh, before getting out of the way himself, _might_ take means to lay written information against us, which would serve at least to put the minions of the law on the right track, and as we might be subjected to some delay at Hastings, we saw no reason to repress the postilions' zeal, either.
In our second stage we were not favoured with so energetic conductors, and in our third we had unfit horses. So we had occasion to be glad of our excellent start. Thus, between good horses and bad, live postilions and lethargic, smooth roads and rough, we fared on the whole rather well than ill, and felt but the smallest apprehension of being caught. To speak metaphorically, the coast of France was already in our sight.
At the end of the first stage, we had breakfasted upon eggs and beer. We took an early dinner at Tunbridge Wells, and proceeded through Sussex. 'Twas well forward in the afternoon, and we were already preparing our eyes, faces, and nostrils for the refreshing intimation of the sea, when our ears notified us of a vehicle following in our wake. Looking back, at a bend of the road, we saw it was a conveyance similar to our own, and that the postilions were whipping the horses to their utmost speed. "Whoever rides there," said I, "has paid or promised well for haste." " 'Tis strange there should be other folk bound in a hurry for Hastings this same day," replied Phil.
We looked at one another, with the same thought.
"Their post-boys seem to be watching our chaise as much as anything else," I remarked. "To be sure, they can't know 'tis you and I." "No, but if they _were_ in quest of us, they would try to overtake this chaise or any other on the road. Ho, postilion! --an extra crown apiece for yourselves if you leave those fellows yonder behind for good." And Phil added quietly to me: "It won't do to offer 'em too much at first--'twould make 'em suspicious."
"But," quoth I, as our men put their horses to the gallop. "How the devil could any one have got so soon upon our track?"
"Why, Idsleigh may have turned informer, in his own interest--he was in a devilish difficult position--and men would be sent with our descriptions to the post-houses. 'Tis merely possible. Or our hackney-coachman may have guessed something, and dogged me to the Strand, and informed. If they found where we started, of course they could track us from stage to stage. 'Tis best to be safe--though I scarce think they're in our pursuit."
"Egad, they're in somebody's!" I cried. "Their postilions are shouting to ours to stop."
"Never mind those fellows' holloing," called Philip to our riders. " 'Tis a wager--and I'll double that crown apiece."
We bowled over the road in a way to make me think of Apollo's chariot and the horses of Phaeton; but we lengthened not a rod the stretch betwixt us and our followers, though we nullified their efforts to diminish it. We could make out, more by sight than by hearing--for we kept looking back, our heads thrust out at either side--that the pursuing post-boys continued bawling vehemently at ours. What they said, was drowned by the clatter of horses and wheels.
"Well, they have seen we are two men," said Philip, "and still they keep up the race. They certainly must want us. Were they merely in a hurry to reach Hastings, they could do that the sooner by sparing their horses--this is a killing pace."
"Then we're in a serious plight," said I. "Though we may beat 'em to Hastings, they will catch us there."
"Unless we can gain a quarter of an hour's start, and, by one chance in twenty, find the Doughty boys ashore, and their boat in harbour."
"Ay, there's one chance in twenty, maybe," I growled, looking gloomily back, and wishing I might see the pursuing chaise upset, or one of its horses stumble.
There is an old proverb about evil wishes rebounding to strike the sender; and a recollection of this was my paramount thought a moment later: for at a sharp turn our chaise suddenly seemed to leap into the air and alight on one wheel, and then turned over sidewise with what appeared to be a solemn deliberation, piling me upon Philip in a heap. We felt the conveyance dragged some yards along the road, and then it came to a stop. A moment later we heard the postilions cursing the horses, and then we clambered out of the upper side of the chaise, and leaped into the road. We had been knocked, shaken, and bruised, but were not seriously hurt.
"Here's the devil to pay," cried the older postilion excitedly, turning his attention from the trembling horses to the wrecked vehicle.
"We will pay--but you will let us ride your horses the rest of the way?" asked Phil, quietly, rather as a matter of form than with any hope of success.
"No, sir!" roared the man. "Bean't there damage enough? Just look--" "Tut, man," said Phil, examining the chaise, "a guinea will mend all--and there it is, and your extra crowns, too, though you failed. Well," he added, turning to me, "shall we take to the fields? They'll have to hunt us afoot then, and we may beat 'em at that."
But I found I was too lame, from the knocking about I had got in the upset vehicle, for any game of hare and hounds. "Go you," said I. "I was only the second--there's less danger for me."
"I'll not go, then," said he. "What a pity I drew you into this, Bert! I ought to have considered Fanny and your mother. They'll never forgive me--they never ought to. --Well, now we shall know the worst!"
The second vehicle came to a triumphant stop near us, the postilions grinning with satisfaction. Phil and I stood passive in the road: I remember wondering whether the officers of the law would put handcuffs upon us. A head was thrust out of the window--a voice called to us.
"Madge!" we cried together, and hastened to her.
"I was afraid you might sail before I got to Hastings," cried she, with relief and joy depicted on her face.
"Who is with you?" asked Phil.
"No one," she answered. "I left Bert's letter with my maid, to give to Fanny. I left the girl too, to stay with her if she will take her. I didn't wish to encumber--Your chaise is broken down: get into this one. Oh, Phil! --I couldn't bear to have you go away--and leave me--after I had seen you again. 'Twas something to know you were in London, at least--near me. But if you go to France--you must let me go, too--you must, dear--as your friend, your comrade and helper, if nothing more--your old friend, that knew you so long ago--" She lost voice here, and began to cry, still looking at him through the mist of tears. His own eyes glistened softly as he returned her gaze; and, after a moment, he went close to the window through which her head was thrust, raised his hand so as to stroke her hair, and kissed her on the lips.
"Why, you shall come as my wife, of course," said he, gently. "If I had been sure you wished it, you might have travelled with us from London, and been spared this chase. --But think what you are giving up, dear--'tis not too late--the theatre, the praise and admiration, London--" "Oh, hang 'em all!" cried she, looking joyous through her tears. " 'Tis you I want!"
And she caught his face between her hands, and kissed it a dozen times, to the open-mouthed wonder of the staring postilions.
* * * * * She took us in her post-chaise to Hastings, where the three of us embarked as we had planned to do, having first arranged that one of the Doughty boys should go to Hampstead and act as a sort of man servant or protector to my mother and Fanny during their loneliness. They joined us later in Paris, and I finally accompanied them home when Captain Falconer's fatal duel was a forgotten matter. Philip and Madge then visited Italy and Germany; and subsequently returned to New York, having courageously chosen to outface what old scandal remained from the time of her flight. And so, despite Phil's prediction, 'tis finally his children, not mine, that gladden the age of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, and have brought back the old-time cheer to the house; for Fanny and I have remained in England, and here our young ones are being reared. Each under the government for which he fought--thus Philip and I abide. 'Tis no news, that Phil has become one of the leading architects in his country. My own life has been pleasantly monotonous, save for the duel I fought against a detractor of General Washington, which, as I merely wounded my adversary, did not necessitate another exile from the kingdom.
It is still an unsolved mystery in London, as to what became of Miss Warren, the actress of Drury Lane: she was for long reported to have been carried away by a strange gentleman who killed Captain Falconer in a duel over her. 'Tis not known in New York that Mrs. Winwood was ever on the stage. And as I must not yet make it known, nor disclose many things which have perforce entered into this history, I perceive that my labour has been, after all, to no purpose. I dare not give the narrative to the world, now it is done; but I cannot persuade myself to give it to the fire, either. Let it lie hid, then, till all of us concerned in it are passed away; and perchance it may serve to instruct some future reader how much a transient vanity and wilfulness may wreck, and how much a steadfast love and courage may retrieve.
THE END.
NOTES.
NOTE 1 (Page 13).
Before the Revolution, there were Queen Street and Pearl Street, together forming a line continuous though not exactly straight. After the Revolution, the whole line was named Pearl Street. King Street and Duke Street were others that rightly underwent re-christening. But, with equal propriety, many old names smacking of the English régime were retained, and serve as memorials of the English part of the city's colonial history: such names, for instance, as William Street, Nassau Street, Hanover Square, Kingsbridge; not to mention New York itself. The old Dutch rule, too, remains marked in the city's nomenclature--for ever, let us hope. I say, "let us hope;" for there have been attempts to have the authorities change the name of the Bowery itself, that renowned thoroughfare which began, in the very morn of the city's history, as a lane leading to Peter Stuyvesant's _bauer_. I scarce think this desecration shall ever come to pass: yet in such matters one may not be sure of a nation which has permitted the spoiling (by the mutilation of headlands and cliffs, for private gain) of a river the most storied in our own land, and the most beautiful in the world.
NOTE 2 (Page 34).
In 1595 was published in London: "Vincentio Saviolo his Practise. In two Bookes. The first intreating the use of the Rapier and Dagger. The second of Honour and Honourable Quarrels." (Etc.) The celebrated swordsman sets forth only the Italian system, and has naught to say upon the French. The book that Winwood studied may have been some reprint (now unknown), with notes or additions by a later hand. In any case, he may have acquired through it sufficient rudimentary acquaintance with some sort of practice to enable him to excite the French fencing-master's interest.
NOTE 3 (Page 182).
"Lady Washington's Light Horse" was a name sometimes unofficially applied to Lieut.-Col. Baylor's Dragoons. They were sleeping in a barn and outbuildings, at Old Tappan, one night in the Fall of 1778, when they were surprised by General Grey, whose men, attacking with bayonets, killed 11, mangled 25, and took about 40 prisoners. Both Col. Baylor and Major Clough were wounded, the latter fatally. It is of course this affair, to which Lieut. Russell's narrative alludes.
NOTE 4 (Page 191).
The Morris house, now known as the Jumel mansion, was half a generation old at the beginning of the Revolution. Thither, as the bride of Captain Morris, a brother-officer of Washington's in the old French war, went Mary Philipse; whom young Washington was said to have wooed while he tarried in and about New York upon his memorable journey to Boston to solicit in vain, of Governor Shirley, a king's commission. The Revolution found the Morrises on the side opposed to Washington's; for a short time during the operations above New York in 1776 he occupied this house of theirs as headquarters. They lost it through their allegiance to the royal cause, all their American real estate being confiscated by the New York assembly. The mansion became in time the residence of that remarkable woman who, from a barefoot girl in Providence, R.I., had grown up to be the wife of a Frenchman named Jumel; and to be the object of much admiration, and the subject of some scandal. In her widowhood she received under this roof Aaron Burr, after his duel with Hamilton (whose neighbouring country-house still exists, in Convent Avenue), and under this roof she and Burr--both in their old age--were united in marriage. I imagine that some of the ghosts that haunt this mansion, if they might be got in a corner, would yield their interviewers a quaint reminiscence or two. The grounds appertaining to the house have been sadly diminished by the opening of new streets; yet it is still a fine, striking landmark, perched to be seen afar, as from the railroad trains that follow the East bank of the Harlem, or, better, from West 155th Street at and about its junction with St. Nicholas Place and the Speedway. At the time when I left New York for a temporary residence in the Old World, there was talk of moving the house to a less commanding, but still eminent, height that crowns the bluff rising from the Speedway: the owner was compelled, it was said, to avail himself of the increased value of the land whereon it stood. 'Tis some pity if this has been, or has to be, done; but nothing to the pity if the mansion had to be pulled down. Apart from all associations and historical interest, this imposing specimen of our Colonial domestic architecture, so simple and reposeful an edifice amidst a world of flat buildings, and of gew-gaw houses built for sale on the instalment plan to the ubiquitous Mr. and Mrs. Veneering, is a precious relief, nay an untiring delight, to the eye.
NOTE 5 (Page 202).
During this Winter (1779-80) the Continental army was in two main divisions. The one with which Washington made his headquarters was hutted on the heights about Morristown, N.J. The other, under General Heath, was stationed in the highlands of the Hudson. Intermediate territory, of course, was more or less thoroughly guarded by detached posts, militia, and various forces regular and irregular. The most of the cavalry was quartered in Connecticut; but Winwood's troop, as our narrative shows, was established near Washington's headquarters. This was a memorably cold Winter, and as severe upon the patriots as the more famous Winter (1777-78) at Valley Forge. About the latter part of January the Hudson was frozen over, almost to its mouth.
NOTE 6 (Page 269).
Long before I fell upon Lieut. Russell's narrative, a detailed account of a British attempt to capture Washington, by a bold night dash upon his quarters at Morristown, had caught my eyes from the pages of the old "New Jersey Historical Collections." Washington was not the only object of such designs during the War of Independence. One was planned for the seizure of Governor Livingstone at his home in Elizabeth, N.J.; but, much to Sir Henry Clinton's disappointment, that influential and witty champion of independence was not at home when the surprise party called.
NOTE 7 (Page 277).
Lieut-Gen. Knyphausen was now (January, 1780) temporarily in chief command at New York, as Sir Henry Clinton and Lord Cornwallis had sailed South (December 26, 1779) to attack Charleston and reduce South Carolina.
NOTE 8 (Page 311).
At that time, the Bristol and Bath stage-coaches took two days for the trip to London. Madge doubtless would have slept a night or two at Bristol after her landing; and probably at the Pelican Inn at Speenhamland (opposite Newbury), the usual midway sleeping-place, at the end of the first day's ride. But bad weather may have hindered the journey, and required the passengers to pass more than one night as inn-guests upon the road.
NOTE 9 (Page 325).
Mrs. Sheridan's surpassing beauty, talent, and amiability are well-known to all readers; as is the fact that her brilliant husband, despite their occasional quarrels, was very much in love with her from first to last.
NOTE 10 (Page 359).
Sir Ralph Winwood, born at Aynho, in Northamptonshire, in 1564, was frequently sent as envoy to Holland in the reign of James I., by whom he was knighted in 1603. He was Secretary of State from a date in 1614 till his death in 1617. His collected papers and letters are entitled, "Memorials of Affairs of State in the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James I.," etc. His portrait painted by Miereveldt, is in the National Portrait Gallery in London.
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Author of "The Knight of King's Guard."
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages, illustrated. $1.50 A stirring romance of the days of Charles I. and Cromwell in England and Ireland. In its general character the book invites comparison with Scott's "Waverley." It well sustains the reputation gained by Captain Martin from "The Knight of King's Guard."
The Flame Of Life. (IL FUOCO.) Translated from the Italian of Gabriel D'Annunzio, author of "Triumph of Death," etc., by KASSANDRA VIVARIA, author of "Via Lucis."
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages. $1.50 This is the first volume in the Third Trilogy, "The Romances of the Pomegranate," of the three announced by the great Italian writer. We were fortunate in securing the book, and also in securing the services as translator of the talented author of "Via Lucis," herself an Italian by birth.
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"id": "15506"
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THE SIX BOYS OF DARE.
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The sun had sunk behind the lonely western seas; Ulva, and Lunga, and the Dutchman's Cap had grown dark on the darkening waters; and the smooth Atlantic swell was booming along the sombre caves; but up here in Castle Dare, on the high and rocky coast of Mull, the great hall was lit with such a blaze of candles as Castle Dare had but rarely seen. And yet there did not seem to be any grand festivities going forward; for there were only three people seated at one end of the long and narrow table; and the banquet that the faithful Hamish had provided for them was of the most frugal kind. At the head of the table sat an old lady with silvery-white hair and proud and fine features. It would have been a keen and haughty face but for the unutterable sadness of the eyes--blue-gray eyes under black eyelashes that must have been beautiful enough in her youth, but were now dimmed and worn, as if the weight of the world's sorrows had been too much for the proud, high spirit. On the right of Lady Macleod sat the last of her six sons, Keith by name, a tall, sparely built, sinewy young fellow, with a sun-tanned cheek and crisp and curling hair, and with a happy and careless look in his clear eyes and about his mouth that rather blinded one to the firm lines of his face. Glad youth shone there, and the health begotten of hard exposure to wind and weather. What was life to him but a laugh: so long as there was a prow to cleave the plunging seas, and a glass to pick out the branching antlers far away amidst the mists of the corrie? To please his mother, on this the last night of his being at home, he wore the kilts; and he had hung his broad blue bonnet, with its sprig of juniper--the badge of the clan--on the top of one of many pikes and halberds that stood by the great fireplace. Opposite him, on the old lady's left hand, sat his cousin, or rather half-cousin, the plain-featured but large-hearted Janet, whom the poor people about that neighborhood regarded as being something more than any mere mortal woman. If there had been any young artist among that Celtic peasantry fired by religious enthusiasm to paint the face of a Madonna, it would have been the plain features of Janet Macleod he would have dreamed about and striven to transfer to his canvas. Her eyes were fine, it is true: they were honest and tender; they were not unlike the eyes of the grand old lady who sat at the head of the table; but, unlike hers, they were not weighted with the sorrow of years.
"It is a dark hour you have chosen to go away from your home," said the mother; and the lean hand, resting on the table before her, trembled somewhat.
"Why, mother," the young man said, lightly, "you know I am to have Captain ----'s cabin as far as Greenock; and there will be plenty of time for me to put the kilts away before I am seen by the people."
"Oh, Keith," his cousin cried--for she was trying to be very cheerful, too--"do you say that you are ashamed of the tartan?"
"Ashamed of the tartan!" he said, with a laugh. "Is there any one who has been brought up at Dare who is likely to be ashamed of the tartan! When I am ashamed of the tartan I will put a pigeon's feather in my cap, as the new _suaicheantas_ of this branch of Clann Leoid. But then, my good Janet, I would as soon think of taking my rifle and the dogs through the streets of London as of wearing the kilts in the south."
The old lady paid no heed. Her hands were now clasped before her. There was sad thinking in her eyes.
"You are the last of my six boys," said she, "and you are going away from me too."
"Now, now, mother," said he, "you must not make so much of a holiday. You would not have me always at Dare? You know that no good comes of a stay-at-home."
She knew the proverb. Her other sons had not been stay-at-homes. What had come to them!
Of Sholto, the eldest, the traveller, the dare-devil, the grave is unknown; but the story of how he met his death, in far Arizona, came years after to England and to Castle Dare. He sold his life dearly, as became one of his race and name. When his cowardly attendants found a band of twenty Apaches riding down on them, they unhitched the mules and galloped off, leaving him to confront the savages by himself. One of these, more courageous than his fellows, advanced and drew his arrow to the barb; the next second he uttered a yell, and rolled from his saddle to the ground, shot through the heart. Macleod seized this instant, when the savages were terror-stricken by the precision of the white man's weapons, to retreat a few yards and get behind a mesquit-tree. Here he was pretty well sheltered from the arrows that they sent in clouds about him, while he succeeded in killing other two of his enemies who had ventured to approach. At last they rode off: and it seemed as though he would be permitted to rejoin his dastardly comrades. But the Indians had only gone to windward to set the tall grass on fire; and presently he had to scramble, burned and blinded, up the tree, where he was an easy mark for their arrows. Fortunately, when he fell he was dead. This was the story told by some friendly Indians to a party of white men, and subsequently brought home to Castle Dare.
The next four of the sons of Dare were soldiers, as most of the Macleods of that family had been. And if you ask about the graves of Roderick and Ronald, what is one to say? They are known, and yet unknown. The two lads were in one of the Highland regiments that served in the Crimea. They both lie buried on the bleak plains outside Sevastopol. And if the memorial stones put up to them and their brother officers are falling into ruin and decay--if the very graves have been rifled--how is England to help that? England is the poorest country in the world. There was a talk some two or three years ago of putting up a monument on Cathcart Hill to the Englishmen who died in the Crimea; and that at least would have been some token of remembrance, even if we could not collect the scattered remains of our slain sons, as the French have done, but then that monument would have cost £5000. How could England afford £5000? When a big American city takes fire, or when a district in France is inundated, she can put her hand into her pocket deeply enough; but how can we expect so proud a mother to think twice about her children who perished in fighting for her? Happily the dead are independent of forgetfulness.
Duncan the Fair-haired--Donacha Ban, they called him, far and wide among the hills--lies buried in a jungle on the African coast. He was only twenty-three when he was killed: but he knew he had got the Victoria Cross. As he lay dying, he asked whether the people in England would send it to his mother, showing that his last fancies were still about Castle Dare.
And Hector? As you cross the river at Sadowa, and pass through a bit of forest, some cornfields begin to appear, and these stretch away up to the heights of Chlum. Along the ridge there, by the side of the wood, are many mounds of earth. Over the grave of Hector Macleod is no proud and pathetic inscription such as marks the last resting-place of a young lieutenant who perished at Gravelotte--_Er ruht saft in wiedererkampfter deutscher Erde_--but the young Highland officer was well beloved by his comrades, and when the dead were being pitched into the great holes dug for them, and when rude hands were preparing the simple record, painted on a wooden cross---"_Hier liegen--tapfere Krieger_"--a separate memento was placed over the grave of Under-lieutenant Hector Macleod of the ----th Imperial and Royal Cavalry Regiment. He was one of the two sons who had not inherited the title. Was it not a proud boast for this white-haired lady in Mull that she had been the mother of four baronets? What other mother in all the land could say as much? And yet it was that that had dimmed and saddened the beautiful eyes.
And now her youngest--her Benjamin, her best-beloved--he was going away from her too. It was not enough that the big deer forest, the last of the possessions of the Macleods of Dare, had been kept intact for him, when the letting of it to a rich Englishman would greatly have helped the failing fortunes of the family; it was not enough that the poor people about, knowing Lady Macleod's wishes, had no thought of keeping a salmon spear hidden in the thatch of their cottages. Salmon and stag could no longer bind him to the place. The young blood stirred. And when he asked her what good things came of being a stay-at-home, what could she say?
Suddenly old Hamish threw wide the oaken doors at the end of the hall, and there was a low roar like the roaring of lions. And then a young lad, with the pipes proudly perched on his shoulder, marched in with a stately step, and joyous and shrill arose the Salute. Three times he marched round the long and narrow hall, finishing behind Keith Macleod's chair. The young man turned to him.
"It was well played, Donald," said he, in the Gaelic; "and I will tell you that the Skye College in the old times never turned out a better pupil. And will you take a glass of whiskey now, or a glass of claret? And it is a great pity your hair is red, or they would call you Donull Dubh, and people would say you were the born successor of the last of the MacCruimins."
At this praise--imagine telling a piper lad that he was a fit successor of the MacCruimins, the hereditary pipers of the Macleods--the young stripling blushed hot; but he did not forget his professional dignity for all that. And he was so proud of his good English that he replied in that tongue.
"I will take a glass of the claret wine, Sir Keith," said he.
Young Macleod took up a horn tumbler, rimmed with silver, and having the triple-towered castle of the Macleods engraved on it, and filled it with wine. He handed it to the lad.
"I drink your health, Lady Macleod," said he, when he had removed his cap; "and I drink your health, Miss Macleod; and I drink your health, Sir Keith; and I would have a lighter heart this night if I was going with you away to England."
It was a bold demand.
"I cannot take you with me, Donald; the Macleods have got out of the way of taking their piper with them now. You must stay and look after the dogs."
"But you are taking Oscar with you, Sir Keith."
"Yes, I am. I must make sure of having one friend with me in the south."
"And I think I would be better than a collie," muttered the lad to himself, as he moved off in a proud and hurt way toward the door, his cap still in his hand.
And now a great silence fell over these three; and Janet Macleod looked anxiously toward the old lady, who sat unmoved in the face of the ordeal through which she knew she must pass. It was an old custom that each night a pibroch should be played in Castle Dare in remembrance of her five slain sons; and yet on this one night her niece would fain have seen that custom abandoned. For was not the pibroch the famous and pathetic "Cumhadh na Cloinne," the Lament for the Children, that Patrick Mor, one of the pipers of Macleod of Skye, had composed to the memory of his seven sons, who had all died within one year? And now the doors were opened, and the piper boy once more entered. The wild, sad wail arose: and slow and solemn was the step with which he walked up the hall. Lady Macleod sat calm and erect, her lips proud and firm, but her lean hands were working nervously together; and at last, when the doors were closed on the slow and stately and mournful Lament for the Children, she bent down the silvery head on those wrinkled hands and wept aloud. Patrick Mor's seven brave sons could have been no more to him than her six tall lads had been to her; and now the last of them was going away from her.
"Do you know," said Janet, quickly, to her cousin across the table, "that it is said no piper in the West Highlands can play 'Lord Lovat's Lament' like our Donald?"
"Oh yes, he plays it very well; and he has got a good step," Macleod said. "But you will tell him to play no more Laments to-night. Let him take to strathspeys if any of the lads come up after bringing back the boat. It will be time enough for him to make a Lament for me when I am dead. Come, mother, have you no message for Norman Ogilvie?"
The old lady had nerved herself again, though her hands were still trembling.
"I hope he will come back with you, Keith," she said.
"For the shooting? No, no, mother. He was not fit for the shooting about here: I have seen that long ago. Do you think he could lie for an hour in a wet bog? It was up at Fort William I saw him last year, and I said to him, 'Do you wear gloves at Aldershot?' His hands were as white as the hands of a woman."
"It is no woman's hand you have, Keith," his cousin said; "it is a soldier's hand."
"Yes," said he, with his face flushing, "and if I had had Norman Ogilvie's chance--" But he paused. Could he reproach this old dame, on the very night of his departure, with having disappointed all those dreams of military service and glory that are almost the natural inheritance of a Macleod of the Western Highlands? If he was a stay-at-home, at least his hands were not white. And yet, when young Ogilvie and he studied under the same tutor--the poor man had to travel eighteen miles between the two houses, many a time in hard weather--all the talk and aspirations of the boys were about a soldier's life; and Macleod could show his friend the various trophies, and curiosities sent home by his elder brothers from all parts of the world. And now the lily-fingered and gentle-natured Ogilvie was at Aldershot; while he--what else was he than a mere deer-stalker and salmon-killer?
"Ogilvie has been very kind to me, mother," he said, laughing. "He has sent me a list of places in London where I am to get my clothes, and boots, and a hat; and by the time I have done that, he will be up from Aldershot, and will lead me about--with a string round my neck, I suppose, lest I should bite somebody."
"You could not go better to London than in your own tartan," said the proud mother; "and it is not for an Ogilvie to say how a Macleod should be dressed. But it is no matter, one after the other has gone; the house is left empty at last. And they all went away like you, with a laugh on their face. It was but a trip, a holiday, they said: they would soon be back to Dare. And where are they this night?"
Old Hamish came in.
"It will be time for the boat now, Sir Keith, and the men are down at the shore."
He rose, the handsome young fellow, and took his broad, blue bonnet with the badge of juniper.
"Good-by, cousin Janet," said he, lightly. "Good-by, mother. You are not going to send me away in this sad fashion? What am I to bring you back--a satin gown from Paris? or a young bride to cheer up the old house?"
She took no heed of the passing jest. He kissed her, and bade her good-by once more. The clear stars were shining over Castle Dare, and over the black shadows of the mountains, and the smoothly swelling waters of the Atlantic. There was a dull booming of the waves along the rocks.
He had thrown his plaid round him, and he was wondering to himself as he descended the steep path to the shore. He could not believe that the two women were really saddened by his going to the south for awhile; he was not given to forebodings. And he had nearly reached the shore, when he was overtaken by some one running, with a light step behind him. He turned quickly, and found his cousin before him, a shawl thrown round her head and shoulders.
"Oh, Keith," said she, in a bright and matter-of-fact way, "I have a message for you--from myself--and I did not want aunt to hear, for she is very proud, you know, and I hope you won't be. You know we are all very poor, Keith; and yet you must not want money in London, if only for the sake of the family; and you know I have a little, Keith, and I want you to take it. You won't mind my being frank with you. I have written a letter."
She had the envelope in her hand.
"And if I would take money from any one, it would be from you, Cousin Janet; but I am not so selfish as that. What would all the poor people do if I were to take your money to London and spend it?"
"I have kept a little," said she, "and it is not much that is needed. It is £2000 I would like you to take from me, Keith. I have written a letter."
"Why, bless me, Janet, that is nearly all the money you've got!"
"I know it."
"Well, I may not be able to earn any money for myself, but at least I would not think of squandering your little fortune. No, no; but I thank you all the same, Janet; and I know that it is with a free heart that you offer it."
"But this is a favor, Keith," said she. "I do not ask you, to spend the money. But you might be in trouble; and you would be too proud to ask any one--perhaps you would not even ask me; and here is a letter that you can keep till then, and if you should want the money, you can open the letter, and it will tell you how to get it."
"And it is a poor forecast you are making, Cousin Janet," said he, cheerfully. "I am to play the prodigal son, then. But I will take the letter. And good-bye again, Janet; and God bless you, for you are a kind-hearted woman."
She went swiftly up to Castle Dare again, and he walked on toward the shore. By-and-by he reached a small stone pier that ran out among some rocks, and by the side of it lay a small sailing launch, with four men in her, and Donald the piper boy perched up at the bow. There was a lamp swinging at her mast, but she had no sail up, for there was scarcely any wind.
"Is it time to go out now?" said Macleod to Hamish who stood waiting on the pier, having carried down his master's portmanteau.
"Ay, it will be time now, even if you will wait a little," said Hamish. And then the old man added, "It is a dark night, Sir Keith, for your going away from Castle Dare."
"And it will be the brighter morning when I come back," answered the young man, for he could not mistake the intention of the words.
"Yes, indeed, Sir Keith; and now you will go into the boat, and you will take care of your footing, for the night is dark, and the rocks they are always slippery whatever."
But Keith Macleod's foot was as familiar with the soft sea-weed of the rocks as it was with the hard heather of the hills, and he found no difficulty in getting into the broad-beamed boat. The men put out their oars and pushed her off. And now, in the dark night, the skirl of the pipes rose again; and it was no stately and mournful lament that young Donald played up there at the bow as the four oars struck the sea and sent a flash of white fire down into the deeps.
"Donald," Hamish had said to him on the shore, "when you are going out to the steamer, it is the 'Seventy-ninth's Farewell to Chubraltar' that you will play, and you will play no other thing than that."
And surely the Seventy-ninth were not sorry to leave Gibraltar when their piper composed for them so glad a farewell.
At the high windows of Castle Dare the mother stood, and her niece, and as they watched the yellow lamp move slowly out from the black shore, they heard this proud and joyous march that Donald was playing to herald the approach of his master. They listened to it as it grew fainter and fainter, and as the small yellow star trembling over the dark waters, became more and more remote. And then this other sound--this blowing of a steam whistle far away in the darkness?
"He will be in good time, aunt; she is a long way off yet," said Janet Macleod. But the mother did not speak.
Out there on the dark and moving waters the great steamer was slowly drawing near the open boat; and as she came up, the vast hull of her, seen against the starlit sky, seemed a mountain.
"Now, Donald," Macleod called out, "you will take the dog--here is the string; and you will see he does not spring into the water."
"Yes, I will take the dog," muttered the boy, half to himself. "Oh yes, I will take the dog; but it is better if I was going with you, Sir Keith, than any dog."
A rope was thrown out, the boat dragged up to the side of the steamer, the small gangway let down, and presently Macleod was on the deck of the large vessel. Then Oscar was hauled up too, and the rope flung loose, and the boat drifted away into the darkness. But the last good-bye had not been said, for over the black waters came the sound of pipes once more, the melancholy wail of "Macintosh's Lament."
"Confound that obstinate brat!" Macleod said to himself. "Now he will go back to Castle Dare and make the women miserable."
"The captain is below at his supper, Sir Keith," said the mate. "Will you go down to him?"
"Yes, I will go down to him," said he; and he made his way along the deck of the steamer.
He was arrested by the sound of some one crying, and he looked down, and found a woman crouched under the bulwarks, with two small children asleep on her knee.
"My good woman, what is the matter with you?" said he.
"The night is cold," she said in the Gaelic, "and my children are cold; and it is a long way that we are going."
He answered her in her own tongue.
"You will be warmer if you go below; but here is a plaid for you, anyway;" and with that he took the plaid from round his shoulders and flung it across the children, and passed on.
That was the way of the Macleods of Dare. They had a royal manner with them. Perhaps that was the reason that their revenues were now far from royal.
And meanwhile the red light still burned in the high windows of Castle Dare, and two women were there looking out on the pale stars and the dark sea beneath. They waited until they heard the plashing of oars in the small bay below, and the message was brought them that Sir Keith had got safely on board the great steamer. Then they turned away from the silent and empty night, and one of them was weeping bitterly.
"It is the last of my six sons that has gone from me," she said, coming back to the old refrain, and refusing to be comforted.
"And I have lost my brother," said Janet Macleod, in her simple way. "But he will came back to us, auntie; and then we shall have great doings at Castle Dare."
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"id": "15587"
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MENTOR.
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It was with a wholly indescribable surprise and delight that Macleod came upon the life and stir and gayety of London in the sweet June time, when the parks and gardens and squares would of themselves have been a sufficient wonder to him. The change from the sombre shores of lochs Na Keal, and Iua, and Scridain to this world of sunlit foliage--the golden yellow of the laburnum, the cream-white of the chestnuts, the rose-pink of the red hawthorn, and everywhere the keen, translucent green of the young lime-trees--was enough to fill the heart with joy and gladness, though he had been no diligent student of landscape and color. The few days he had to spend by himself--while getting properly dressed to satisfy the demands of his friend--passed quickly enough. He was not at all ashamed of his country-made clothes as he watched the whirl of carriages in Piccadilly, or lounged under the elms at Hyde Park, with his beautiful silver-white and lemon-colored collie attracting the admiration of every passer-by. Nor had he waited for the permission of Lieutenant Ogilvie to make his entrance into, at least, one little corner of society. He was recognized in St. James's Street one morning by a noble lady whom he had met once or twice at Inverness; and she, having stopped her carriage, was pleased to ask him to lunch with herself and her husband next day. To the great grief of Oscar, who had to be shut up by himself, Macleod went up next day to Brook Street, and there met several people whose names he knew as representatives of old Highland families, but who were very English, as it seemed to him, in their speech and ways. He was rather petted, for he was a handsome lad, and he had high spirits and a proud air. And his hostess was so kind as to mention that the Caledonian Ball was coming off on the 25th, and of course he must come, in the Highland costume; and as she was one of the patronesses, should she give him a voucher? Macleod answered, laughingly, that he would be glad to have it, though he did not know what it was; whereupon she was pleased to say that no wonder he laughed at the notion of a voucher being wanted for any Macleod of Dare.
One morning a good-looking and slim young man knocked at the door of a small house in Bury Street, St. James's, and asked if Sir Keith Macleod was at home. The man said he was, and the young gentleman entered. He was a most correctly dressed person. His hat, and gloves, and cane, and long-tailed frock-coat were all beautiful; but it was, perhaps, the tightness of his nether garments, or, perhaps, the tightness of his brilliantly-polished boots (which were partially covered by white gaiters), that made him go up the narrow little stairs with some precision of caution. The door was opened and he was announced.
"My dear old boy," said he, "how do you do?" and Macleod gave him a grip of the hand that nearly burst one of his gloves.
But at this moment an awful accident occurred. From behind the door of the adjacent bedroom, Oscar, the collie, sprang forward with an angry growl; then he seemed to recognize the situation of affairs, when he saw his master holding the stranger's hand; then he began to wag his tail; then he jumped up with his fore-paws to give a kindly welcome.
"Hang it all, Macleod!" young Ogilvie cried, with all the starch gone out of his manner; "your dog's all wet? What's the use of keeping a brute like that about the place?"
Alas! the beautiful, brilliant boots were all besmeared, and the white gaiters too, and the horsey-looking nether garments. Moreover, the Highland savage, so far from betraying compunction, burst into a roar of laughter.
"My dear fellow," he cried, "I put him in my bedroom to dry. I couldn't do more, could I? He has just been in the Serpentine."
"I wish he was there now, with a stone and a string round his neck!" observed Lieutenant Ogilvie, looking at his boots; but he repented him of this rash saying, for within a week he had offered Macleod £20 for the dog. He might have offered twenty dozen of £20, and thrown his polished boots and his gaiters too into the bargain, and he would have had the same answer.
Oscar was once more banished into the bedroom; and Mr. Ogilvie sat down, pretending to take no more notice of his boots. Macleod put some sherry on the table, and a handful of cigars; his friend asked whether he could not have a glass of seltzer-water and a cigarette.
"And how do you like the rooms I got for you?"
"There is not much fresh air about them, nor in this narrow street," Macleod said, frankly; "but that is no matter for I have been out all day--all over London."
"I thought the price was as high as you would care to go," Ogilvie said; "but I forgot you had come fresh up, with your pocket full of money. If you would like something a trifle more princely, I'll put you up to it."
"And where have I got the money? There are no gold mines in the west of Mull. It is you who are Fortunatus."
"By Jove, if you knew how hard a fellow is run at Aldershot," Mr. Ogilvie remarked, confidentially, "you would scarcely believe it. Every new batch of fellows who come in have to be dined all round; and the mess bills are simply awful. It's getting worse and worse; and then these big drinks put one off one's work so."
"You are studying hard, I suppose," Macleod said, quite gravely.
"Pretty well," said he, stretching out his legs, and petting his pretty mustache with his beautiful white hand. Then he added, suddenly, surveying the brown-faced and stalwart young fellow before him, "By Jove, Macleod, I'm glad to see you in London. It's like a breath of mountain air. Don't I remember the awful mornings we've had together--the rain and the mist and the creeping through the bogs? I believe you did your best to kill me. If I hadn't had the constitution of a horse, I should have been killed."
"I should say your big drinks at Aldershot were more likely to kill you than going after the deer," said Macleod, "And will you come up with me this autumn, Ogilvie? The mother will be glad to see you, and Janet, too; though we haven't got any fine young ladies for you to make love to, unless you go up to Fort William, or Fort George, or Inverness. And I was all over the moors before I came away; and if there is anything like good weather, we shall have plenty of birds this year, for I never saw before such a big average of eggs in the nests."
"I wonder you don't let part of that shooting," said young Ogilvie, who knew well of the straitened circumstances of the Macleods of Dare.
"The mother won't have it done," said Macleod, quite simply, "for she thinks it keeps me at home. But a young man cannot always stay at home. It is very good for you, Ogilvie, that you have brothers."
"Yes, if I had been the eldest of them," said Mr. Ogilvie. "It is a capital thing to have younger brothers; it isn't half so pleasant when you are the younger brother."
"And will you come up, then, and bury yourself alive at Dare?"
"It is awfully good of you to ask me, Macleod; and if I can manage it, I will; but I am afraid there isn't much chance this year. In the meantime, let me give you a hint. In London we talk of going _down_ to the Highlands."
"Oh, do you? I did not think you were so stupid," Macleod remarked.
"Why, of course we do. You speak of going up to the capital of a country, and of going down to the provinces."
"Perhaps you are right--no doubt you are right; but it sounds stupid," the unconvinced Highlander observed again. "It sounds stupid to say going up to the south, and going down to the north. And how can you go down to the Highlands? You might go down to the Lowlands. But no doubt you are right; and I will be more particular. And will you have another cigarette? And then we will go out for a walk, and Oscar will get drier in the street than indoors."
"Don't imagine I am going out to have that dog plunging about among my feet," said Ogilvie. "But I have something else for you to do. You know Colonel Ross of Duntorme."
"I have heard of him."
"His wife is an awfully nice woman, and would like to meet you, I fancy they think of buying some property--I am not sure it isn't an island--in your part of the country; and she has never been to the Highlands at all. I was to take you down with me to lunch with her at two, if you care to go. There is her card."
Macleod looked at the card.
"How far is Prince's Gate from here?" he asked.
"A mile and a half, I should say."
"And it is now twenty minutes to two," said he, rising. "It will be a nice smart walk."
"Thank you," said Mr. Ogilvie; "if it is all the same to you, we will perform the journey in a hansom. I am not in training just at present for your tramps to Ben-an-Sloich."
"Ah! Your boots are rather tight," said Macleod, with grave sympathy.
They got into a hansom, and went spinning along through the crowd of carriages on this brilliant morning. The busy streets, the handsome women, the fine buildings, the bright and beautiful foliage of the parks--all these were a perpetual wonder and delight to the new-comer, who was as eager in the enjoyment of this gay world of pleasure and activity as any girl come up for her first season. Perhaps this notion occurred to the astute and experienced Lieutenant Ogilvie, who considered it his duty to warn his youthful and ingenuous friend.
"Mrs. Ross is a very handsome woman," he remarked.
"Indeed."
"And uncommonly fascinating, too, when she likes."
"Really."
"You had better look out, if she tries to fascinate you."
"She is a married woman," said Macleod.
"They are always the worst," said this wise person; "for they are jealous of the younger women."
"Oh, that is all nonsense," said Macleod, bluntly. "I am not such a greenhorn. I have read all that kind of talk in books and magazines: it is ridiculous. Do you think I will believe that married women have so little self-respect as to make themselves the laughing stock of men?"
"My dear fellow, they have cart-loads of self-respect. What I mean is, that Mrs. Ross is a bit of a lion-hunter, and she may take a fancy to make a lion of you--" "That is better than to make an ass of me, as you suggested." " --And naturally she will try to attach you to her set. I don't think you are quite _outre_ enough for her; perhaps I made a mistake in putting you into decent clothes. You wouldn't have time to get into your kilts now? But you must be prepared to meet all sorts of queer folks at her house, especially if you stay on a bit and have some tea--mysterious poets that nobody ever heard of, and artists who won't exhibit, and awful swells from the German universities, and I don't know what besides--everybody who isn't the least like anybody else."
"And what is your claim, then, to go there?" Macleod asked.
"Oh," said the young lieutenant, laughing at the home-thrust, "I am only admitted on sufferance, as a friend of Colonel Ross. She never asked _me_ to put my name in her autograph-book. But I have done a bit of the jackal for her once or twice, when I happened to be on leave; and she has sent me with people to her box at Covent Garden when she couldn't go herself."
"And how am I to propitiate her? What am I to do?"
"She will soon let you know how you strike her. Either she will pet you, or she will snuff you out like winking. I don't know a woman who has a blanker stare, when she likes."
This idle conversation was suddenly interrupted. At the same moment both young men experienced a sinking sensation, as if the earth had been cut away from beneath their feet; then there was a crash, and they were violently thrown against each other; then they vaguely knew that the cab, heeling over, was being jolted along the street by a runaway horse. Fortunately, the horse could not run very fast, for the axle-tree, deprived of its wheel, was tearing at the road; but, all the same, the occupants of the cab thought they might as well get out, and so they tried to force open the two small panels of the door in front of them. But the concussion had so jammed these together that, shove at them as they might, they would not yield. At this juncture, Macleod, who was not accustomed to hansom cabs, and did not at all like this first experience of them, determined to get out somehow; and so he raised himself a bit, so as to get his back firm against the back of the vehicle; he pulled up his leg until his knee almost touched his mouth; he got the heel of his boot firmly fixed on the top edge of the door: and then with one forward drive he tore the panel right away from its hinges. The other was of course flung open at once. Then he grasped the brass rail outside, steadied himself for a moment, and jumped clear from the cab, lighting on the pavement. Strange to say, Ogilvie did not follow, though Macleod, as he rushed along to try to get hold of the horse, momentarily expected to see him jump out. His anxiety was of short duration. The axle-tree caught on the curb; there was a sudden lurch; and then, with a crash of glass, the cab went right over, throwing down the horse, and pitching the driver into the street. It was all the work of a few seconds; and another second seemed to suffice to collect a crowd, even in this quiet part of Kensington Gore. But, after all, very little damage was done, except to the horse, which had cut one of its hocks. When young Mr. Ogilvie scrambled out and got on to the pavement, instead of being grateful that his life had been spared, he was in a towering passion--with whom or what he knew not.
"Why didn't you jump out?" said Macleod to him, after seeing that the cabman was all right.
Ogilvie did not answer; he was looking at his besmeared hands and dishevelled clothes.
"Confound it!" said he; "what's to be done now? The house is just round the corner."
"Let us go in, and they will lend you a clothesbrush."
"As if I had been fighting a bargee? No, thank you. I will go along till I find some tavern, and get myself put to rights."
And this he did gloomily, Macleod accompanying him. It was about a quarter of an hour before he had completed his toilet; and then they set out to walk back to Prince's Gate. Mr. Ogilvie was in a better humor.
"What a fellow you are to jump, Macleod!" said he. "If you had cannoned against that policeman you would have killed him. And you never paid the cabman for destroying the lid of the door; you prized the thing clean off its hinges. You must have the strength of a giant."
"But where the people came from--it was that surprised me," said Macleod, who seemed to have rather enjoyed the adventure. "It was like one of our sea-lochs in the Highlands--you look all round and cannot find any gull anywhere but throw a biscuit into the water, and you will find them appearing from all quarters at once. As for the door, I forgot that; but I gave the man half a sovereign to console him for his shaking. Was not that enough?"
"We shall be frightfully late for luncheon," said Mr. Ogilvie, with some concern.
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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3
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FIONAGHAL.
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And, indeed, when they entered the house--the balconies and windows were a blaze of flowers all shining in the sun--they found that their host and hostess had already come downstairs, and were seated at table with their small party of guests. This circumstance did not lessen Sir Keith Macleod's trepidation; for there is no denying the fact that the young man would rather have faced an angry bull on a Highland road than this party of people in the hushed and semi-darkened and flower-scented room. It seemed to him that his appearance was the signal for a confusion that was equivalent to an earthquake. Two or three servants--all more solemn than any clergyman--began to make new arrangements; a tall lady, benign of aspect, rose and most graciously received him; a tall gentleman, with a gray mustache, shook hands with him; and then, as he vaguely heard young Ogilvie, at the other end of the room, relate the incident of the upsetting of the cab, he found himself seated next to this benign lady, and apparently in a bewildering paradise of beautiful lights and colors and delicious odors. Asparagus soup? Yes, he would take that; but for a second or two this spacious and darkened room, with its stained glass and its sombre walls, and the table before him, with its masses of roses and lilies-of-the-valley, its silver, its crystal, its nectarines, and cherries, and pineapples, seemed some kind of enchanted place. And then the people talked in a low and hushed fashion, and the servants moved silently and mysteriously, and the air was languid with the scents of fruits and flowers. They gave him some wine in a tall green glass that had transparent lizards crawling up its stem; he had never drunk out of a thing like that before.
"It was very kind of Mr. Ogilvie to get you to come; he is a very good boy; he forgets nothing," said Mrs. Ross to him; and as he became aware that she was a pleasant-looking lady of middle age, who regarded him with very friendly and truthful eyes, he vowed to himself that he would bring Mr. Ogilvie to task for representing this decent and respectable woman as a graceless and dangerous coquette. No doubt she was the mother of children. At her time of life she was better employed in the nursery or in the kitchen than in flirting with young men; and could he doubt that she was a good house-mistress when he saw with his own eyes how spick and span everything was, and how accurately everything was served? Even if his cousin Janet lived in the south, with all these fine flowers and hot-house fruits to serve her purpose, she could not have done better. He began to like this pleasant-eyed woman, though she seemed delicate, and a trifle languid, and in consequence he sometimes could not quite make out what she said. But then he noticed that the other people talked in this limp fashion too: there was no precision about their words; frequently they seemed to leave you to guess the end of their sentences. As for the young lady next him, was she not very delicate also? He had never seen such hands--so small, and fine, and white. And although she talked only to her neighbor on the other side of her, he could hear that her voice, low and musical as it was, was only a murmur.
"Miss White and I," said Mrs. Ross to him--and at this moment the young lady turned to them--"were talking before you came in of the beautiful country you must know so well, and of its romantic stories and associations with Prince Charlie. Gertrude, let me introduce Sir Keith Macleod to you. I told Miss White you might come to us to-day; and she was saying what a pity it was that Flora MacDonald was not a Macleod."
"That was very kind" said he, frankly, turning to this tall, pale girl, with the rippling hair of golden brown and the heavy-lidded and downcast eyes. And then he laughed. "We would not like to steal the honor from a woman, even though she was a Macdonald, and you know the Macdonalds and the Macleods were not very friendly in the old time. But we can claim something too about the escape of Prince Charlie, Mrs. Ross. After Flora Macdonald had got him safe from Harris to Skye, she handed him over to the sons of Macleod of Raasay, and it was owing to them that he got to the mainland. You will find many people up there to this day who believe that if Macleod of Macleod had gone out in '45, Prince Charlie would never have had to flee at all. But I think the Macleods had done enough for the Stuarts; and it was but little thanks they ever got in return, so far as I could ever hear. Do you know, Mrs. Ross, my mother wears mourning every 3d of September, and will eat nothing from morning till night. It is the anniversary of the battle of Worcester; and then the Macleods were so smashed up that for a long time the other clans relieved them from military service."
"You are not much of a Jacobite, Sir Keith," said Mrs. Ross, smiling.
"Only when I hear a Jacobite song sung," said he. "Then who can fail to be a Jacobite?"
He had become quite friendly with this amiable lady. If he had been afraid that his voice, in these delicate southern ears, must sound like the first guttral drone of Donald's Pipes at Castle Dare, he had speedily lost that fear. The manly, sun-browned face and clear-glancing eyes were full of animation; he was oppressed no longer by the solemnity of the servants; so long as he talked to her he was quite confident; he had made friends with this friendly woman. But he had not as yet dared to address the pale girl who sat on his right, and who seemed so fragile and beautiful and distant in manner.
"After all," said he to Mrs. Ross, "there were no more Highlanders killed in the cause of the Stuarts than used to be killed every year or two merely out of the quarrels of the clans among themselves. All about where I live there is scarcely a rock, or a loch, or an island that has not its story. And I think," added he, with a becoming modesty, "that the Macleods were by far the most treacherous and savage and bloodthirsty of the whole lot of them."
And now the fair stranger beside him addressed him for the first time; and as she did so, she turned her eyes towards him--clear, large eyes that rather startled one when the heavy lids were lifted, so full of expression were they.
"I suppose," said she, with a certain demure smile, "you have no wild deeds done there now?"
"Oh, we have become quite peaceable folks now," said he, laughing. "Our spirit is quite broken. The wild boars are all away from the islands now, even from Muick; we have only the sheep. And the Mackenzies, and the Macleans, and the Macleods--they are all sheep now."
Was it not quite obvious? How could any one associate with this bright-faced young man the fierce traditions of hate and malice and revenge, that makes the seas and islands of the north still more terrible in their loneliness? Those were the days of strong wills and strong passions, and of an easy disregard of individual life when the gratification of some set desire was near. What had this Macleod to do with such scorching fires of hate and of love? He was playing with a silver fork and half a dozen strawberries: Miss White's surmise was perfectly natural and correct.
The ladies went upstairs, and the men, after the claret had gone round, followed them. And now it seemed to this rude Highlander that he was only going from wonder to wonder. Half-way up the narrow staircase was a large recess dimly lit by the sunlight falling through stained glass, and there was a small fountain playing in the middle of this grotto and all around was a wilderness of ferns dripping with the spray, while at the entrance two stone figures held up magical globes on which the springing and falling water was reflected. Then from this partial gloom he emerged into the drawing-room--a dream of rose-pink and gold, with the air sweetened around him by the masses of roses and tall lilies about. His eyes were rather bewildered at first; the figures of the women seemed dark against the white lace of the windows. But as he went forward to his hostess, he could make out still further wonders of color; for in the balconies outside, in the full glare of the sun, were geraniums, and lobelias, and golden calceolarias, and red snapdragon, their bright hues faintly tempered by the thin curtains through which they were seen. He could not help expressing his admiration of these things that were so new to him, for it seemed to him that he had come into a land of perpetual summer and sunshine and glowing flowers. Then the luxuriant greenness of the foliage on the other side of Exhibition Road--for Mrs. Ross's house faced westward--was, as he said, singularly beautiful to one accustomed to the windy skies of the western isles.
"But you have not seen our elm--our own elm," said Mrs. Ross, who was arranging some azaleas that had just been sent her. "We are very proud of our elm. Gertrude, will you take Sir Keith to see our noble elm?"
He had almost forgotten who Gertrude was; but the next second he recognized the low and almost timid voice that said.
"Will you come this way, then Sir Keith?"
He turned, and found that it was Miss White who spoke. How was it that this girl, who was only a girl, seemed to do things so easily, and gently, and naturally, without any trace of embarrassment or self-consciousness? He followed her, and knew not which to admire the more, the careless simplicity of her manner, or the singular symmetry of her tall and slender figure. He had never seen any statue or any picture in any book to be compared with this woman, who was so fine, and rare, and delicate that she seemed only a beautiful tall flower in this garden of flowers. There was a strange simplicity, too, about her dress--a plain, tight-fitting, tight-sleeved dress of unrelieved black, her only adornment being some bands of big blue beads worn loosely round the neck. The black figure, in this shimmer of rose-pink and gold and flowers, was effective enough; but even the finest of pictures or the finest of statues has not the subtle attraction of a graceful carriage. Macleod had never seen any woman walk as this woman walked, in so stately and yet so simple a way.
From Mrs. Ross's chief drawing-room they passed into an antedrawing-room, which was partly a passage and partly a conservatory. On the window side were some rows of Cape heaths, on the wall side some rows of blue and white plates; and it was one of the latter that was engaging the attention of two persons in this anteroom--Colonel Ross himself, and a little old gentleman in gold-rimmed spectacles.
"Shall I introduce you to my father?" said Miss White to her companion; and, after a word or two, they passed on.
"I think papa is invaluable to Colonel Ross," said she: "he is as good as an auctioneer at telling the value of china. Look at this beautiful heath. Mrs. Ross is very proud of her heaths."
The small white fingers scarcely touched the beautiful blossoms of the plant; but which were the more palely roseate and waxen? If one were to grasp that hand--in some sudden moment of entreaty, in the sharp joy of reconciliation, in the agony of farewell--would it not be crushed like a frail flower?
"There is our elm," said she, lightly. "Mrs. Ross and I regard it as our own, we have sketched it so often."
They had emerged from the conservatory into a small square room, which was practically a continuation of the drawing-room, but which was decorated in pale blue and silver, and filled with a lot of knick-knacks that showed it was doubtless Mrs. Ross's boudoir. And out there, in the clear June sunshine, lay the broad greensward behind Prince's Gate, with the one splendid elm spreading his broad branches into the blue sky, and throwing a soft shadow on the corner of the gardens next to the house. How sweet and still it was! --as still as the calm, clear light in this girl's eyes. There was no passion there, and no trouble; only the light of a June day, and of blue skies, and a peaceful soul. She rested the tips of her fingers on a small rosewood table that stood by the window: surely, if a spirit ever lived in any table, the wood of this table must have thrilled to its core.
And had he given all this trouble to this perfect creature merely that he should look at a tree? and was he to say some ordinary thing about an ordinary elm to tell her how grateful he was?
"It is like a dream to me," he said, honestly enough, "since I came to London. You seem always to have sunlight and plenty of fine trees and hot-house flowers. But I suppose you have winter, like the rest us?"
"Or we should very soon tire of all this, beautiful as it is," said she; and she looked rather wistfully out on the broad, still gardens. "For my part, I should very soon tire of it. I should think there was more excitement in the wild storms and the dark nights of the north; there must be a strange fascination in the short winter days among the mountains, and the long winter nights by the side of the Atlantic."
He looked at her and smiled. That fierce fascination he knew something of: how had she guessed at it? And as for her talking as if she herself would gladly brave these storms--was it for a foam-bell to brave a storm? was it for a rose-leaf to meet the driving rains of Ben-an-Sloich?
"Shall we go back now?" said she; and as she turned to lead the way he could not fail to remark how shapely her neck was, for her rich golden-brown hair was loosely gathered up behind.
But just at this moment Mrs. Ross made her appearance.
"Come," said she, "we shall have a chat all to ourselves; and you will tell me, Sir Keith, what you have seen since you came to London, and what has struck you most. And you must stay with us, Gertrude. Perhaps Sir Keith will be so kind as to freeze your blood with another horrible story about the Highlanders. I am only a poor southerner, and had to get up my legends from books. But this wicked girl, Sir Keith, delights as much in stories of bloodshed as a schoolboy does."
"You will not believe her," said Miss White, in that low-toned, gravely sincere voice of hers, while a faint shell-like pink suffused her face. "It was only that we were talking of the highlands, because we understood you were coming; and Mrs. Ross was trying to make out"--and here a spice of proud mischief came into her ordinarily calm eyes--"she was trying to make out that you must be a very terrible and dangerous person, who would probably murder us all if we were not civil to you."
"Well, you know, Sir Keith," said Mrs. Ross, apologetically, "you acknowledge yourself that you Macleods were a very dreadful lot of people at one time. What a shame it was to track the poor fellow over the snow, and then deliberately to put brushwood in front of the cave, and then suffocate whole two hundred persons at once!"
"Oh yes, no doubt!" said he; "but the Macdonalds were asked first to give up the men that had bound the Macleods hand and foot and set them adrift in the boat, and they would not do it. And if the Macdonalds had got the Macleods into a cave, they would have suffocated them too. The Macdonalds began it."
"Oh, no, no, no," protested Mrs. Ross; "I can remember better than that. What were the Macleods about on the island at all when they had to be sent off, tied hand and foot, in their boats?"
"And what is the difference between tying a man hand and foot and putting him out in the Atlantic, and suffocating him in a cave? It was only by an accident that the wind drifted them over to Skye."
"I shall begin to fear that you have some of the old blood in you," said Mrs. Ross, with a smile, "if you try to excuse one of the cruelest things ever heard of."
"I do not excuse it at all," said he, simply. "It was very bad--very cruel. But perhaps the Macleods were not so much worse than others. It was not a Macleod at all, it was a Gordon--and she a woman, too--that killed the chief of the Mackintoshes after she had received him as a friend. 'Put your head down on the table,' said she to the chief, 'in token of your submission to the Earl of Huntly.' And no sooner had he bowed his neck than she whipped out a knife and cut his head off. That was a Gordon, not a Macleod. And I do not think the Macleods were so much worse than their neighbors, after all."
"Oh, how can you say that?" exclaimed his persecutor. "Who was ever guilty of such an act of treachery as setting fire to the barn at Dunvegan? Macdonald and his men get driven on to Skye by the bad weather; they beg for shelter from their old enemy; Macleod professes to be very great friends with them; and Macdonald is to sleep in the castle, while his men have a barn prepared for them. You know very well, Sir Keith, that if Macdonald had remained that night in Dunvegan Castle he would have been murdered; and if the Macleod girl had not given a word of warning to her sweetheart, the men in the barn would have been burned to death. I think if I were a Macdonald I should be proud of that scene--the Macdonalds marching down to their boats with their pipes playing, while the barn was all in a blaze fired by their treacherous enemies. Oh, Sir Keith, I hope there are no Macleods of that sort alive now."
"There are not, Mrs. Ross," said he, gravely. "They were all killed by the Macdonalds, I suppose."
"I do believe," said she, "that it was a Macleod who built a stone tower on a lonely island, and imprisoned his wife there--" "Miss White," the young man said, modestly, "will not you help me? Am I to be made responsible for all the evil doings of my ancestors?"
"It is really not fair, Mrs. Ross," said she; and the sound of this voice pleading for him went to his heart: it was not as the voice of other women.
"I only meant to punish you," said Mrs. Ross, "for having traversed the indictment--I don't know whether that is the proper phrase, or what it means, but it sounds well. You first acknowledge that the Macleods were by far the most savage of the people living up there: and then you tried to make out that the poor creatures whom they harried were as cruel as themselves."
"What is cruel now was not cruel then," he said; "it was a way of fighting: it was what is called an ambush now--enticing your enemy, and then taking him at a disadvantage. And if you did not do that to him, he would do it to you. And when a man is mad with anger or revenge, what does he care for anything?"
"I thought we were all sheep now," said she.
"Do you know the story of the man who was flogged by Maclean of Lochbuy--that is in Mull," said he, not heeding her remark. "You do not know that old story?"
They did not; and he proceeded to tell it in a grave and simple fashion which was sufficiently impressive. For he was talking to these two friends now in the most unembarrassed way; and he had, besides, the chief gift of a born narrator--an utter forgetfulness of himself. His eyes rested quite naturally on their eyes as he told his tale. But first of all, he spoke of the exceeding loyalty of the Highland folk to the head of their clan. Did they know that other story of how Maclean of Duart tried to capture the young heir of the house of Lochbuy, and how the boy was rescued and carried away by his nurse? And when, arrived at man's estate, he returned to revenge himself on those who had betrayed him, among them was the husband of the nurse. The young chief would have spared the life of this man, for the old woman's sake. " _Let the tail go with the hide_," said she, and he was slain with the rest. And then the narrator went on to the story of the flogging. He told them how Maclean of Lochbuy was out after the deer one day; and his wife, with her child, had come out to see the shooting. They were driving the deer; and at a particular pass a man was stationed so that, should the deer come that way, he should turn them back. The deer came to this pass; the man failed to turn them; and the chief was mad with rage. He gave orders that the man's back should be bared, and that he should be flogged before all the people.
"Very well," continued Macleod. "It was done. But it is not safe to do anything like that to a Highlander; at least it _was_ not safe to do anything like that to a highlander in those days; for, as I told you, Mrs. Ross, we are all like sheep now. Then they went after the deer again; but at one moment the man that had been flogged seized Maclean's child from the nurse, and ran with it across the mountain-side, till he reached a place overhanging the sea. And he held out the child over the sea; and it was no use that Maclean begged on his knees for forgiveness. Even the passion of loyalty was lost now in the fierceness of his revenge. This was what the man said--that unless Maclean had his back bared there and then before all the people, and flogged as he had been flogged, then the child should be dashed into the sea below. There was nothing to be done but that--no prayers, no offers, no appeals from the mother, were of any use. And so it was that Maclean of Lochbuy was flogged there before his own people, and his enemy above looking on. And then? When it was over, the man called aloud, 'Revenged! revenged!' and sprang into the air with the child along with him; and neither of them was ever seen again after they had sunk into the sea. It is an old story."
An old story, doubtless, and often told; but its effect on this girl sitting beside him was strange. Her clasped hands trembled; her eyes were glazed and fascinated as if by some spell. Mrs. Ross, noticing this extreme tension of feeling, and fearing it, hastily rose.
"Come, Gertrude," she said, taking the girl by the hand, "we shall be frightened to death by these stories. Come and sing us a song--a French song, all about tears, and fountains, and bits of ribbon--or we shall be seeing the ghosts of murdered Highlanders coming in here in the daytime."
Macleod, not knowing what he had done, but conscious that something had occurred, followed then into the drawing-room, and retired to a sofa, while Miss White sat down to the open piano. He hoped he had not offended her. He would not frighten her again with any ghastly stories from the wild northern seas.
And what was this French song that she was about to sing? The pale, slender fingers were wandering over the keys; and there was a sound--faint and clear and musical--as of the rippling of summer seas. And sometimes the sounds came nearer; and now he fancied he recognized some old familiar strain; and he thought of his cousin Janet somehow, and of summer days down by the blue waters of the Atlantic. A French song? Surely if this air, that seemed to come nearer and nearer, was blown from any earthly land, it had come from the valleys of Lochiel and Ardgour, and from the still shores of Arisaig and Moidart? Oh yes; it was a very pretty French song that she had chosen to please Mrs. Ross with.
"A wee bird cam' to our ha' door"-- this was what she sang; and though, to tell the truth, she had not much of a voice, it was exquisitely trained, and she sang with a tenderness and expression such as he, at least, had never heard before,-- "He warbled sweet and clearly; An' aye the o'ercome o' his sang Was 'Wae's me for Prince Charlie!' Oh, when I heard the bonnie bonnie bird The tears cam' drappin' rarely; I took my bonnet off my head, For well I lo'ed Prince Charlie."
It could not have entered into his imagination to believe that such pathos could exist apart from the actual sorrow of the world. The instrument before her seemed to speak; and the low, joint cry was one of infinite grief, and longing, and love.
"Quoth I, 'My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, Is that a sang ye borrow? Are these some words ye've learnt by heart, Or a lilt o' dool an' sorrow? 'Oh, no, no, no,' the wee bird sang; 'I've flown sin' mornin' early; But sic a day o' wind an' rain-- Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie!'"
Mrs. Ross glanced archly at him when she discovered what sort of French song it was that Miss White had chosen; but he paid no heed. His only thought was, "_If only the mother and Janet could hear this strange singing! _" When she had ended, Mrs. Ross came over to him and said, "That is a great compliment to you."
And he answered, simply, "I have never heard any singing like that."
Then young Mr. Ogilvie--whose existence, by-the-way, he had entirely and most ungratefully forgotten--came up to the piano, and began to talk in a very pleasant and amusing fashion to Miss White. She was turning over the leaves of the book before her, and Macleod grew angry with this idle interference. Why should this lily-fingered jackanapes, whom a man could wind round a reel and throw out of window, disturb the rapt devotion of this beautiful Saint Cecilia?
She struck a firmer chord; the bystanders withdrew a bit; and of a sudden it seemed to him that all the spirit of all the clans was ringing in the proud fervor of this fragile girl's voice. Whence had she got this fierce Jacobite passion that thrilled him to the very finger-tips?
"I'll to Lochiel, and Appin, and kneel to them, Down by Lord Murray and Roy of Kildarlie: Brave Mackintosh, he shall fly to the field with them; These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie!"
Could any man fail to answer? Could any man die otherwise than gladly if he died with such an appeal ringing in his ears? Macleod did not know there was scarcely any more volume in this girl's voice now than when she was singing the plaintive wail that preceded it: it seemed to him that there was the strength of the tread of armies in it, and a challenge that could rouse a nation.
"Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore, Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely! Ronald and Donald, drive on wi' the broad claymore Over the neck o' the foes o' Prince Charlie! Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee, King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie!"
She shut the book, with a light laugh, and left the piano. She came over to where Macleod sat. When he saw that she meant to speak to him, he rose and stood before her.
"I must ask your pardon," said she, smiling, "for singing two Scotch songs, for I know the pronunciation is very difficult."
He answered with no idle compliment.
"If _Tearlach ban og_, as they used to call him, were alive now," said he--and indeed there was never any Stuart of them all, not even the Fair Young Charles himself, who looked more handsome than this same Macleod of Dare who now stood before her--"you would get him more men to follow him than any flag or standard he ever raised."
She cast her eyes down.
Mrs. Ross's guests began to leave.
"Gertrude," said she, "will you drive with me for half an hour--the carriage is at the door? And I know the gentlemen want to have a cigar in the shade of Kensington Gardens: they might come back and have a cup of tea with us."
But Miss White had some engagement; she and her father left together; and the young men followed them almost directly, Mrs. Ross saying that she would be most pleased to see Sir Keith Macleod any Tuesday or Thursday afternoon he happened to be passing, as she was always at home on these days.
"I don't think we can do better than take her advice about the cigar," said young Ogilvie, as they crossed to Kensington Gardens. "What do you think of her?"
"Of Mrs. Ross?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I think she is a very pleasant woman."
"Yes, but," said Mr. Ogilvie, "how did she strike you? Do you think she is as fascinating as some men think her?"
"I don't know what men think about her," said Macleod. "It never occurred to me to ask whether a married woman was fascinating or not. I thought she was a friendly woman--talkative, amusing, clever enough."
They lit their cigars in the cool shadow of the great elms: who does not know how beautiful Kensington Gardens are in June? And yet Macleod did not seem disposed to be garrulous about these new experiences of his; he was absorbed, and mostly silent.
"That is an extraordinary fancy she has taken for Gertrude White," Mr. Ogilvie remarked.
"Why extraordinary?" the other asked, with sudden interest.
"Oh, well, it is unusual, you know. But she is a nice girl enough, and Mrs. Ross is fond of odd folks. You didn't speak to old White? --his head is a sort of British Museum of antiquities; but he is of some use to these people--he is such a swell about old armor, and china, and such things. They say he wants to be sent out to dig for Dido's funeral pyre at Carthage, and that he is only waiting to get the trinkets made at Birmingham."
They walked on a bit in silence.
"I think you made a good impression on Mrs. Ross," said Ogilvie, coolly. "You'll find her an uncommonly useful woman, if she takes a fancy to you; for she knows everybody and goes everywhere, though her own house is too small to entertain properly. By-the-way, Macleod, I don't think you could have hit on a worse fellow than I to take you about, for I am so little in London that I have become a rank outsider. But I'll tell you what I'll do for you if you will go with me to-night to Lord Beauregard's who is an old friend of mine. I will ask him to introduce you to some people--and his wife gives very good dances--and if any royal or imperial swell comes to town, you'll be sure to run against him there. I forget who it is they are receiving there to-night; but anyhow you'll meet two or three of the fat duchesses whom Dizzy adores; and I shouldn't wonder if that Irish girl were there--the new beauty: Lady Beauregard is very clever at picking people up."
"Will Miss White be there?" Macleod asked, apparently deeply engaged in probing the end of his cigar.
His companion looked up in surprise. Then a new fancy seemed to occur to him, and he smiled very slightly.
"Well, no," said he, slowly, "I don't think she will. In fact, I am almost sure she will be at the Piccadilly Theatre. If you like, we will give up Lady Beauregard, and after dinner go to the Piccadilly Theatre instead. How will that do?"
"I think that will do very well," said Macleod.
|
{
"id": "15587"
}
|
4
|
WONDER-LAND.
|
A cool evening in June, the club windows open, a clear twilight shining over Pall Mall, and a _tete-a-tete_ dinner at a small, clean, bright table--these are not the conditions in which a young man should show impatience. And yet the cunning dishes which Mr. Ogilvie, who had a certain pride in his club, though it was only one of the junior institutions, had placed before his friend, met with but scanty curiosity: Macleod would rather have handed questions of cookery over to his cousin Janet. Nor did he pay much heed to his companion's sage advice as to the sort of club he should have himself proposed at, with a view to getting elected in a dozen or fifteen years. A young man is apt to let his life at forty shift for itself.
"You seem very anxious to see Miss White again," said Mr. Ogilvie, with a slight smile.
"I wish to make all the friends I can while I am in London," said Macleod. "What shall I do in this howling wilderness when you go back to Aldershot?"
"I don't think Miss Gertrude White will be of much use to you. Colonel Ross may be. Or Lord Beauregard. But you cannot expect young ladies to take you about."
"No?" said Macleod, gravely; "that is a great pity."
Mr. Ogilvie, who, with all his knowledge of the world, and of wines and cookery, and women, and what not, had sometimes an uneasy consciousness that his companion was laughing at him, here proposed that they should have a cigar before walking up to the Piccadilly Theatre; but as it was now ten minutes to eight, Macleod resolutely refused. He begged to be considered a country person, anxious to see the piece from the beginning. And so they put on their light top-coats over their evening dress and walked up to the theatre.
A distant sound of music, an odor of escaped gas, a perilous descent of a corkscrew staircase, a drawing aside of heavy curtains, and then a blaze of yellow light shining within this circular building, on its red satin and gilt plaster, and on the spacious picture of a blue Italian lake, with peacocks on the wide stone terraces. The noise at first was bewildering. The leader of the orchestra was sawing away at his violin as savagely as if he were calling on his company to rush up and seize a battery of guns. What was the melody that was being banged about by the trombones, and blared aloud by the shrill cornets, and sawed across by the infuriated violins? "When the heart of a man is oppressed with care." The cure was never insisted on with such an angry vehemence.
Recovering from the first shock of this fierce noise, Macleod began to look around this strange place, with its magical colors and its profusion of gilding; but nowhere in the half-empty stalls or behind the lace curtains of the boxes could he make out the visitor of whom he was in search. Perhaps she was not coming, then? Had he sacrificed the evening all for nothing? As regarded the theatre or the piece to be played, he had not the slightest interest in either. The building was very pretty, no doubt; but it was only, in effect, a superior sort of booth; and as for the trivial amusement of watching a number of people strut across a stage and declaim--or perhaps make fools of themselves to raise a laugh--that was not at all to his liking. It would have been different had he been able to talk to the girl who had shown such a strange interest in the gloomy stories of the Northern seas; perhaps, though he would scarcely have admitted this to himself, it might have been different if only he had been allowed to see her at some distance. But her being absent altogether? The more the seats in the stalls were filled--reducing the chances of her coming--the more empty the theatre seemed to become.
"At least we can go along to that house you mentioned," said he to his companion.
"Oh, don't be disappointed yet," said Ogilvie; "I know she will be here."
"With Mrs. Ross?"
"Mrs. Ross comes very often to this theatre. It is the correct thing to do. It is high art. All the people are raving about the chief actress; artists painting her portrait; poets writing sonnets about her different characters--no end of a fuss. And Mrs. Ross is very proud that so distinguished a person is her particular friend."
"Do you mean the actress?"
"Yes; and makes her the big feature of her parties at present; and society is rather inclined to make a pet of her, too--patronizing high art, don't you know. It's wonderful what you can do in that way. If a duke wants a clown to make fellows laugh after a Derby dinner, he gets him to his house and makes him dance; and if the papers find it out, it is only raising the moral status of the pantomine. Of course it is different with Mrs. Ross's friend: she is all right socially."
The garrulous boy was stopped by the sudden cessation of the music; and then the Italian lake and the peacocks disappeared into unknown regions above; and behold! in their place a spacious hall was revealed--not the bare and simple hall at Castle Dare with which Macleod was familiar, but a grand apartment, filled with old armor, and pictures, and cabinets, and showing glimpses of a balcony and fair gardens beyond. There were two figures in this hall, and they spoke--in the high and curious falsetto of the stage. Macleod paid no more heed to them than if they had been marionettes. For one thing, he could not follow their speech very well; but, in any case, what interest could he have in listening to this old lawyer explaining to the stout lady that the family affairs were grievously involved? He was still intently watching the new-comers who straggled in, singly or in pairs, to the stalls. When a slight motion of the white curtains showed that some one was entering one of the boxes, the corner of the box was regarded with as earnest a gaze as ever followed the movements of a herd of red deer in the misty chasms of Ben-an-Sloich. What concern had he in the troubles of this over-dressed and stout lady, who was bewailing her misfortunes and wringing her bejewelled hands?
Suddenly his heart seemed to stand still altogether. It was a light, glad laugh--the sound of a voice he knew--that seemed to have pierced him as with a rifle-ball; and at the same moment from the green shimmer of foliage in the balcony there stepped into the glare of the hall a young girl with life, and laughter, and a merry carelessness in her face and eyes. She threw her arms around her mother's neck and kissed her. She bowed to the legal person. She flung her garden hat on to a couch, and got up on a chair to get fresh seed put in for her canary. It was all done so simply, and naturally, and gracefully that in an instant a fire of life and reality sprang into the whole of this sham thing. The woman was no longer a marionette, but the anguish-stricken mother of this gay and heedless girl. And when the daughter jumped down from the chair again--her canary on her finger--and when she came forward to pet, and caress, and remonstrate with her mother, and when the glare of the lights flashed on the merry eyes, and on the white teeth and laughing lips, there was no longer any doubt possible. Macleod's face was quite pale. He took the programme from Ogilvie's hand, and for a minute or two stared mechanically at the name of Miss Gertrude White, printed on the pink-tinted paper. He gave it him back without a word. Ogilvie only smiled; he was proud of the surprise he had planned.
And now the fancies and recollections that came rushing into Macleod's head were of a sufficiently chaotic and bewildering character. He tried to separate that grave, and gentle, and sensitive girl he had met at Prince's Gate from this gay madcap, and he could not at all succeed. His heart laughed with the laughter of this wild creature; he enjoyed the discomfiture and despair of the old lawyer as she stood before him twirling her garden hat by a solitary ribbon; and when the small, white fingers raised the canary to be kissed by the pouting lips, the action was more graceful than anything he had ever seen in the world. But where was the silent and serious girl who had listened with such rapt attention to his tales of passion and revenge, who seemed to have some mysterious longing for those gloomy shores he came from, who had sung with such exquisite pathos "A wee bird cam' to our ha' door?" Her cheek had turned white when she heard of the fate of the son of Maclean: surely that sensitive and vivid imagination could not belong to this audacious girl, with her laughing, and teasings, and demure coquetry?
Society had not been talking about the art of Mrs. Ross's _protegee_ for nothing; and that art soon made short work of Keith Macleod's doubts. The fair stranger he had met at Prince's Gate vanished into mist. Here was the real woman; and all the trumpery business of the theatre, that he would otherwise have regarded with indifference or contempt, became a real and living thing, insomuch that he followed the fortunes of this spoiled child with a breathless interest and a beating heart. The spell was on him. Oh, why should she be so proud to this poor lover, who stood so meekly before her? "Coquette, coquette" (Macleod could have cried to her), "the days are not always full of sunshine; life is not all youth, and beauty, and high spirits; you may come to repent of your pride and your cruelty." He had no jealousy against the poor youth who took his leave; he pitied him, but it was for her sake; he seemed to know that evil days were coming, when she would long for the solace of an honest man's love. And when the trouble came--as it speedily did--and when she stood bravely up at first to meet her fate, and when she broke down for a time, and buried her face in her hands, and cried with bitter sobs, the tears were running down his face. Could the merciful heavens see such grief, and let the wicked triumph? And why was there no man to succor her? Surely some times arise in which the old law is the good law, and a man will trust to his own right arm to put things straight in the world? To look at her! --could any man refuse? And now she rises and goes away, and all the glad summer-time and the sunshine have gone, and the cold wind shivers through the trees, and it breathes only of farewell. Farewell, O miserable one! the way is dark before you, and you are alone. Alone, and no man near to help.
Macleod was awakened from his trance. The act drop was let down; there was a stir throughout the theatre; young Ogilvie turned to him,-- "Don't you see who has come into that corner box up there?"
If he had told that Miss White, just come up from Prince's Gate, in her plain black dress and blue beads, had just arrived and was seated there, he would scarcely have been surprised. As it was, he looked up and saw Colonel Ross taking his seat, while the figure of a lady was partially visible behind the lace curtain.
"I wonder how often Mrs. Ross has seen this piece?" Ogilvie said. "And I think Colonel Ross is as profound a believer in Miss White as his wife is. Will you go up and see them now?"
"No," Macleod said, absently.
"I shall tell them," said the facetious boy as he rose and got hold of his crush hat, "that you are meditating a leap on to the stage to rescue the distressed damsel."
And then his conscience smote him.
"Mind you," said he, "I think it is awfully good myself. I can't pump up any enthusiasm for most things that people rave about, but I do think this girl is uncommonly clever. And then she always dresses like a lady."
With this high commendation, Lieutenant Ogilvie left, and made his way upstairs to Mrs. Ross's box. Apparently he was well received there, for he did not make his appearance again at the beginning of the next act, nor, indeed, until it was nearly over.
The dream-world opens again; and now it is a beautiful garden, close by the ruins of an old abbey, and fine ladies are walking about there. But what does he care for these marionettes uttering meaningless phrases? They have no more interest for him than the sham ruins, so long as that one bright, speaking, pathetic face is absent; and the story they are carrying forward is for him no story at all, for he takes no heed of its details in his anxious watching for her appearance. The sides of this garden are mysteriously divided: by which avenue shall she approach? Suddenly he hears the low voice--she comes nearer. Now let the world laugh again! But, alas! when she does appear, it is in the company of her lover, and it is only to bid him good-by. Why does the coward hind take her at her word? A stick, a stone, a wave of the cold sea, would be more responsive to that deep and tremulous voice, which has now no longer any of the art of a wilful coquetry about it, but is altogether as self-revealing as the generous abandonment of her eyes. The poor cipher! he is not the man to woo and win and carry off this noble woman, the unutterable soul surrender of whose look has the courage of despair in it. He bids her farewell. The tailor's dummy retires. And she? in her agony, is there no one to comfort her? They have demanded his sacrifice in the name of duty, and she has consented: ought not that to be enough to comfort her? then other people appear from other parts of the garden, and there is a Babel of tongues. He hears nothing; but he follows that sad face, until he could imagine that he listened to the throbbing of her aching heart.
And then, as the phantasms of the stage come and go, and fortune plays many pranks with these puppets, the piece draws near to an end. And now as it appears, everything is reversed, and it is the poor lover who is in grievous trouble, while she is restored to the proud position of her coquetries and wilful graces again, with all her friends smiling around her, and life lying fair before her. She meets him by accident. Suffering gives him a certain sort of dignity: but how is one to retain patience with the blindness of this insufferable ass? Don't you see, man--don't you see that she is waiting to throw herself into your arms? and you, you poor ninny, are giving yourself airs, and doing the grand heroic! And then the shy coquetry comes in again. The pathetic eyes are full of a grave compassion, if he must really never see her more. The cat plays with the poor mouse, and pretends that really the tender thing is gone away at last. He will take this half of a broken sixpence back: it was given in happier times. If ever he should marry, he will know that one far away prays for his happiness. And if--if these unwomanly tears--And suddenly the crass idiot discovers that she is laughing at him, and that she has secured him and bound him as completely as a fly fifty times wound round by a spider. The crash of applause that accompanied the lowering of the curtain stunned Macleod, who had not quite come back from dreamland. And then, amidst a confused roar the curtain was drawn a bit back, and she was led--timidly smiling, so that her eyes seemed to take in all the theatre at once--across the stage by that same poor fool of a lover; and she had two or three bouquets thrown her, notably one from Mrs. Ross's box. Then she disappeared, and the lights were lowered, and there was a dull shuffling of people getting their cloaks and hats and going away.
"Mrs. Ross wants to see you for a minute," Ogilvie said.
"Yes," Macleod answered, absently.
"And we have time yet, if you like, to get into a hansom and drive along to Lady Beauregard's."
|
{
"id": "15587"
}
|
5
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IN PARK LANE.
|
They found Mrs. Ross and her husband waiting in the corridor above.
"Well, how did you like it?" she said.
He could not answer offhand. He was afraid he might say too much.
"It is like her singing," he stammered, at length. "I am not used to these things. I have never seen anything like that before."
"We shall soon have her in a better piece," Mrs. Ross said. "It is being written for her, That is very pretty, but slight. She is capable of greater things."
"She is capable of anything," said Macleod, simply, "if she can make you believe that such nonsense is real. I looked at the others. What did they say or do better than mere pictures in a book? But she--it is like magic."
"And did Mr. Ogilvie give you my message?" said Mrs. Ross. "My husband and I are going down to see a yacht race on the Thames to-morrow--we did not think of it till this evening any more than we expected to find you here. We came along to try to get Miss White to go with us. Will you join our little party?"
"Oh, yes, certainly--thank you very much," Macleod said, eagerly.
"Then you'd better meet us at Charing Cross, at ten sharp," Colonel Ross said; "so don't let Ogilvie keep you up too late with brandy and soda. A special will take us down."
"Brandy and soda!" Mr. Ogilvie exclaimed. "I am going to take him along for a few minutes to Lady Beauregard's--surely that is proper enough; and I have to get down by the 'cold-meat' train to Aldershot, so there won't be much brandy and soda for me. Shall we go now, Mrs. Ross?"
"I am waiting for an answer," Mrs. Ross said, looking along the corridor.
Was it possible, then, that she herself should bring the answer to this message that had been sent her--stepping out of the dream-world in which she had disappeared with her lover? And how would she look as she came along this narrow passage? Like the arch coquette of this land of gaslight and glowing colors? or like the pale, serious, proud girl who was fond of sketching the elm at Prince's Gate? A strange nervousness possessed him as he thought she might suddenly appear. He did not listen to the talk between Colonel Ross and Mr. Ogilvie. He did not notice that this small party was obviously regarded as being in the way by the attendants who were putting out the lights and shutting the doors of the boxes. Then a man came along.
"Miss White's compliments, ma'am, and she will be very pleased to meet you at Charing Cross at ten to-morrow."
"And Miss White is a very brave young lady to attempt anything of the kind," observed Mr. Ogilvie, confidentially, as they all went downstairs; "for if the yachts should get becalmed of the Nore, or off the Mouse, I wonder how Miss White will get back to London in time?"
"Oh, we shall take care of that," said Colonel Ross. "Unless there is a good steady breeze we sha'n't go at all; we shall spend a happy day at Rosherville, or have a look at the pictures at Greenwich. We sha'n't get Miss White into trouble. Good-bye, Ogilvie. Good-bye, Sir Keith. Remember ten o'clock, Charing Cross."
They stepped into their carriage and drove off.
"Now," said Macleod's companion, "are you tired?"
"Tired? I have done nothing all day."
"Shall we get into a hansom and drive along to Lady Beauregard's?"
"Certainly, if you like. I suppose they won't throw you over again?"
"Oh no," said Mr. Ogilvie, as he once more adventured his person in a cab. "And I can tell you it is much better--if you look at the thing philosophically, as poor wretches like you and me must--to drive to a crush in a hansom than in your own carriage. You don't worry about your horses being kept out in the rain; you can come away at any moment; there is no fussing with servants, and rows because your man has got out of the rank--HOLD UP!"
Whether it was the yell or not, the horse recovered from the slight stumble: and no harm befel the two daring travellers.
"These vehicles give one some excitement," Macleod said--or rather roared, for Piccadilly was full of carriages. "A squall in Loch Scridain is nothing to them."
"You'll get used to them in time," was the complacent answer.
They dismissed the hansom at the corner of Piccadilly, and walked up Park Lane, so as to avoid waiting in the rank of carriages. Macleod accompanied his companion meekly. All this scene around him--the flashing lights of the broughams, the brilliant windows, the stepping across the pavement of a strangely dressed dignitary from some foreign land--seemed but some other part of that dream from which he had not quite shaken himself free. His head was still full of the sorrows and coquetries of that wild-spirited heroine. Whither had she gone by this time--away into some strange valley of that unknown world?
He was better able than Mr. Ogilvie to push his way through the crowd of footmen who stood in two lines across the pavement in front of Beauregard House, watching for the first appearance of their master or mistress; but he resignedly followed, and found himself in the avenue leading clear up to the steps. They were not the only arrivals, late as the hour was. Two young girls, sisters, clad in cream-white silk with a gold fringe across their shoulders and sleeves, preceded them; and he was greatly pleased by the manner in which these young ladies, on meeting in the great hall an elderly lady who was presumably a person of some distinction, dropped a pretty little old-fashioned courtesy as they shook hands with her. He admired much less the more formal obeisance which he noticed a second after. A royal personage was leaving; and as this lady, who was dressed in mourning, and was leaning on the arm of a gentleman whose coat was blazing with diamond stars, and whose breast was barred across with a broad blue ribbon, came along the spacious landing at the foot of the wide staircase, she graciously extended her hand and said a few words to such of the ladies standing by as she knew. That deep bending of the knee he considered to be less pretty than the little courtesy performed by the young ladies in cream-white silk. He intended to mention this matter to his cousin Janet.
Then, as soon as the Princess had left the lane, through which she had passed closed up again, and the crowd became a confused mass of murmuring groups. Still meekly following, Macleod plunged into this throng, and presently found himself being introduced to Lady Beauregard--an amiable little woman who had been a great beauty in her time, and was pleasant enough to look at now. He passed on.
"Who is the man with the blue ribbon and the diamond star?" he asked of Mr. Ogilvie.
"That is Monsieur le Marquis himself--that is your host," the young gentleman replied--only Macleod could nor tell why he was obviously trying to repress some covert merriment.
"Didn't you hear?" Mr. Ogilvie said at length. "Don't you know what he called you? That man will be the death of me--for he's always at it. He announced you as Sir Thief Macleod--I will swear he did."
"I should not have thought he had so much historical knowledge," Macleod answered, gravely. "He must have been reading up about the clans."
At this moment Lady Beauregard, who had been receiving some other late visitors, came up and said she wished to introduce him to--he could not make out the name. He followed her. He was introduced to a stout elderly lady, who still had beautifully fine features, and a simple and calm air which rather impressed him. It is true that at first a thrill of compassion went through him; for he thought that some accident had befallen the poor lady's costume, and that it had fallen down a bit unknown to herself; but he soon perceived that most of the other women were dressed similarly, some of the younger ones, indeed, having the back of their dress open practically to the waist. He wondered what his mother and Janet would say to this style.
"Don't you think the Princess is looking pale?" he was asked.
"I thought she looked very pretty--I never saw her before," said he.
What next? That calm air was a trifle cold and distant. He did not know who the woman was, or where she lived, or whether her husband had any shooting, or a yacht, or a pack of hounds. What was he to say? He returned to the Princess.
"I only saw her as she was leaving," said he. "We came late. We were at the Piccadilly Theatre."
"Oh, you saw Miss Gertrude White," said this stout lady; and he was glad to see her eyes light up with some interest. "She is very clever, is she not--and so pretty and engaging. I wish I knew some one who knew her."
"I know some friends of hers," Macleod said, rather timidly.
"Oh, do you, really? Do you think she would give me a morning performance for my Fund?"
This lady seemed to take it so much for granted that every one must have heard of her Fund that he dared not confess his ignorance. But it was surely some charitable thing; and how could he doubt that Miss White would immediately respond to such an appeal?
"I should think that she would," said he, with a little hesitation; but at this moment some other claimant came forward, and he turned away to seek young Ogilvie once more.
"Ogilvie," said he, "who is that lady in the green satin?"
"The Duchess of Wexford."
"Has she a Fund?"
"A what?"
"A Fund--a charitable Fund of some sort."
"Oh, let me see. I think she is getting up money for a new training ship--turning the young ragamuffins about the streets into sailors, don't you know."
"Do you think Miss White would give a morning performance for that Fund?"
"Miss White! Miss White! Miss White!" said Lieutenant Ogilvie. "I think Miss White has got into your head."
"But the lady asked me."
"Well, I should say it was exactly the thing that Miss White would like to do--get mixed up with a whole string of duchesses and marchionessses--a capital advertisement--and it would be all the more distinguished if it was an amateur performance, and Miss Gertrude White the only professional admitted into the charmed circle."
"You are a very shrewd boy, Ogilvie," Macleod observed, "I don't know how you ever got so much wisdom into so small a head."
And indeed, as Lieutenant Ogilvie was returning to Aldershot by what he was pleased to call the cold-meat train, he continued to play the part of mentor for a time with great assiduity, until Macleod was fairly confused with the number of persons to whom he was introduced, and the remarks his friend made about them. What struck him most, perhaps, was the recurrence of old Highland or Scotch family names, borne by persons who were thoroughly English in their speech and ways. Fancy a Gordon who said "lock" for "loch;" a Mackenzie who had never seen the Lewis; a Mac Alpine who had never heard the proverb, "The hills, the Mac Alpines, and the devil came into the world at the same time!"
It was a pretty scene: and he was young, and eager, and curious, and he enjoyed it. After standing about for half an hour or so, he got into a corner from which, in quiet, he could better see the brilliant picture as a whole: the bright, harmonious dresses; the glimpses of beautiful eyes and blooming complexions; the masses of foxgloves which Lady Beauregard had as the only floral decoration of the evening; the pale canary-colored panels and silver-fluted columns of the walls; and over all the various candelabra, each bearing a cluster of sparkling and golden stars. But there was something wanted. Was it the noble and silver-haired lady of Castle Dare whom he looked for in vain in that brilliant crowd that moved and murmured before him? Or was it the friendly and familiar face of his cousin Janet, whose eyes he knew, would be filled with a constant wonder if she saw such diamonds, and silks and satins? Or was it that _ignis fatuus_--that treacherous and mocking fire--that might at any time glimmer in some suddenly presented face with a new surprise? Had she deceived him altogether down at Prince's Gate? Was her real nature that of the wayward, bright, mischievous, spoiled child whose very tenderness only prepared her unsuspecting victim for a merciless thrust? And yet the sound of her sobbing was still in his ears. A true woman's heart beat beneath that idle raillery: challenged boldly, would it not answer loyally and without fear?
Psychological puzzles were new to this son of the mountains; and it is no wonder that, long after he had bidden good bye to his friend Ogilvie, and as he sat thinking alone in his own room, with Oscar lying across the rug at his feet, his mind refused to be quieted. One picture after another presented itself to his imagination: the proud-souled enthusiast longing for the wild winter nights and the dark Atlantic seas; the pensive maiden, shuddering to hear the fierce story of Maclean of Lochbuy; the spoiled child, teasing her mamma and petting her canary; the wronged and weeping woman, her frame shaken with sobs, her hands clasped in despair; the artful and demure coquette, mocking her lover with her sentimental farewells. Which of them all was she? Which should he see in the morning? Or would she appear as some still more elusive vision, retreating before him as he advanced?
Had he asked himself, he would have said that these speculations were but the fruit of a natural curiosity. Why should he not be interested in finding out the real nature of this girl, whose acquaintance he had just made? It has been observed, however, that young gentlemen do not always betray this frantic devotion to pyschological inquiry when the subject of it, instead of being a fascinating maiden of twenty, is a homely-featured lady of fifty.
Time passed; another cigar was lit; the blue light outside was becoming silvery; and yet the problem remained unsolved. A fire of impatience and restlessness was burning in his heart; a din as of brazen instruments--what was the air the furious orchestra played? --was in his ears; sleep or rest was out of the question.
"Oscar!" he called. "Oscar, my lad, let us go out!"
When he stealthily went downstairs, and opened the door and passed into the street, behold! the new day was shining abroad--and how cold, and still, and silent it was after the hot glare and whirl of that bewildering night! No living thing was visible. A fresh, sweet air stirred the leaves of the trees and bushes in St. James's Square. There was a pale lemon-yellow glow in the sky, and the long, empty thoroughfare of Pall Mall seemed coldly white.
Was this a somnambulist, then, who wandered idly along through the silent streets, apparently seeing nothing of the closed doors and the shuttered windows on either hand? A Policeman, standing at the corner of Waterloo Place, stared at the apparition--at the twin apparition, for this tall young gentleman with the light top-coat thrown over his evening dress was accompanied by a beautiful collie that kept close to his heels. There was a solitary four-wheeled cab at the foot of the Haymarket; but the man had got inside and was doubtless asleep. The embankment? --with the young trees stirring in the still morning air; and the broad bosom of the river catching the gathering glow of the skys. He leaned on the gray stone parapet, and looked out on the placid waters of the stream.
Placid, indeed, they were as they went flowing quietly by; and the young day promised to be bright enough; and why should there be aught but peace and goodwill upon earth toward all men and women? Surely there was no call for any unrest, or fear, or foreboding? The still and shining morning was but emblematic of his life--if only he knew, and were content. And indeed he looked contented enough, as he wandered on, breathing the cool freshness of the air, and with a warmer light from the east now touching from time to time his sun-tanned face. He went up to Covent Garden--for mere curiosity's sake. He walked along Piccadilly, and thought the elms in the Green Park looked more beautiful than ever. When he returned to his rooms he was of opinion that it was scarcely worth while to go to bed; and so he changed his clothes, and called for breakfast as soon as some one was up. In a short time--after his newspaper had been read--he would have to go down to Charing Cross.
What of this morning walk? Perhaps it was unimportant enough. Only, in after-times, he once or twice thought of it; and very clearly indeed he could see himself standing there in the early light, looking out on the shining waters of the river. They say that when you see yourself too vividly--when you imagine that you yourself are standing before yourself--that is one of the signs of madness.
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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6
|
A SUMMER DAY ON THE THAMES.
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It occurred to him as he walked down to the station--perhaps he went early on the chance of finding her there alone--that he ought seriously to study the features of this girl's face; for was there not a great deal of character to be learned, or guessed at, that way? He had but the vaguest notion of what she was really like. He knew that her teeth were pearly white when she smiled, and that the rippling golden-brown hair lay rather low on a calm and thoughtful forehead; but he had a less distinct impression that her nose was perhaps the least thing _retrousse_; and as to her eyes? They might be blue, gray, or green, but one thing he was sure of was that they could speak more than was ever uttered by any speech. He knew, besides, that she had an exquisite figure: perhaps it was the fact that her shoulders were a trifle squarer than is common with women that made her look somewhat taller than she really was.
He would confirm or correct these vague impressions. And as the chances were that they would spend a whole long day together, he would have abundant opportunity of getting to know something about the character and disposition of this new acquaintance, so that she should no longer be to him a puzzling and distracting will-o'-the-wisp. What had he come to London for but to improve his knowledge of men and of women, and to see what was going on in the larger world? And so this earnest student walked down to the station.
There were a good many people about, mostly in groups chatting with each other; but he recognized no one. Perhaps he was looking out for Colonel and Mrs. Ross; perhaps for a slender figure in black, with blue beads; at all events, he was gazing somewhat vacantly around when some one turned close by him. Then his heart stood still for a second. The sudden light that sprang to her face when she recognized him blinded him. Was it to be always so? Was she always to come upon him in a flash, as it were? What chance had the poor student of fulfilling his patient task when, on his approach, he was sure to be met by this surprise of the parted lips, and sudden smile, and bright look? He was far too bewildered to examine the outline of her nose or the curve of the exquisitely short upper lip.
But the plain truth was that there was no extravagant joy at all in Miss White's face, but a very slight and perhaps pleased surprise; and she was not in the least embarrassed.
"Are you looking for Mrs. Ross," said she, "like myself?"
"Yes," said he; and then he found himself exceedingly anxious to say a great deal to her, without knowing where to begin. She had surprised him too much--as usual. She was so different from what he had been dreaming about. Here was no one of the imaginary creatures that had risen before his mind during the stillness of the night. Even the pale dreamer in black and blue beads was gone. He found before him (as far as he could make out) a quiet, bright-faced, self-possessed girl, clad in a light and cool costume of white, with bits of black velvet about it; and her white gloves and sunshade, and the white silver chain round her slender waist, were important features in the picture she presented. How could this eager student of character get rid of the distressing trivialities? All night long he had been dreaming of beautiful sentiments and conflicting emotions: now his first thought was that he had never seen any costume so delightfully cool, and clear, and summer-like. To look at her was to think of a mountain spring, icy cold even in the sunshine.
"I always come early," said she, in the most matter-of-fact way. "I cannot bear hurry in catching a train."
Of course not. How could any one associate rattling cabs, and excited porters, and frantic mobs with this serene creature, who seemed to have been wafted to Charing Cross on a cloud? And if he had had his will, there would have been no special train to disturb her repose. She would have embarked in a noble barge, and lain upon couches of swans-down, and ample awnings of silk would have sheltered her from the sun, while the beautiful craft floated away down the river, its crimson hangings here and there just touching the rippling waters.
"Ought we to take tickets?"
That was what she actually said; but what those eloquent, innocent eyes seemed to say was, "_Can you read what we have to tell you? Don't you know what a simple and confiding soul appeals to you? --clear as the daylight in its truth. Cannot you look through us and see the trusting, tender soul within? _" "Perhaps we had better wait for Colonel Ross," said he; and there was a little pronoun in this sentence that he would like to have repeated. It was a friendly word. It established a sort of secret companionship. It is the proud privilege of a man to know all about railway tickets; but he rather preferred this association with her helpless innocence and ignorance.
"I had no idea you were coming to-day. I rather like those surprise parties. Mrs. Ross never thought of going until last evening, she says. Oh, by the way, I saw you in the theatre last evening."
He almost started. He had quite forgotten that this self-possessed, clear-eyed, pale girl was the madcap coquette whose caprices and griefs had alternately fascinated and moved him on the previous evening.
"Oh indeed," he stammered. "It was a great pleasure to me--and a surprise. Lieutenant Ogilvie played a trick on me. He did not tell me before we went that--that you were to appear."
She looked amused.
"You did not know, then, when we met at Mrs. Ross's that I was engaged at the Piccadilly Theatre?"
"Not in the least," he said, earnestly, as if he wished her distinctly to understand that he could not have imagined such a thing to be possible.
"You should have let me send you a box. We have another piece in rehearsal. Perhaps you will come to see that."
Now if these few sentences, uttered by those two young people in the noisy railway station, be taken by themselves and regarded, they will be found to consist of the dullest commonplace. No two strangers in all that crowd could have addressed each other in a more indifferent fashion. But the trivial nothings which the mouth utters may become possessed of awful import when accompanied by the language of the eyes; and the poor commonplace sentences may be taken up and translated so that they shall stand written across the memory in letters of flashing sunlight and the colors of June. " _Ought we to take tickets? _" There was not much poetry in the phrase but she lifted her eyes just then.
And now Colonel Ross and his wife appeared, accompanied by the only other friend they could get at such short notice to join this scratch party--a demure little old lady who had a very large house on Campden Hill which everybody coveted. They were just in time to get comfortably seated in the spacious saloon carriage that had been reserved for them. The train slowly glided out of the station, and then began to rattle away from the midst of London. Glimpses of a keener blue began to appear. The gardens were green with the foliage of the early summer; martins swept across the still pools, a spot of white when they got into the shadow. And Miss White would have as many windows open as possible, so that the sweet June air swept right through the long carriage.
And was she not a very child in her enjoyment of this sudden escape into the country? The rapid motion, the silvery light, the sweet air, the glimpses of orchards, and farm-houses, and millstreams--all were a delight to her; and although she talked in a delicate, half-reserved, shy way with that low voice of hers, still there was plenty of vivacity and gladness in her eyes. They drove from Gravesend station to the river-side. They passed through the crowd waiting to see the yachts start. They got on board the steamer; and at the very instant that Macleod stepped from the gangway on to the deck, the military band on board, by some strange coincidence, struck up "A Highland lad my love was born." Mrs. Ross laughed, and wondered whether the band-master had recognized her husband.
And now they turned to the river; and there were the narrow and shapely cutters, with their tall spars, and their pennons fluttering in the sunlight. They lay in two tiers across the river, four in each tier, the first row consisting of small forty-tonners, the more stately craft behind. A brisk northeasterly wind was blowing, causing the bosom of the river to flash in ripples of light. Boats of every size and shape moved up and down and across the stream. The sudden firing of a gun caused some movement among the red-capped mariners of the four yachts in front.
"They are standing by the main halyards," said Colonel Ross to his women-folk. "Now watch for the next signal."
Another gun was fired; and all of a sudden there was a rattling of blocks and chains, and the four mainsails slowly rose, and the flapping jibs were run out. The bows drifted round: which would get way on her first? But now there was a wild uproar of voices. The boom end of one of the yachts had caught one of the stays of her companion, and both were brought up head to wind. Cutter No. 3 took advantage of the mishap to sail through the lee of both her enemies, and got clear away, with the sunlight shining full on her bellying canvas. But there was no time to watch the further adventures of the forty-tonners. Here and closer at hand were the larger craft, and high up in the rigging were the mites of men, ready to drop into the air, clinging on to the halyards. The gun is fired. Down they come, swinging in the air; and the moment they have reached the deck they are off and up the ratlines again, again to drop into the air until the gaff is high hoisted, the peak swinging this way and that, and the gray folds of the mainsail lazily flapping in the wind. The steamer begins to roar. The yachts fall away from their moorings, and one by one the sails fill out to the fresh breeze. And now all is silence and an easy gliding motion, for the eight competitors have all started away, and the steamer is smoothly following them.
"How beautiful they are! --like splendid swans," Miss White said: she had a glass in her hand, but did not use it, for as yet the stately fleet was near enough.
"A swan has a body," said Macleod. "These things seem to me to be all wings. It is all canvas, and no hull."
And, indeed, when the large top-sails and big jibs came to be set, it certainly seemed as if there was nothing below to steady this vast extent of canvas. Macleod was astonished. He could not believe that people were so reckless as to go out in boats like that.
"If they were up in our part of the world," said he, "a puff of wind from the Gribun Cliffs would send the whole fleet to the bottom."
"They know better than to try," Colonel Ross said, "Those yachts are admirably suited for the Thames; and Thames yachting is a very nice thing. It is very close to London. You can take a day's fresh air when you like, without going all the way to Cowes. You can get back to town in time to dine."
"I hope so," said Miss White, with emphasis.
"Oh, you need not be afraid," her host said, laughing. "They only go round the Nore; and with this steady breeze they ought to be back early in the afternoon. My dear Miss White, we sha'n't allow you to disappoint the British public."
"So I may abandon myself to complete idleness without concern?"
"Most certainly."
And it was an enjoyable sort of idleness. The river was full of life and animation as they glided along; fitful shadows and bursts of sunshine crossed the foliage and pasture-lands of the flat shores; the yellow surface of the stream was broken with gleams of silver; and always, when this somewhat tame, and peaceful, and pretty landscape tended to become monotonous, they had on this side or that the spectacle of one of those tall and beautiful yachts rounding on a new tack or creeping steadily up on one of her opponents. They had a sweepstakes, of course, and Macleod drew the favorite. But then he proceeded to explain to Miss White that the handicapping by means of time allowances made the choice of a favorite a mere matter of guesswork; that the fouling at the start was of but little moment: and that on the whole she ought to exchange yachts with him.
"But if the chances are all equal, why should your yacht be better than mine?" said she.
The argument was unanswerable; but she took the favorite for all that, because he wished her to do so; and she tendered him in return the bit of folded paper with the name of a rival yacht on it. It had been in her purse for a minute or two. It was scented when she handed it to him.
"I should like to go to the Mediterranean in one of those beautiful yachts," she said, looking away across the troubled waters, "and lie and dream under the blue skies. I should want no other occupation than that: that would be real idleness, with a breath of wind now and then to temper the heat; and an awning over the deck; and a lot of books. Life would go by like a dream."
Her eyes were distant and pensive. To fold the bits of paper, she had taken off her gloves: he regarded the small white hands, with the blue veins and the pink, almond-shaped nails. She was right. That was the proper sort of existence for one so fine and pale, and perfect even to the finger-tips. Rose Leaf--Rose Leaf--what faint wind will carry you away to the south?
At this moment the band struck up a lively air. What was it?
"O this is no my ain lassie, Fair though the lassie be."
"You are in great favor, to-day, Hugh," Mrs. Ross said to her husband. "You will have to ask the band-master to lunch with us."
But this sharp alternative of a well-known air had sent Macleod's thoughts flying away northward, to scenes far different from these flat shores, and to a sort of boating very different from this summer sailing. Janet, too: what was she thinking of--far away in Castle Dare? Of the wild morning on which she insisted on crossing to one of the Freshnist islands, because of the sick child of a shepherd there; and of the open herring smack, and she sitting on the ballast stones; and of the fierce gale of wind and rain that hid the island from their sight; and of her landing, drenched to the skin, and with the salt-water running from her hair and down her face?
"Now for lunch," said Colonel Ross; and they went below.
The bright little saloon was decorated with flowers; the colored glass on the table looked pretty enough; here was a pleasant break in the monotony of the day. It was an occasion, too, for assiduous helpfulness, and gentle inquiries, and patient attention. They forgot about the various chances of the yachts. They could not at once have remembered the name of the favorite. And there was a good deal of laughter and pleasant chatting, while the band overhead--heard through the open skylight--still played, "O this is no my ain lassie, Kind though the lassie be."
And behold! when they went up on deck again they had got ahead of all the yachts, and were past the forts at the mouth of the Medway, and were out on an open space of yellowish-green water that showed where the tide of the sea met the current of the river. And away down there in the south, a long spur of land ran out at the horizon, and the sea immediately under was still and glassy, so that the neck of land seemed projected into the sky--a sort of gigantic razor-fish suspended in the silvery clouds. Then, to give the yachts time to overtake them, they steamed over to a mighty ironclad that lay at anchor there; and as they came near her vast black bulk they lowered their flag, and the band played "Rule, Britannia." The salute was returned; the officer on the high quarterdeck raised his cap; they steamed on.
In due course of time they reached the Nore lightship, and there they lay and drifted about until the yachts should come up. Long distances now separated that summer fleet; but as they came along, lying well over before the brisk breeze, it was obvious that the spaces of time between the combatants Would not be great. And is not this Miss White's vessel, the favorite in the betting, that comes sheering through the water, with white foam at her bows? Surely she is more than her time allowance ahead? And on this tack will she get clear round the ruddy little lightship, or is there not a danger of her carrying off a bowsprit? With what an ease and majesty she comes along, scarcely dipping to the slight summer waves, while they on board notice that she has put out her long spinnaker boom, ready to hoist a great ballooner as soon as she is round the lightship and running home before the wind. The speed at which she cuts the water is now visible enough as she obscures for a second or so the hull of the lightship. In another second she has sheered round; and then the great spinnaker bulges out with the breeze, and away she goes up the river again. Chronometers are in request. It is only a matter of fifty seconds that the nearest rival, now coming sweeping along, has to make up. But what is this that happens just as the enemy has got round the Nore? There is a cry of "Man overboard!" The spinnaker boom has caught the careless skipper and pitched him clean into the plashing waters, where he floats about, not as yet certain, probably, what course his vessel will take. She at once brings her head up to wind and puts about; but meanwhile a small boat from the lightship has picked up the unhappy skipper, and is now pulling hard to strike the course of the yacht on her new tack. In another minute or two he is on board again; and away she goes for home.
"I think you have won the sweepstakes, Miss White," Macleod said. "Your enemy has lost eight minutes."
She was not thinking of sweepstakes. She seemed to have been greatly frightened by the accident.
"It would have been so dreadful to see a man drowned before your eyes--in the midst of a mere holiday excursion."
"Drowned?" he cried. "There? If a sailor lets himself get drowned in this water, with all these boats about, he deserves it."
"But there are many sailors who cannot swim at all."
"More shame for them," said he.
"Why, Sir Keith," said Mrs. Ross, laughing, "do you think that all people have been brought up to an amphibious life like yourself? I suppose in your country, what with the rain and the mist, you seldom know whether you are on sea or shore."
"That is quite true," said he, gravely. "And the children are all born with fins. And we can hear the mermaids singing all day long. And when we want to go anywhere, we get on the back of a dolphin."
But he looked at Gertrude White. What would she say about that far land that she had shown such a deep interest in? There was no raillery at all in her low voice as she spoke.
"I can very well understand," she said, "how the people there fancied they heard the mermaids singing--amidst so much mystery, and with the awfulness of the sea around them."
"But we have had living singers," said Macleod, "and that among the Macleods, too. The most famous of all the song-writers of the Western Highlands was Mary Macleod, that was born in Harris--Mairi Nighean Alasdair ruaidh, they called her, that is, Mary, the daughter of Red Alister. Macleod of Dunvegan, he wished her not to make any more songs; but she could not cease the making of songs. And there was another Macleod--Fionaghal, they called her, that is the Fair Stranger. I do not know why they called her the Fair Stranger--perhaps she came to the Highlands from some distant place. And I think if you were going among the people there at this very day, they would call you the Fair Stranger."
He spoke quite naturally and thoughtlessly: his eyes met hers only for a second; he did not notice the soft touch of pink that suffused the delicately tinted cheek.
"What did you say was the name of that mysterious stranger?" asked Mrs. Ross--"that poetess from unknown lands?"
"Fionaghal," he answered.
She turned to her husband.
"Hugh," she said, "let me introduce you to our mysterious guest. This is Fionaghal--this is the Fair Stranger from the islands--this is the poetess whose melodies the mermaids have picked up. If she only had a harp, now--with sea-weed hanging from it--and an oval mirror--" The booming of a gun told them that the last yacht had rounded the lightship. The band struck up a lively air, and presently the steamer was steaming off in the wake of the procession of yachts. There was now no more fear that Miss White should be late. The breeze had kept up well, and had now shifted a point to the east, so that the yachts, with their great ballooners, were running pretty well before the wind. The lazy abandonment of the day became more complete than ever. Careless talk and laughter; an easy curiosity about the fortunes of the race; tea in the saloon, with the making up of two bouquets of white roses, sweet-peas, fuchias, and ferns--the day passed lightly and swiftly enough. It was a summer day, full of pretty trifles. Macleod, surrendering to the fascination, began to wonder what life would be if it were all a show of June colors and a sound of dreamy music: for one thing, he could not imagine this sensitive, beautiful, pale, fine creature otherwise than as surrounded by an atmosphere of delicate attentions and pretty speeches, and sweet, low laughter.
They got into their special train again at Gravesend, and were whirled up to London. At Charing Cross he bade good-bye to Miss White, who was driven off by Mr. and Mrs. Ross along with their other guest. In the light of the clear June evening he walked rather absently up to his rooms.
There was a letter lying on the table. He seized it and opened it with gladness. It was from his cousin Janet, and the mere sight of it seemed to revive him like a gust of keen wind from the sea. What had she to say? About the grumbling of Donald, who seemed to have no more pride in his pipes, now the master was gone? About the anxiety of his mother over the reports of the keepers? About the upsetting of a dog-cart on the road to Lochbuy? He had half resolved to go to the theatre again that evening--getting, if possible, into some corner where he might pursue his profound pyschological investigations unseen--but now he thought he would not go. He would spend the evening in writing a long letter to his cousin, telling her and the mother about all the beautiful, fine, gay, summer life he had seen in London--so different from anything they could have seen in Fort William, or Inverness, or even in Edinburgh. After dinner he sat down to this agreeable task. What had he to write about except brilliant rooms, and beautiful flowers, and costumes such as would have made Janet's eyes wide--of all the delicate luxuries of life, and happy idleness, and the careless enjoyment of people whose only thought was about a new pleasure? He gave a minute description of all the places he had been to see--except the theatre. He mentioned the names of the people who had been kind to him; but he said nothing about Gertrude White.
Not that she was altogether absent from his thoughts. Sometimes his fancy fled away from the sheet of paper before him, and saw strange things. Was this Fionaghal the Fair Stranger--this maiden who had come over the seas to the dark shores of the isles--this king's daughter clad in white, with her yellow hair down to her waist and bands of gold on her wrists? And what does she sing to the lashing waves but songs of high courage, and triumph, and welcome to her brave lover coming home with plunder through the battling seas? Her lips are parted with her singing, but her glance is bold and keen: she has the spirit of a king's daughter, let her come from whence she may.
Or is Fionaghal the Fair Stranger this poorly dressed lass who boils the potatoes over the rude peat fire, and croons her songs of suffering and of the cruel drowning in the seas, so that from hut to hut they carry her songs, and the old wives' tears start afresh to think of their brave sons lost years and years ago?
Neither Fionaghal is she--this beautiful, pale woman, with her sweet, modern English speech, and her delicate, sensitive ways, and her hand that might be crushed like a rose leaf. There is a shimmer of summer around her; flowers lie in her lap; tender observances encompass and shelter her. Not for her the biting winds of the northern seas; but rather the soft luxurious idleness of placid waters, and blue skies, and shadowy shores ... _Rose Leaf! Rose Leaf! what faint wind will carry you away to the south? _
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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7
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THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.
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Late one night a carefully dressed elderly gentleman applied his latch-key to the door of a house in Bury Street, St. James's, and was about to enter without any great circumspection, when he was suddenly met by a white phantom, which threw him off his legs, and dashed outward into the street. The language that the elderly gentleman used, as he picked himself up, need not be repeated here. Suffice it to say that the white phantom was the dog Oscar, who had been shut in a minute before by his master, and who now, after one or two preliminary dashes up and down the street, very soon perceived the tall figure of Macleod, and made joyfully after him. But Oscar knew that he had acted wrongly, and was ashamed to show himself; so he quietly slunk along at his master's heels. The consequence of this was that the few loiterers about beheld the very unusual spectacle of a tall young gentleman walking down Bury Street and into King Street, dressed in full Highland costume, and followed by a white-and-lemon collie. No other person going to the Caledonian fancy-dress ball was so attended.
Macleod made his way through the carriages, crossed the Pavement, and entered the passage. Then he heard some scuffling behind, and he turned.
"Let alone my dog, you fellow!" said he, making a step forward, for the man had got hold of Oscar by the head, and was hauling him out.
"Is it your dog, sir?" said he.
Oscar himself answered by wrestling himself free and taking refuge by his master's legs, though he still looked guilty.
"Yes, he is my dog; and a nice fix he has got me into," said Macleod, standing aside to let the Empress Maria Theresa pass by in her resplendent costume. "I suppose I must walk home with him again. Oscar, Oscar, how dare you?"
"If you please, sir," said a juvenile voice behind him, "if Mr. ---- will let me, I will take the dog. I know where to tie him up."
Macleod turned. " _Co an so? _" said he, looking down at the chubby-faced boy in the kilts, who had his pipes under his arm. "Don't you know the Gaelic?"
"I am only learning," said the young musician. "Will I take the dog, sir?"
"March along, then, Phiobaire bhig!" Macleod said. "He will follow me, if he will not follow you."
Little Piper turned aside into a large hall which had been transformed into a sort of waiting-room; and here Macleod found himself in the presence of a considerable number of children, half of them girls, half of them boys, all dressed in tartan, and seated on the forms along the walls. The children, who were half asleep at this time of the night, woke up with sudden interest at sight of the beautiful collie; and at the same moment Little Piper explained to the gentleman who was in charge of these young ones that the dog had to be tied up somewhere, and that a small adjoining room would answer that purpose. The proposal was most courteously entertained. Macleod, Mr. ----, and Little Piper walked along to this side room, and there Oscar was properly secured.
"And I will get him some water, sir, if he wants it," said the boy in the kilts.
"Very well," Macleod said. "And I will give you my thanks for it; for that is all that a Highlander, and especially a piper, expects for a kindness. And I hope you will learn the Gaelic soon, my boy. And do you know 'Cumhadh na Cloinne?' No, it is too difficult for you; but I think if I had the chanter between my fingers myself, I could let you hear 'Cumhadh na Cloinne.'"
"I am sure John Maclean can play it," said the small piper.
"Who is he?"
The gentleman in charge of the youngsters explained that John Maclean was the eldest of the juvenile pipers, five others of whom were in attendance.
"I think," said Macleod, "that I am coming down in a little time to make the acquaintance of your young pipers, if you will let me."
He passed up the broad staircase and into the empty supper-room, from which a number of entrances showed him the strange scene being enacted in the larger hall. Who were these people who were moving to the sound of rapid music? A clown in a silken dress of many colors, with bells to his cap and wrists, stood at one of the doors. Macleod became his fellow-spectator of what was going forward. A beautiful Tyrolienne, in a dress of black, silver, and velvet, with her yellow hair hanging in two plaits down her back, passed into the room, accompanied by Charles the First in a large wig and cloak; and the next moment they were whirling along in the waltz, coming into innumerable collisions with all the celebrated folk who ever lived in history. And who were these gentlemen in the scarlet collars and cuffs, who but for these adornments would have been in ordinary evening dress? he made bold to ask the friendly clown, who was staring in a pensive manner at the rushing couples.
"They call it the Windsor uniform," said the clown. " _I_ think it mean. I sha'n't come in a fancy dress again, if stitching on a red collar will do."
At this moment the waltz came to an end, and the people began to walk up and down the spacious apartment. Macleod entered the throng to look about him. And soon he perceived, in one of the little stands at the side of the hall, the noble lady who had asked him to go to this assembly, and forthwith he made his way through the crowd to her. He was most graciously received.
"Shall I tell you a secret, Lady ----?" said he. "You know the children belonging to the charity; they are all below, and they are sitting doing nothing, and they are all very tired and half asleep. It is a shame to keep them there--" "But the Prince hasn't come yet; and they must be marched round: they show that we are not making fools of ourselves for nothing."
A sharper person than Macleod might have got in a pretty compliment here: for this lady was charmingly dressed as Flora Macdonald; but he merely said:-- "Very well; perhaps it is necessary. But I think I can get them some amusement, if you will only keep the director of them, that is, Mr. ----, out of the way. Now shall I send him to you? Will you talk to him?"
"What do you mean to do?"
"I want to give them a dance. Why should you have all the dancing up here?"
"Mind, I am not responsible. What shall I talk to him about?"
Macleod considered for a moment.
"Tell him that I will take the whole of the girls and boys to the Crystal Palace for a day, if it is permissable; and ask him what it will cost, and all about the arrangements."
"Seriously?"
"Yes. Why not? They can have a fine run in the grounds, and six pipers to play for them. I will ask them now whether they will go."
He left and went downstairs. He had seen but few people in the hall above whom he knew. He was not fond of dancing, though he knew the elaborate variations of the reel. And here was a bit of practical amusement.
"Oh, Mr. ----," said he, with great seriousness, "I am desired by Lady ---- to say that she would like to see you for a moment or two. She wishes to ask you some questions about your young people."
"The Prince may come at any moment," said Mr. ---- doubtfully.
"He won't be in such a hurry as all that, surely."
So the worthy man went upstairs; and the moment he was gone Macleod shut the door.
"Now, you piper boys!" he called aloud, "get up and play us a reel. We are going to have a dance. You are all asleep, I believe. Come, girls stand up. You that know the reel, you will keep to this end. Boys, come out. You that can dance a reel, come to this end; the others will soon pick it up. Now, piper boys, have you got the steam up? What can you give us, now? 'Monymusk?' or the 'Marquis of Huntley's Fling?' or 'Miss Johnston?' Nay, stay a bit. Don't you know 'Mrs. Macleod of Raasay?'"
"Yes," "Yes," "Yes," "Yes," "Yes," "Yes," came from the six pipers, all standing in a row, with the drones over their shoulders and the chanters in their fingers.
"Very well, then--off you go! Now, boys and girls, are all ready? Pipers, 'Mrs. Macleod of Raasay!'"
For a second there was a confused roaring on the long drones; then the shrill chanters broke clear away into the wild reel; and presently the boys and girls, who were at first laughingly shy and embarrassed, began to make such imitations of the reel figure, which they had seen often enough, as led to a vast amount of scrambling and jollity, if it was not particularly accurate. The most timid of the young ones soon picked up courage. Here and there one of the older boys gave a whoop that would have done justice to a wedding dance in a Highland barn.
"Put your lungs into it, pipers!" Macleod cried out, "Well played, boys! You are fit to play before a prince?"
The round cheeks of the boys were red with their blowing; they tapped their toes on the ground as proudly as if every one of them was a MacCruimin; the wild noise in this big, empty hall grew more furious than ever--when suddenly there was an awful silence. The pipers whipped the chanters from their mouths; the children, suddenly stopping in their merriment, cast one awestruck glance at the door, and then slunk back to their seats. They had observed not only Mr. ----, but also the Prince himself. Macleod was left standing alone in the middle of the floor.
"Sir Keith Macleod?" said his Royal Highness, with a smile.
Macleod bowed low.
"Lady ---- told me what you were about. I thought we could have had a peep unobserved, or we should not have broken in on the romp of the children."
"I think your Royal Highness could make amends for that," said Macleod.
There was an inquiring glance.
"If your Royal Highness would ask some one to see that each of the children has an orange, and a tart, and a shilling, it would be some compensation to them for being kept up so late."
"I think that might be done," said the Prince, as he turned to leave. "And I am glad to have made your acquaintance, although in--" "In the character of a dancing-master," said Macleod, gravely.
After having once more visited Oscar, in the company of Phiobaire bhig, Macleod went up again to the brilliantly lit hall; and here he found that a further number of his friends had arrived. Among them was young Ogilvie, in the tartan of the Ninety-third Highlanders; and very smart indeed the boy-officer looked in his uniform. Mrs. Ross was here too and she was busy in assisting to get up the Highland quadrille. When she asked Macleod if he would join in it, he answered by asking her to be his partner, as he would be ashamed to display his ignorance before an absolute stranger. Mrs. Ross most kindly undertook to pilot him through the not elaborate intricacies of the dance; and they were fortunate in having the set made up entirely of their own friends.
Then the procession of the children took place; and the fantastically dressed crowd formed a lane to let the homely-clad lads and lasses pass along, with the six small pipers proudly playing a march at their head.
He stopped the last of the children for a second.
"Have you got a tart, and an orange, and a shilling?"
"No, sir."
"I have got the word of a prince for it," he said to himself, as he went out of the room; "and they shall not go home with empty pockets."
As he was coming up the staircase again to the ball-room he was preceded by two figures that were calculated to attract any one's notice by the picturesqueness of their costume. The one stranger was apparently an old man, who was dressed in a Florentine costume of the fourteenth century--a cloak of sombre red, with a flat cap of black velvet, one long tail of which was thrown over the left shoulder and hung down behind. A silver collar hung from his neck across his breast: other ornament there was none. His companion, however, drew all eyes toward her as the two passed into the ball-room. She was dressed in imitation of Gainsborough's portrait of the Duchess of Devonshire; and her symmetrical figure and well-poised head admirably suited the long trained costume of blue satin, with its _fichu_ of white muslin, the bold coquettish hat and feathers, and the powdered puffs and curls that descended to her shoulders. She had a gay air with her, too. She bore her head proudly. The patches on her cheek seemed not half so black as the blackness of her eyes, so full of a dark mischievous light were they; and the redness of the lips--a trifle artificial, no doubt--as she smiled seemed to add to the glittering whiteness of her teeth. The proud, laughing, gay coquette: no wonder all eyes were for a moment turned to her, in envy or in admiration.
Macleod, following these two, and finding that his old companion, the pensive clown in cap and bells, was still at his post of observation at the door, remained there also for a minute or two, and noticed that among the first to recognize the two strangers was young Ogilvie, who with laughing surprise in his face, came forward to shake hands with them. Then there was some further speech; the band began to play a gentle and melodious waltz; the middle of the room cleared somewhat; and presently her Grace of Devonshire was whirled away by the young Highland officer, her broad-brimmed hat rather overshadowing him, notwithstanding the pronounced colors of his plaid. Macleod could not help following this couple with his eyes whithersoever they went. In any part of the rapidly moving crowd he could always make out that one figure; and once or twice as they passed him it seemed to him that the brilliant beauty, with her powdered hair, and her flashing bright eyes, and her merry lips, regarded him for an instant; and then he could have imagined that in a by-gone century-- "Sir Keith Macleod, I think?"
The old gentleman with the grave and scholarly cap of black velvet and the long cloak of sober red held out his hand. The folds of the velvet hanging down from the cap rather shadowed his face; but all the same Macleod instantly recognized him--fixing the recognition by means of the gold spectacles.
"Mr. White?" said he.
"I am more disguised than you are," the old gentleman said, with a smile. "It is a foolish notion of my daughter's; but she would have me come."
His daughter! Macleod turned in a bewildered way to that gay crowd under the brilliant lights.
"Was that Miss White?" said he.
"The Duchess of Devonshire. Didn't you recognize her? I am afraid she will be very tired to-morrow; but she would come."
He caught sight of her again--that woman, with the dark eyes full of fire, and the dashing air, and the audacious smile! He could have believed this old man to be mad. Or was he only the father of a witch, of an illusive _ignis fatuus_, of some mocking Ariel darting into a dozen shapes to make fools of the poor simple souls of earth?
"No," he stammered, "I--I did not recognize her. I thought the lady who came with you had intensely dark eyes."
"She is said to be very clever in making up," her father said, coolly and sententiously. "It is a part of her art that is not to be despised. It is quite as important as a gesture or a tone of voice in creating the illusion at which she aims. I do not know whether actresses, as a rule, are careless about it, or only clumsy; but they rarely succeed in making their appearance homogeneous. A trifle too much here, a trifle too little there, and the illusion is spoiled. Then you see a painted woman--not the character she is presenting. Did you observe my daughter's eyebrows?"
"No, sir, I did not," said Macleod, humbly.
"Here she comes. Look at them."
But how could he look at her eyebrows, or at any trick of making up, when the whole face, with its new excitement of color, its parted lips and lambent eyes, was throwing its fascination upon him? She came forward laughing, and yet with a certain shyness. He would fain have turned away.
The Highlanders are superstitious. Did he fear being bewitched? Or what was it that threw a certain coldness over his manner? The fact of her having danced with young Ogilvie? Or the ugly reference made by her father to her eyebrows? He had greatly admired this painted stranger when he thought she was a stranger; he seemed less to admire the artistic make-up of Miss Gertrude White.
The merry Duchess, playing her part admirably, charmed all eyes but his; and yet she was so kind as to devote herself to her father and him, refusing invitations to dance, and chatting to them--with those brilliant lips smiling--about the various features of the gay scene before them. Macleod avoided looking at her face.
"What a bonny boy your friend Mr. Ogilvie is!" said she, glancing across the room.
He did not answer.
"But he does not look much of a soldier," she continued. "I don't think I should be afraid of him if I were a man."
He answered, somewhat distantly:-- "It is not safe to judge that way, especially of any one of Highland blood. If there is fighting in his blood, he will fight when the proper time comes. And we have a good Gaelic saying--it has a great deal of meaning in it, that saying--'_You do not know what sword is in the scabbard until it is drawn. _'" "What did you say was the proverb?" she asked; and for second her eyes met his; but she immediately withdrew them startled by the cold austerity of his look. "' _You do not know what sword is in the scabbard until it is drawn_,'" said he, carelessly. "There is a good deal of meaning in it."
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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8
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LAUREL COTTAGE.
|
A small, quaint, old-fashioned house in South Bank, Regent's Park; two maidens in white in the open veranda; around them the abundant foliage of June, unruffled by any breeze; and down at the foot of the steep garden the still canal, its surface mirroring the soft translucent greens of the trees and bushes above, and the gaudier colors of a barge lying moored on the northern side. The elder of the two girls is seated in a rocking-chair; she appears to have been reading, for her right hand, hanging down, still holds a thin MS. book covered with coarse brown paper. The younger is lying at her feet, with her head thrown back in her sister's lap, and her face turned up to the clear June skies. There are some roses about this veranda, and the still air is sweet with them.
"And of all the parts you ever played in," she says, "which one did you like the best Gerty?"
"This one," is the gentle answer.
"What one?"
"Being at home with you and papa, and having no bother at all, and nothing to think of."
"I don't believe it," says the other, with the brutal frankness of thirteen. "You couldn't live without the theatre, Gerty--and the newspapers talking about you--and people praising you--and bouquets--" "Couldn't I?" says Miss White, with a smile, as she gently lays her hand on her sister's curls.
"No," continues the wise young lady. "And besides, this pretty, quiet life would not last. You would have to give up playing that part. Papa is getting very old now; and he often talks about what may happen to us. And you know, Gerty, that though it is very nice for sisters to say they will never and never leave each other, it doesn't come off, does it? There is only one thing I see for you--and that is to get married."
"Indeed!"
It is easy to fence with a child's prattle. She might have amused herself by encouraging this chatterbox to go through the list of their acquaintances, and pick out a goodly choice of suitors. She might have encouraged her to give expression to her profound views of the chances and troubles of life, and the safeguards that timid maidens may seek. But she suddenly said, in a highly matter-of-fact manner:-- "What you say is quite true, Carry, and I've thought of it several times. It is a very bad thing for an actress to be left without a father or husband, or brother, as her ostensible guardian. People are always glad to hear stories--and to make them--about actresses. You would be no good at all, Carry--" "Very well, then," the younger sister said, promptly, "you've got to get married. And to a rich man, too; who will buy you a theatre, and let you do what you like in it."
Miss Gertrude White, whatever she may have thought of this speech, was bound to rebuke the shockingly mercenary ring in it.
"For shame, Carry! Do you think people marry from such motives as that?"
"I don't know," said Carry; but she had, at least, guessed.
"I should like my husband to have money, certainly," Miss White said, frankly; and here she flung the MS. book from her on to a neighboring chair. "I should like to be able to refuse parts that did not suit me. I should like to be able to take just such engagements as I chose. I should like to go to Paris for a whole year, and study hard--" "Your husband might not wish you to remain an actress," said Miss Carry.
"Then he would never be my husband," the elder sister said, with decision. "I have not worked hard for nothing. Just when I begin to think I can do something--when I think I can get beyond those coquettish, drawing-room, simpering parts that people run after now--just when the very name of Mrs. Siddons, or Rachael, or any of the great actresses makes my heart jump--when I have ambition and a fair chance, and all that--do you think I am to give the whole thing up, and sink quietly into the position of Mrs. Brown or Mrs. Smith, who is a very nice lady, no doubt, and very respectable, and lives a quiet and orderly life, with no greater excitement than scheming to get big people to go to her garden parties?"
She certainly seemed very clear on that point.
"I don't see that men are so ready to give up their professions, when they marry, in order to devote themselves to domestic life, even when they have plenty of money. Why should all the sacrifice be on the side of the woman? But I know if I have to choose between my art and a husband, I shall continue to do without a husband."
Miss Carry had risen, and put one arm round her sister's neck, while with the other she stroked the soft brown hair over the smooth forehead.
"And it shall not be taken away from its pretty theatre, it sha'n't!" said she, pettingly; "and it shall not be asked to go away with any great ugly Bluebeard, and be shut up in a lonely house--" "Go away, Carry," said she, releasing herself. "I wonder why you began talking such nonsense. What do you know about all those things?"
"Oh! very well," said the child, turning away with a pout; and she pulled a rose and began to take its petals off, one by one, with her lips. "Perhaps I don't know. Perhaps I haven't studied your manoeuvres on the stage, Miss Gertrude White. Perhaps I never saw the newspapers declaring that it was all so very natural and life-like." She flung two or three rose petals at her sister. "I believe you're the biggest flirt that ever lived, Gerty. You could make any man you liked marry you in ten minutes."
"I wish I could manage to have certain schoolgirls whipped and sent to bed."
At this moment there appeared at the open French window an elderly woman of Flemish features and extraordinary breadth of bust.
"Shall I put dressing in the salad, miss?" she said, with scarcely any trace of foreign accent.
"Not yet, Marie," said Miss White. "I will make the dressing first. Bring me a large plate, and the cruet-stand, and a spoon and fork, and some salt."
Now when these things had been brought, and when Miss White had sat about preparing this salad dressing in a highly scientific manner, a strange thing occurred. Her sister seemed to have been attacked by a sudden fit of madness. She had caught up a light shawl, which she extended from hand to hand, as if she were dancing with some one, and then she proceeded to execute a slow waltz in this circumscribed space, humming the improvised music in a mystical and rhythmical manner. And what were these dark utterances that the inspired one gave forth, as she glanced from time to time at her sister and the plate? " _Oh, a Highland lad my love was born--and the Lowland laws he held in scorn--_" "Carry, don't make a fool of yourself!" said the other flushing angrily.
Carry flung her imaginary partner aside.
"There is no use making any pretence," said she, sharply. "You know quite well why you are making that salad dressing."
"Did you never see me make salad dressing before?" said the other, quite as sharply.
"You know it is simply because Sir Keith Macleod is coming to lunch. I forgot all about it. Oh, and that's why you had the clean curtains put up yesterday?"
What else had this precocious brain ferreted out?
"Yes, and that's why you bought papa a new necktie," continued the tormenter; and then she added, triumphantly, "_But he hasn't put it on this morning, ha--Gerty? _" A calm and dignified silence is the best answer to the fiendishness of thirteen. Miss White went on with the making of the salad-dressing. She was considered very clever at it. Her father had taught her: but he never had the patience to carry out his own precepts. Besides, brute force is not wanted for the work: what you want is the self-denying assiduity and the dexterous light-handedness of a woman.
A smart young maid-servant, very trimly dressed, made her appearance.
"Sir Keith Macleod, miss," said she.
"Oh, Gerty, you're caught!" muttered the fiend.
But Miss White was equal to the occasion. The small white fingers plied the fork without a tremor.
"Ask him to step this way, please," she said.
And then the subtle imagination of this demon of thirteen jumped to another conclusion.
"Oh, Gerty, you want to show him that you are a good housekeeper--that you can make salad--" But the imp was silenced by the appearance of Macleod himself. He looked tall as he came through the small drawing-room. When he came out onto the balcony the languid air of the place seemed to acquire a fresh and brisk vitality: he had a bright smile and a resonant voice.
"I have taken the liberty of bringing you a little present, Miss White--no, it is a large present--that reached me this morning," said he. "I want you to see one of our Highland salmon. He is a splendid fellow--twenty-six pounds four ounces, my landlady says. My cousin Janet sent him to me."
"Oh, but, Sir Keith, we cannot rob you," Miss White said, as she still demurely plied her fork. "If there is any special virtue in a Highland salmon, it will be best appreciated by yourself, rather than by those who don't know."
"The fact is," said he, "people are so kind to me that I scarcely ever am allowed to dine at my lodgings; and you know the salmon should be cooked at once."
Miss Carry had been making a face behind his back to annoy her sister. She now came forward and said, with a charming innocence in her eyes:-- "I don't think you can have it cooked for luncheon, Gerty, for that would look too much like bringing your tea in your pocket, and getting hot water for twopence. Wouldn't it?"
Macleod turned and regarded this new-comer with an unmistakable "Who is this?" --"_Co an so? _"--in his air.
"Oh, that is my sister Carry, Sir Keith," said Miss White. "I forgot you had not seen her."
"How do you do?" said he, in a kindly way; and for a second he put his hand on the light curls as her father might have done. "I suppose you like having holidays?"
From that moment she became his deadly enemy. To be patted on the head, as if she were a child, an infant--and that in the presence of the sister whom she had just been lecturing.
"Yes, thank you," said she, with a splendid dignity, as she proudly walked off. She went into the small lobby leading to the door. She called to the little maid-servant. She looked at a certain long bag made of matting which lay there, some bits of grass sticking out of one end. "Jane, take this thing down to the cellar at once! The whole house smells of it."
Meanwhile Miss White had carried her salad dressing in to Marie, and had gone out again to the veranda where Macleod was seated. He was charmed with the dreamy stillness and silence of the place, with the hanging foliage all around, and the colors in the steep gardens, and the still waters below.
"I don't see how it is," said he, "but you seem to have much more open houses here than we have. Our houses in the North look cold, and hard, and bare. We should laugh if we saw a place like this up with us; it seems to me a sort of a toy place out of a picture--from Switzerland or some such country. Here you are in the open air, with your own little world around you, and nobody to see you; you might live all your life here, and know nothing about the storm crossing the Atlantic, and the wars in Europe, if only you gave up the newspapers."
"Yes, it is very pretty and quiet," said she, and the small fingers pulled to pieces one of the rose leaves that Carry had thrown at her. "But you know one is never satisfied anywhere. If I were to tell you the longing I have to see the very places you describe as being so desolate--But perhaps papa will take me there some day."
"I hope so," said he; "but I would not call them desolate. They are terrible at times, and they are lonely, and they make you think. But they are beautiful too, with a sort of splendid beauty and grandeur that goes very near making you miserable.... I cannot describe it. You will see for yourself."
Here a bell rang, and at the same moment Mr. White made his appearance.
"How do you do, Sir Keith? Luncheon is ready, my dear--luncheon is ready--luncheon is ready."
He kept muttering to himself as he led the way. They entered a small dining-room, and here, if Macleod had ever heard of actresses having little time to give to domestic affairs, he must have been struck by the exceeding neatness and brightness of everything on the table and around it. The snow-white cover; the brilliant glass and spoons; the carefully arranged, if tiny, bouquets; and the precision with which the smart little maiden-servant, the only attendant, waited--all these things showed a household well managed. Nay, this iced claret-cup--was it not of her own composition? --and a pleasanter beverage he had never drank.
But she seemed to pay little attention to these matters, for she kept glancing at her father, who, as he addressed Macleod from time to time, was obviously nervous and harassed about something. At last she said,-- "Papa, what is the matter with you? Has anything gone wrong this morning?"
"Oh, my dear child," said he, "don't speak of it. It is my memory--I fear my memory is going. But we will not trouble our guest about it. I think you were saying, Sir Keith, that you had seen the latest additions to the National Gallery--" "But what is it, papa?" his daughter insisted.
"My dear, my dear, I know I have the lines somewhere; and Lord ---- says that the very first jug fired at the new pottery he is helping shall have these lines on it, and be kept for himself. I know I have both the Spanish original and the English translation somewhere; and all the morning I have been hunting and hunting--for only one line. I think I know the other three,-- 'Old wine to drink. Old wrongs let sink, * * * * Old friends in need.'
It is the third line that has escaped me--dear, dear me! I fear my brain is going."
"But I will hunt for it, papa," said she; "I will get the lines for you. Don't you trouble."
"No, no, no, child," said he, with somewhat of a pompous air. "You have this new character to study. You must not allow any trouble to disturb the serenity of your mind while you are so engaged. You must give your heart and soul to it, Gerty; you must forget yourself; you must abandon yourself to it, and let it grow up in your mind until the conception is so perfect that there are no traces of the manner of its production left."
He certainly was addressing his daughter, but somehow the formal phrases suggested that he was speaking for the benefit of the stranger. The prim old gentleman continued; "That is the only way. Art demands absolute self-forgetfulness. You must give yourself to it in complete surrender. People may not know the difference; but the true artist seeks only to be true to himself. You produce the perfect flower; they are not to know of the anxious care--of the agony of tears, perhaps you have spent on it. But then your whole mind must be given to it; there must be no distracting cares; I will look for the missing lines myself."
"I am quite sure, papa," said Miss Carry, spitefully, "that she was far more anxious about these cutlets than about her new part this morning. She was half a dozen times to the kitchen. I didn't see her reading the book much."
"The _res angustæ domi_," said the father, sententiously, "sometimes interfere, where people are not too well off. But that is necessary. What is not necessary is that Gerty should take my troubles over to herself, and disturb her formation of this new character, which ought to be growing up in her mind almost insensibly, until she herself will scarcely be aware how real it is. When she steps on to the stage she ought to be no more Gertrude White than you or I. The artist loses himself. He transfers his soul to his creation. His heart beats in another breast; he sees with other eyes. You will excuse me, Sir Keith, but I keep insisting on this point to my daughter. If she ever becomes a great artist, that will be the secret of her success. And she ought never to cease from cultivating the habit. She ought to be ready at any moment to project herself, as it were, into any character. She ought to practise so as to make of her own emotions an instrument that she can use at will. It is a great demand that art makes on the life of an artist. In fact, he ceases to live for himself. He becomes merely a medium. His most secret experiences are the property of the world at large, once they have been transfused and moulded by his personal skill."
And so he continued talking, apparently for the instruction of his daughter, but also giving his guest clearly to understand that Miss Gertrude White was not as other women but rather as one set apart for the high and inexorable sacrifice demanded by art. At the end of his lecture he abruptly asked Macleod if he had followed him. Yes, he had followed him, but in rather a bewildered way. Or had he some confused sense of self-reproach, in that he had distracted the contemplation of this pale and beautiful artist, and sent her downstairs to look after cutlets?
"It seems a little hard, sir," said Macleod to the old man, "that an artist is not to have any life of his or her own at all; that he or she should become merely a--a--a sort of ten-minutes' emotionalist."
It was not a bad phrase for a rude Highlander to have invented on the spur of the moment. But the fact was that some little personal feeling stung him into the speech. He was prepared to resent this tyranny of art. And if he now were to see some beautiful pale slave bound in these iron chains, and being exhibited for the amusement of an idle world, what would the fierce blood of the Macleods say to that debasement? He began to dislike this old man, with his cruel theories and his oracular speech. But he forbore to have further or any argument with him; for he remembered what the Highlanders call "the advice of the bell of Scoon"--"_The thing that concerns you not meddle not with. _"
|
{
"id": "15587"
}
|
9
|
THE PRINCESS RIGHINN.
|
The people who lived in this land of summer, and sunshine, and flowers--had they no cares at all? He went out into the garden with these two girls; and they were like two young fawns in their careless play. Miss Carry, indeed, seemed bent on tantalizing him by the manner in which she petted and teased and caressed her sister--scolding her, quarrelling with her, and kissing her all at once. The grave, gentle, forbearing manner in which the elder sister bore all this was beautiful to see. And then her sudden concern and pity when the wild Miss Carry had succeeded in scratching her finger with the thorn of a rose-bush! It was the tiniest of scratches: and all the blood that appeared was about the size of a pin-head. But Miss White must needs tear up her dainty little pocket-handkerchief, and bind that grievous wound, and condole with the poor victim as though she were suffering untold agonies. It was a pretty sort of idleness. It seemed to harmonize with this still, beautiful summer day, and the soft green foliage around, and the still air that was sweet with the scent of the flowers of the lime-trees. They say that the Gaelic word for the lower regions _ifrin_, is derived from _i bhuirn_, the island of incessant rain. To a Highlander, therefore must not this land of perpetual summer and sunshine have seemed to be heaven itself?
And even the malicious Carry relented for a moment.
"You said you were going to the Zoological Gardens," she said.
"Yes," he answered, "I am. I have seen everything I want to see in London but that."
"Because Gerty and I might walk across the Park with you, and show you the way."
"I very much wish you would," said he, "if you have nothing better to do."
"I will see if papa does not want me," said Miss White, calmly. She might just as well be walking in Regent's Park as in this small garden.
Presently the three of them set out.
"I am glad of any excuse," she said, with a smile, "for throwing aside that new part. It seems to me insufferably stupid. It is very hard that you should be expected to make a character look natural when the words you have to speak are such as no human being would use in any circumstance whatever."
Oddly enough, he never heard her make even the slightest reference to her profession without experiencing a sharp twinge of annoyance. He did not stay to ask himself why this should be so. Ordinarily he simply made haste to change the subject.
"Then why should you take the part at all?" said he, bluntly.
"Once you have given yourself up to a particular calling--you must accept its little annoyances," she said, frankly. "I cannot have everything my own way. I have been very fortunate in other respects. I never had to go through the drudgery of the provinces, though they say that is the best school possible for an actress. And I am sure the money and the care papa has spent on my training--you see, he had no son to send to college. I think he is far more anxious about my succeeding than I am myself."
"But you have succeeded," said Macleod. It was, indeed, the least he could say, with all his dislike of the subject.
"Oh, I do not call that success," said she, simply. "That is merely pleasing people by showing them little scenes from their own drawing-rooms transferred to the stage. They like it because it is pretty and familiar. And people pretend to be very cynical at present--they like things with 'no nonsense about them;' and I suppose this son of comedy is the natural reaction from the rant of the melodrama. Still, if you happen to be ambitious--or perhaps it is mere vanity? --if you would like to try what is in you--" "Gerty wants to be a Mrs. Siddons: that's it," said Miss Carry, promptly.
Talking to an actress about her profession, and not having a word of compliment to say? Instead, he praised the noble elms and chestnuts of the Park, the broad white lake, the flowers, the avenues. He was greatly interested by the whizzing by overhead of a brace of duck.
"I suppose you are very fond of animals?" Miss White said.
"I am indeed," said he, suddenly brightening up. "And up at our place I give them all a chance. I don't allow a single weasel or hawk to be killed, though I have a great deal of trouble about it. But what is the result? I don't know whether there is such a thing as the balance of nature, or whether it is merely that the hawks and weasels and other vermin kill off the sickly birds: but I do know that we have less disease among our birds than I hear of anywhere else. I have sometimes shot a weasel, it is true, when I have run across him as he was hunting a rabbit--you cannot help doing that if you hear the rabbit squealing with fright long before the weasel is at him--but it is against my rule. I give them all a fair field and no favor. But there are two animals I put out of the list; I thought there was only one till this week--now there are two; and one of them I hate, the other I fear."
"Fear?" she said: the slight flash of surprise in her eyes was eloquent enough. But he did not notice it.
"Yes," said he, rather gloomily. "I suppose it is superstition, or you may have it in your blood; but the horror I have of the eyes of a snake--I cannot tell you of it. Perhaps I was frightened when I was a child--I cannot remember; or perhaps it was the stories of the old women. The serpent is very mysterious to the people in the Highlands: they have stories of watersnakes in the lochs: and if you get a nest of seven adders with one white one, you boil the white one, and the man who drinks the broth knows all things in heaven and earth. In the Lewis they call the serpent _righinn_, that is, '_a princess;_' and they say that the serpent is a princess bewitched. But that is from fear--it is a compliment--" "But surely there are no serpents to be afraid of in the Highlands?" said Miss White. She was looking rather curiously at him.
"No," said he, in the same gloomy way. "The adders run away from you if you are walking through the heather. If you tread on one, and he bites your boot, what then? He cannot hurt you. But suppose you are out after the deer, and you are crawling along the heather with your face to the ground, and all at once you see the two small eyes of an adder looking at you and close to you--" He shuddered slightly--perhaps it was only an expression of disgust.
"I have heard," he continued, "that in parts of Islay they used to be so bad that the farmers would set fire to the heather in a circle, and as the heather burned in and in you could see the snakes and adders twisting and curling in a great ball. We have not many with us. But one day John Begg, that is the schoolmaster, went behind a rock to get a light for his pipe; and he put his head close to the rock to be out of the wind; and then he thought he stirred something with his cap; and the next moment the adder fell on to his shoulder, and bit him in the neck. He was half mad with the fright; but I think the adder must have bitten the cap first and expended its poison; for the schoolmaster was only ill for about two days, and then there was no more of it. But just think of it--an adder getting to your neck--" "I would rather not think of it," she said, quickly. "What is the other animal--that you hate?"
"Oh!" he said, lightly, "that is a very different affair--that is a parrot that speaks. I was never shut up in the house with one till this week. My landlady's son brought her home one from the West Indies; and she put the cage in a window recess on my landing. At first it was a little amusing; but the constant yelp--it was too much for me. ' _Pritty poal! pritty poal! _' I did not mind so much; but when the ugly brute, with its beady eyes and its black snout, used to yelp, '_Come and kiz me! come and kiz me! _' I grew to hate it. And in the morning, too, how was one to sleep? I used to open my door and fling a boot at it; but that only served for a time. It began again."
"But you speak of it as having been there. What became of it?"
He glanced at her rather nervously--like a schoolboy--and laughed.
"Shall I tell you?" he said, rather shamefacedly. "The murder will be out sooner or later. It was this morning. I could stand it no longer. I had thrown both my boots at it; it was no use. I got up a third time, and went out. The window, that looks into a back yard, was open. Then I opened the parrot's cage. But the fool of an animal did not know what I meant--or it was afraid--and so I caught him by the back of the neck and flung him out. I don't know anything more about him."
"Could he fly?" said the big-eyed Carry, who had been quite interested in this tragic tale.
"I don't know," Macleod said, modestly. "There was no use asking him. All he could say was, '_Come and kiz me;_' and I got tired of that."
"Then you have murdered him!" said the elder sister in an awestricken voice; and she pretended to withdraw a bit from him. "I don't believe in the Macleods having become civilized, peaceable people. I believe they would have no hesitation in murdering any one that was in their way."
"Oh, Miss White," said he, in protest, "you must forget what I told you about the Macleods; and you must really believe they were no worse than the others of the same time. Now I was thinking of another story the other day, which I must tell you--" "Oh, pray, don't," she said, "if it is one of those terrible legends--" "But I must tell you," said he, "because it is about the Macdonalds; and I want to show you that we had not all the badness of those times. It was Donald Gorm Mor; and his nephew Hugh Macdonald, who was the heir to the chieftainship, he got a number of men to join him in a conspiracy to have his uncle murdered. The chief found it out, and forgave him. That was not like a Macleod," he admitted, "for I never heard of a Macleod of those days forgiving anybody. But again Hugh Macdonald engaged in a conspiracy; and then Donald Gorm Mor thought he would put an end to the nonsense. What did he do? He put his nephew into a deep and foul dungeon--so the story says--and left him without food or water for a whole day. Then there was salt beef lowered into the dungeon; and Macdonald he devoured the salt beef; for he was starving with hunger. Then they left him alone. But you can imagine the thirst of a man who has been eating salt beef, and who has had no water for a day or two. He was mad with thirst. Then they lowered a cup into the dungeon--you may imagine the eagerness with which the poor fellow saw it coming down to him--and how he caught it with both his hands. _But it was empty! _ And so, having made a fool of him in that way, they left him to die of thirst That was the Macdonalds, Miss White, not the Macleods."
"Then I am glad of Culloden," said she, with decision, "for destroying such a race of fiends."
"Oh, you must not say that," he protested, laughing. "We should have become quiet and respectable folks without Culloden. Even without Culloden we should have had penny newspapers all the same; and tourist boats from Oban to Iona. Indeed, you won't find quieter folks anywhere than the Macdonalds and Macleods are now."
"I don't know how far you are to be trusted," said she, pretending to look at him with some doubts.
Now they reached the gate of the gardens.
"Do let us go in, Gerty," said Miss Carry. "You know you always get hints for your dresses from the birds--you would never have thought of that flamingo pink and white if you had not been walking through here--" "I will go in for a while if you like, Carry," said she; and certainly Macleod was nothing loath.
There were but few people in the Gardens on this afternoon, for all the world was up at the Eton and Harrow cricket-match at Lord's, and there was little visible of 'Arry and his pipe. Macleod began to show more than a school boy's delight over the wonders of this strange place. That he was exceedingly fond of animals--always barring the two he had mentioned--was soon abundantly shown. He talked to them as though the mute inquiring eyes could understand him thoroughly. When he came to animals with which he was familiar in the North, he seemed to be renewing acquaintance with old friends--like himself, they were strangers in a strange land.
"Ah," said he to the splendid red deer, which was walking about the paddock with his velvety horns held proudly in the air, "what part of the Highlands have you come from? And wouldn't you like now a canter down the dry bed of a stream on the side of Ben-an-Sloich?"
The hind, with slow and gentle step, and with her nut-brown hide shining in the sun, came up to the bars, and regarded him with those large, clear, gray-green eyes--so different from the soft dark eyes of the roe--that had long eyelashes on the upper lid. He rubbed her nose.
"And wouldn't you rather be up on the heather, munching the young grass and drinking out of the burn?"
They went along to the great cage of the sea-eagles. The birds seemed to pay no heed to what was passing immediately around them. Ever and anon they jerked their heads into an attitude of attention, and the golden brown eye with its contracted pupil and stern upper lid, seemed to be throwing a keen glance over the immeasurable leagues of sea.
"Poor old chap!" he said to one perched high on an old stump, "wouldn't you like to have one sniff of a sea-breeze, and a look round for a sea-pyot or two? What do they give you here--dead fish, I suppose?"
The eagle raised its great wings and slowly flapped them once or twice, while it uttered a succession of shrill _yawps_.
"Oh yes," he said, "you could make yourself heard above the sound of the waves. And I think if any of the boys were after your eggs or your young ones, you could make short work of them with those big wings. Or would you like to have a battle-royal with a seal, and try whether you could pilot the seal in to the shore, or whether the seal would drag you and your fixed claws down to the bottom and drown you?"
There was a solitary kittiwake in a cage devoted to sea-birds, nearly all of which were foreigners.
"You poor little kittiwake," said he, "this is a sad place for you to be in. I think you would rather be out at Ru-Treshanish, even if it was blowing hard, and there was rain about. There was a dead whale came ashore there about a month ago; that would have been something like a feast for you."
"Why," said he, to his human companion, "if I had only known before! Whenever there was an hour or two with nothing to do, here was plenty of occupation. But I must not keep you too long, Miss White. I could remain here days and weeks."
"You will not go without looking in at the serpents," said she, with a slight smile.
He hesitated for a second.
"No," said he; "I think I will not go in to see them."
"But you must," said she, cruelly. "You will see they are not such terrible creatures when they are shut up in glass boxes."
He suffered himself to be led along to the reptile house; but he was silent. He entered the last of the three. He stood in the middle of the room, and looked around him in rather a strange way.
"Now, come and look at this splendid fellow," said Miss White, who, with her sister, was leaning over the rail. "Look at his splendid bars of color! Do you see the beautiful blue sheen on its scales?"
It was a huge anaconda, its body as thick as a man's leg, lying coiled up in a circle; its flat, ugly head reposing in the middle. He came a bit nearer. "Hideous!" was all he said. And then his eyes was fixed on the eyes of the animal--the lidless eyes, with their perpetual glassy stare. He had thought at first they were closed; but now he saw that that opaque yellow substance was covered by a glassy coating, while in the centre there was a small slit as if cut by a penknife. The great coils slowly expanded and fell again as the animal breathed; otherwise the fixed stare of those yellow eyes might have been taken for the stare of death.
"I don't think the anaconda is poisonous at all," said she, lightly.
"But if you were to meet that beast in a jungle," said he, "what difference would that make!"
He spoke reproachfully, as if she were luring him into some secret place to have him slain with poisonous fangs. He passed on from that case to the others unwillingly. The room was still. Most of the snakes would have seemed dead but for the malign stare of the beaded eyes. He seemed anxious to get out; the atmosphere of the place was hot and oppressive.
But just at the door there was a case some quick motion in which caught his eye, and despite himself he stopped to look. The inside of this glass box was alive with snakes--raising their heads in the air, slimily crawling over each other, the small black forked tongues shooting in and out, the black points of eyes glassily staring. And the object that had moved quickly was a wretched little yellow frog, that was not motionless in a dish of water, its eyes apparently starting out of its head with horror. A snake made its appearance over the edge of the dish. The shooting black tongue approached the head of the frog; and then the long, sinuous body glided along the edge of the dish again, the frog meanwhile being too paralyzed with fear to move. A second afterward the frog, apparently recovering, sprung clean out of the basin; but it was only to alight on the backs of two or three of the reptiles lying coiled up together. It made another spring, and got into a corner among some grass, But along that side of the case another of those small, flat, yellow marked heads was slowly creeping along, propelled by the squirming body; and again the frog made a sudden spring, this time leaping once more into the shallow water, where, it stood and panted, with its eyes dilated. And now a snake that had crawled up the side of the case put out its long neck as if to see whither it should proceed. There was nothing to lay hold of. The head swayed and twisted, the forked tongue shooting out; and at last the snake fell away from its hold, and splashed right into the basin of water on the top of the frog. There was a wild shooting this way and that--but Macleod did not see the end of it. He had uttered some slight exclamation, and got into the open air, as one being suffocated: and there were drops of perspiration on his forehead, and a trembling of horror and disgust had seized him. His two companions followed him out.
"I felt rather faint," said he, in a low voice--and he did not turn to look at them as he spoke--"the air is close in that room."
They moved away. He looked around--at the beautiful green of the trees, and the blue sky, and the sunlight on the path--God's world was getting to be more wholesome again, and the choking sensation of disgust was going from his throat. He seemed, however, rather anxious to get away from this place. There was a gate close by; he proposed they should go out by that. As he walked back with them to South Bank, they chatted about many of the animals--the two girls in especial being much interested in certain pheasants, whose colors of plumage they thought would look very pretty in a dress--but he never referred, either then or at any future time, to his visit to the reptile house. Nor did it occur to Miss White, in this idle conversation, to ask him whether his Highland blood had inherited any other qualities besides that instinctive and deadly horror of serpents.
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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10
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LAST NIGHTS.
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"Good-night, Macleod!" --"Good-night!" --"Good-night!" The various voices came from the top of a drag. They were addressed to one of two young men who stood on the steps of the Star and Garter--black fingers in the blaze of light. And now the people on the drag had finally ensconced themselves, and the ladies had drawn their ample cloaks more completely around their gay costumes, and the two grooms were ready to set free the heads of the leaders. "Good-night, Macleod!" Lord Beauregard called again; and then, with a little preliminary prancing of the leaders, away swung the big vehicle through the clear darkness of the sweet-scented summer night.
"It was awfully good-natured of Beauregard to bring six of your people down and take them back again," observed Lieutenant Ogilvie to his companion. "He wouldn't do it for most folks. He wouldn't do it for me. But then you have the grand air, Macleod. You seem to be conferring a favor when you get one."
"The people have been very kind to me," said Macleod, simply. "I do not know why. I wish I could take them all up to Castle Dare and entertain them as a prince could entertain people--" "I want to talk to you about that, Macleod," said his companion. "Shall we go upstairs again? I have left my hat and coat there."
They went upstairs, and entered a long chamber which had been formed by the throwing of two rooms into one. The one apartment had been used as a sort of withdrawing room; in the other stood the long banquet-table, still covered with bright-colored flowers, and dishes of fruit, and decanters and glasses. Ogilvie sat down, lit a cigar, and poured himself out some claret.
"Macleod," said he, "I am going to talk to you like a father. I hear you have been going on in a mad way. Surely you know that a batchelor coming up to London for a season, and being asked about by people who are precious glad to get unmarried men to their houses, is not expected to give these swell dinner parties? And then, it seems, you have been bringing down all your people in drags. What do those flowers cost you? I dare say this is Lafitte, now?"
"And if it is, why not drink it and say no more about it? I think they enjoyed themselves pretty well this evening--don't you, Ogilvie?"
"Yes, yes; but then, my dear fellow, the cost! You will say it is none of my business; but what would your decent, respectable mother say to all this extravagance?"
"Ah?" said Macleod, "that is just the thing; I should have more pleasure in my little dinner parties if only the mother and Janet were here to see. I think the table would look a good deal better if my mother was at the head of it. And the cost? --oh, I am only following out her instructions. She would not have people think that I was insensible to the kindness that has been shown me; and then we cannot ask all those good friends up to Castle Dare; it is an out-of-the-way place, and there are no flowers on the dining-table there."
He laughed as he looked at the beautiful things before him; they would look strange in the gaunt hall of Castle Dare.
"Why," said he, "I will tell you a secret, Ogilvie. You know my cousin Janet--she is the kindest-hearted of all the women I know--and when I was coming away she gave me £2000, just in case I should need it." " £2000!" exclaimed Ogilvie. "Did she think you were going to buy Westminster Abbey during the course of your holidays?" And then he looked at the table before him, and a new idea seemed to strike him. "You don't mean to say, Macleod, that it is your cousin's money--" Macleod's face flushed angrily. Had any other man made the suggestion, he would have received a tolerably sharp answer. But he only said to his old friend Ogilvie,-- "No, no, Ogilvie; we are not very rich folks; but we have not come to that yet. 'I'd sell my kilts, I'd sell my shoon,' as the song says, before I touched a farthing of Janet's money. But I had to take it from her so as not to offend her. It is wonderful, the anxiety and affection of women who live away out of the world like that. There was my mother, quite sure that something awful was going to happen to me, merely because I was going away for two or three months, And Janet--I suppose she knew that our family never was very good at saving money--she would have me take this little fortune of hers, just as if the old days were come back, and the son of the house was supposed to go to Paris to gamble away every penny."
"By the way, Macleod," said Ogilvie, "you have never gone to Paris, as you intended."
"No," said he, trying to balance three nectarines one on the top of the other, "I have not gone to Paris. I have made enough friends in London. I have had plenty to occupy the time. And now, Ogilvie," he added, brightly, "I am going in for my last frolic, before everybody has left London, and you must come to it, even if you have to go down by your cold-meat train again. You know Miss Rawlinson; you have seen her at Mrs. Ross's, no doubt. Very well; I met her first when we went down to the Thames yacht race, and afterwards we became great friends; and the dear little old lady already looks on me as if I were her son. And do you know what her proposal is? That she is to give me up her house and garden for a garden party, and I am to ask my friends; and it is to be a dance as well, for we shall ask the people to have supper at eight o'clock or so; and then we shall have a marquee--and the garden all lighted up--do you see? It is one of the largest gardens on Campden Hill; and the colored lamps hung on the trees will make it look very fine; and we shall have a band to play music for the dancers--" "It will cost you £200 or £300 at least," said Ogilvie, sharply.
"What then? You give your friends a pleasant evening, and you show them that you are not ungrateful," said Macleod.
Ogilvie began to ponder over this matter. The stories he had heard of Macleod's extravagant entertainments were true, then. Suddenly he looked up and said,-- "Is Miss White to be one of your guests?"
"I hope so," said he. "The theatre will be closed at the end of this week."
"I suppose you have been a good many times to the theatre."
"To the Piccadilly Theatre?"
"Yes."
"I have been only once to the Piccadilly Theatre--when you and I went together," said Macleod, coldly; and they spoke no more of that matter.
By and by they thought they might as well smoke outside, and so they went down and out upon the high and walled terrace overlooking the broad valley of the Thames. And now the moon had arisen in the south, and the winding river showed a pale gray among the black woods, and there was a silvery light on the stone parapet on which they leaned their arms. The night was mild and soft and clear, there was an intense silence around, but they heard the faint sound of oars far away--some boating party getting home through the dark shadows of the river-side trees.
"It is a beautiful life you have here in the south," Macleod said, after a time, "though I can imagine that the women enjoy it more than the men. It is natural for women to enjoy pretty colors, and flowers, and bright lights, and music; and I suppose it is the mild air that lets their eyes grow so big and clear. But the men--I should think they must get tired of doing nothing. They are rather melancholy, and their hands are white. I wonder they don't begin to hate Hyde Park, and kid gloves, and tight boots. Ogilvie," said he, suddenly, straightening himself up, "what do you say to the 12th? A few breathers over Ben-an-Sloich would put new lungs into you. I don't think you look quite so limp as most of the London men; but still you are not up to the mark. And then an occasional run out to Coll or Tiree in that old tub of ours, with a brisk sou'-wester blowing across--that would put some mettle into you. Mind you, you won't have any grand banquets at Castle Dare. I think it is hard on the poor old mother that she should have all the pinching, and none of the squandering; but women seem to have rather a liking for these sacrifices, and both she and Janet are very proud of the family name; I believe they would live on sea-weed for a year if only their representative in London could take Buckingham Palace for the season. And Hamish--don't you remember Hamish? --he will give you a hearty welcome to Dare, and he will tell you the truth about any salmon or stag you may kill, though he was never known to come within five pounds of the real weight of any big salmon I ever caught. Now then, what do you say?"
"Ah, it is all very well," said Lieutenant Ogilvie. "If we could all get what we want, there would scarcely be an officer in Aldershot Camp on the 12th of August. But I must say there are some capitally good fellows in our mess--and it isn't every one gets the chance you offer me--and there's none of the dog-in-the-manger feeling about them: in short. I do believe, Macleod, that I could get off for a week or so about the 20th."
"The 20th? So be it. Then you will have the blackcock added in."
"When do you leave?"
"On the 1st of August--the morning after my garden party. You must come to it, Ogilvie. Lady Beauregard has persuaded her husband to put off their going to Ireland for three days in order to come. And I have got old Admiral Maitland coming--with his stories of the press-gang, and of Nelson, and of the raids on the merchant-ships for officers for the navy. Did you know that Miss Rawlinson was an old sweetheart of his? He knew her when she lived in Jamaica with her father--several centuries ago you would think, judging by their stories. Her father got £28,000 from the government when his slaves were emancipated. I wish I could get the old admiral up to Dare--he and the mother would have some stories to tell, I think. But you don't like long journeys at ninety-two."
He was in a pleasant and talkative humor, this bright-faced and stalwart young fellow, with his proud, fine features and his careless air. One could easily see how these old folks had made a sort of a pet of him. But while he went on with this desultory chatting about the various people whom he had met, and the friendly invitations he had received, and the hopes he had formed of renewing his acquantainceship with this person and the next person, should chance bring him again to London soon, he never once mentioned the name of Miss Gertrude White, or referred to her family, or even to her public appearances, about which there was plenty of talk at this time. Yet Lieutenant Ogilvie, on his rare visits to London, had more than once heard Sir Keith Macleod's name mentioned in conjunction with that of the young actress whom society was pleased to regard with a special and unusual favor just then; and once or twice he, as Macleod's friend, had been archly questioned on the subject by some inquisitive lady, whose eyes asked more than her words. But Lieutenant Ogilvie was gravely discreet. He neither treated the matter with ridicule, nor, on the other hand, did he pretend to know more than he actually knew--which was literally nothing at all. For Macleod, who was, in ordinary circumstances, anything but a reserved or austere person, was on this subject strictly silent, evading questions with a proud and simple dignity that forbade the repetition of them. " _The thing that concerns you not, meddle not with:_" he observed the maxim himself, and expected others to do the like.
It was an early dinner they had had, after their stroll in Richmond Park, and it was a comparatively early train that Macleod and his friend now drove down to catch, after he had paid his bill. When they reached Waterloo Station it was not yet eleven o'clock; when he, having bade good-bye to Ogilvie, got to his rooms in Bary Street, it was but a few minutes after. He was joyfully welcomed by his faithful friend Oscar.
"You poor dog," said he, "here have we been enjoying ourselves all the day, and you have been in prison. Come, shall we go for a run?"
Oscar jumped up on him with a whine of delight; he knew what that taking up of the hat again meant. And then there was a silent stealing downstairs, and a slight, pardonable bark of joy in the hall, and a wild dash into the freedom of the narrow street when the door was opened. Then Oscar moderated his transports, and kept pretty close to his master as together they began to wander through the desert wilds of London.
Piccadilly? --Oscar had grown as expert in avoiding the rattling broughams and hansoms as the veriest mongrel that ever led a vagrant life in London streets. Berekely Square? --here there was comparative quiet, with the gas lamps shining up on the thick foliage of the maples. In Grosvenor Square he had a bit of a scamper; but there was no rabbit to hunt. In Oxford Street his master took him into a public-house and gave him a biscuit and a drink of water; after that his spirits rose a bit, and he began to range ahead in Baker Street. But did Oscar know any more than his master why they had taken this direction?
Still farther north; and now there were a good many trees about; and the moon, high in the heavens, touched the trembling foliage, and shone white on the front of the houses. Oscar was a friendly companion; but he could not be expected to notice that his master glanced somewhat nervously along South Bank when he had reached the entrance to that thoroughfare. Apparently the place was quite deserted; there was nothing visible but the walls, trees, and houses, one side in black shadow, the other shining cold and pale in the moonlight. After a moment's hesitation Macleod resumed his walk, though he seemed to tread more softly.
And now, in the perfect silence, he neared a certain house, though but little of it was visible over the wall and through the trees. Did he expect to see a light in one of those upper windows, which the drooping acacias did not altogether conceal. He walked quickly by, with his head averted. Oscar had got a good way in front, not doubting that his master was following him.
But Macleod, perhaps having mustered up further courage, stopped in his walk, and returned. This time he passed more slowly, and turned his head to the house, as if listening. There was no light in the windows; there was no sound at all; there was no motion but that of the trembling acacia leaves as the cold wind of the night stirred them. And then he passed over to the south side of the thoroughfare, and stood in the black shadow of a high wall; and Oscar came and looked up into his face.
A brougham rattled by; then there was utter stillness again; and the moonlight shone on the front of the small house; which was to all appearances as lifeless as the grave. Then, far away, twelve o'clock struck, and the sound seemed distant as the sound of a bell at sea in this intense quiet.
He was alone with the night, and with the dreams and fancies of the night. Would he, then, confess to himself that which he would confess to no other? Or was it merely some passing whim--some slight underchord of sentiment struck amidst the careless joy of a young man's holiday--that had led him up into the silent region of trees and moonlight? The scene around him was romantic enough, but he certainly had not the features of an anguish-stricken lover.
Again the silence of the night was broken by the rumbling of a cab that came along the road; and now, whatever may have been the fancy that brought him hither, he turned to leave, and Oscar joyfully bounded out into the road. But the cab, instead of continuing its route, stopped at the gate of the house he had been watching, and two young ladies stepped out. Fionaghal, the Fair Stranger, had not, then, been wandering in the enchanted land of dreams, but toiling home in a humble four-wheeler from the scene of her anxious labors? He would have slunk away rapidly but for an untoward accident. Oscar, ranging up and down, came upon an old friend, and instantly made acquaintance with her, on seeing which, Macleod, with deep vexation at his heart, but with a pleasant and careless face, had to walk along also.
"What an odd meeting!" said he. "I have been giving Oscar a run. I am glad to have a chance of bidding you good-night. You are not very tired, I hope."
"I am rather tired," said she; "but I have only two more nights, and then my holiday begins."
He shook hands with both sisters, and wished them good-night, and departed. As Miss Gertrude White went into her father's house she seemed rather grave.
"Gerty," said the younger sister, as she screwed up the gas, "wouldn't the name of Lady Macleod look well in a play-bill?"
The elder sister would not answer; but as she turned away there was a quick flush of color in her face--whether caused by anger or by a sudden revelation of her own thought it was impossible to say.
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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11
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A FLOWER.
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The many friends Macleod had made in the South--or rather those of them who had remained in town till the end of the season--showed an unwonted interest in this nondescript party of his; and it was at a comparatively early hour in the evening that the various groups of people began to show themselves in Miss Rawlinson's garden. That prim old lady, with her quick, bright ways, and her humorous little speeches, studiously kept herself in the background. It was Sir Keith Macleod who was the host. And when he remarked to her that he thought the most beautiful night of all the beautiful time he had spent in the South had been reserved for this very party, she replied--looking round the garden just as if she had been one of his guests--that it was a pretty scene. And it was a pretty scene. The last fire of the sunset was just touching the topmost branches of the trees. In the colder shade below, the banks and beds of flowers and the costumes of the ladies acquired a strange intensity of color. Then there was a band playing, and a good deal of chatting going on, and one old gentleman with a grizzled mustache humbly receiving lessons in lawn tennis from an imperious small maiden of ten. Macleod was here, there, and everywhere. The lanterns were to be lit while the people were in at supper. Lieutenant Ogilvie was directed to take in Lady Beauregard when the time arrived.
"You must take her in yourself, Macleod," said that properly constituted youth. "If you outrage the sacred laws of precedence--" "I mean to take Miss Rawlinson in to supper," said Macleod; "she is the oldest woman here, and I think, my best friend."
"I thought you might wish to give Miss White the place of honor," said Ogilvie, out of sheer impertinence; but Macleod went off to order the candles to be lit in the marquee, where supper was laid.
By and by he came out again. And now the twilight had drawn on apace; there was a cold, clear light in the skies, while at the same moment a red glow began to shine through the canvas of the long tent. He walked over to one little group who were seated on a garden chair.
"Well," said he, "I have got pretty nearly all my people together now, Mrs. Ross."
"But where is Gertrude White?" said Mrs. Ross; "surely she is to be here?"
"Oh yes, I think so," said he. "Her father and herself both promised to come. You know her holidays have begun now."
"It is a good thing for that girl," said Miss Rawlinson, in her quick, _staccato_ fashion, "that she has few holidays. Very good thing she has her work to mind. The way people run after her would turn any woman's head. The Grand D---- is said to have declared that she was one of the three prettiest women he saw in England: what can you expect if things like that get to a girl's ears?"
"But you know Gerty is quite unspoiled," said Mrs. Ross, warmly.
"Yes, so far," said the old lady, "So far she retains the courtesy of being hypocritical."
"Oh, Miss Rawlinson, I won't have you say such things of Gerty White!" Mrs. Ross protested. "You are a wicked old woman--isn't she Hugh?"
"I am saying it to her credit," continued the old lady, with much composure. "What I say is, that most pretty women who are much run after are flattered into frankness. When they are introduced to you, they don't take the trouble to conceal that they are quite indifferent to you. A plain woman will be decently civil, and will smile, and pretend she is pleased. A beauty--a recognized beauty--doesn't take the trouble to be hypocritical. Now Miss White does."
"It is an odd sort of compliment," said Colonel Ross, laughing. "What do you think of it Macleod?"
"These are too great refinements for my comprehension," said he, modestly. "I think if a pretty woman is uncivil to you, it is easy for you to turn on your heel and go away."
"I did not say uncivil--don't you go misrepresenting a poor old woman, Sir Keith. I said she is most likely to be flattered into being honest--into showing a stranger that she is quite indifferent, whereas a plain woman will try to make herself a little agreeable. Now a poor lone creature like myself likes to fancy that people are glad to see her, and Miss White pretends as much. It is very kind. By and by she will get spoiled like the rest, and then she will become honest. She will shake hands with me, and then turn off, as much as to say, 'Go away, you ugly old woman, for I can't be bothered with you, and I don't expect any money from you, and why should I pretend to like you?'"
All this was said in a half-jesting way; and it certainly did not at all represent--so far as Macleod had ever made out--the real opinions of her neighbors in the world held by this really kind and gentle old lady. But Macleod had noticed before that Miss Rawlinson never spoke with any great warmth about Miss Gertrude White's beauty, or her acting, or anything at all connected with her. At this very moment, when she was apparently praising the young lady, there was a bitter flavor about what she said. There may be jealousy between sixty-five and nineteen; and if this reflection occurred to Macleod, he no doubt assumed that Miss Rawlinson, if jealous at all, was jealous of Miss Gertrude White's influence over--Mrs. Ross.
"As for Miss White's father," continued the old lady, with a little laugh, "perhaps he believes in those sublime theories of art he is always preaching about. Perhaps he does. They are very fine. One result of them is that his daughter remains on the stage--and earns a handsome income--and he enjoys himself in picking up bits of curiosities."
"Now that is really unfair," said Mrs. Ross, seriously. "Mr. White is not a rich man, but he has some small means that render him quite independent of any income of his daughter's. Why, how did they live before they ever thought of letting her try her fortune on the stage? And the money he spent, when it was at last decided she should be carefully taught--" "Oh, very well," said Miss Rawlinson, with a smile; but she nodded her head ominously. If that old man was not actually living on his daughter's earnings, he had at least strangled his mother, or robbed the Bank of England, or done something or other. Miss Rawlinson was obviously not well disposed either to Mr. White or to his daughter.
At this very moment both these persons made their appearance, and certainly, as this slender and graceful figure, clad in a pale summer costume, came across the lawn, and as a smile of recognition lit up the intelligent fine face, these critics sitting there must have acknowledged that Gertrude White was a singularly pretty woman. And then the fascination of that low-toned voice! She began to explain to Macleod why they were so late: some trifling accident had happened to Carry. But as these simple, pathetic tones told him the story, his heart was filled with a great gentleness and pity towards that poor victim of misfortune. He was struck with remorse because he had sometimes thought harshly of the poor child on account of a mere occasional bit of pertness. His first message from the Highlands would be to her.
"O, Willie brew'd a peck o'maut," the band played merrily, as the gay company took their seats at the long banquet-table, Macleod leading in the prim old dame who had placed her house at his disposal. There was a blaze of light and color in this spacious marquee. Bands of scarlet took the place of oaken rafters; there were huge blocks of ice on the table, each set in a miniature lake that was filled with white water-lilies; there were masses of flowers and fruit from one end to the other; and by the side of each _menu_ lay a tiny nosegay, in the centre of which was a sprig of bell-heather. This last was a notion of Macleod's amiable hostess; she had made up those miniature bouquets herself. But she had been forestalled in the pretty compliment. Macleod had not seen much of Miss Gertrude White in the cold twilight outside. Now, in this blaze of yellow light, he turned his eyes to her, as she sat there demurely flirting with an old admiral of ninety-two, who was one of Macleod's special friends. And what was that flower she wore in her bosom--the sole piece of color in the costume of white? That was no sprig of blood-red bell-heather, but a bit of real heather--of the common ling; and it was set amidst a few leaves of juniper. Now, the juniper is the badge of the Clan Macleod. She wore it next her heart.
There was laughter, and wine, and merry talking.
"Last May a braw wooer," the band played now; but they scarcely listened.
"Where is your piper, Sir Keith?" said Lady Beauregard.
"At this moment," said he, "I should not wonder if he was down at the shore, waiting for me."
"You are going away quite soon, then?"
"To-morrow. But I don't wish to speak of it. I should like to-night to last forever."
Lady Beauregard was interrupted by her neighbor.
"What has pleased you, then, so much?" said his hostess, looking up at him. "London? Or the people in it? Or any one person in it?"
"Oh," he said, laughingly, "the whole thing. What is the use of dissecting? It is nothing but holiday making in this place. Now, Miss Rawlinson, are you brave? Won't you challenge the admiral to drink a glass of wine with you? And you must include his companion--just as they do at the city dinners--and I will join you too."
And so these old sweethearts drank to each other. And Macleod raised his glass too; and Miss White lowered her eyes, and perhaps flushed a little as she touched hers with her lips, for she had not often been asked to take a part in this old-fashioned ceremony. But that was not the only custom they revived that evening. After the banquet was over, and the ladies had got some light shawls and gone out into the mild summer night, and when the long marquee was cleared, and the band installed at the farther end, then there was a murmured talk of a minuet. Who could dance it? Should they try it?
"You know it?" said Macleod to Miss White.
"Yes," said she looking down.
"Will you be my partner?"
"With pleasure," she answered, but there was some little surprise in her voice which he at once detected.
"Oh," said he, "the mother taught me when I was a child. She and I used to have grand dances together. And Hamish he taught me the sword-dance."
"Do you know the sword-dance?" she said.
"Any one can know it," said he; "it is more difficult to do it. But at one time I could dance it with four of the thickest handled dirks instead of the two swords."
"I hope you will show us your skill to-night," she said, with a smile.
"Do you think any one can dance the sword-dance without the pipes?" said he, quite simply.
And now some of the younger people had made bold to try this minuet, and Macleod led his partner up to the head of the improvised ball-room, and the slow and graceful music began. That was a pretty sight for those walking outside in the garden. So warm was the night that the canvas of one side of the marquee had been removed, and those walking about in the dark outside could look into this gayly lighted place with the beautifully colored figures moving to the slow music. And as they thus walked along the gravel-paths, or under the trees, the stems of which were decorated with spirals of colored lamps, a new light arose in the south to shed a further magic over the scene. Almost red at first, the full moon cleared as it rose, until the trees and bushes were touched with a silver radiance, and the few people who walked about threw black shadows on the greensward and gravel. In an arbor at the farthest end of the garden a number of Chinese lanterns shed a dim colored light on a table and a few rocking-chairs. There were cigarettes on the table.
By and by from out of the brilliancy of the tent stepped Macleod and Fionaghal herself, she leaning on his arm, a light scarf thrown round her neck. She uttered a slight cry of surprise when she saw the picture this garden presented--the colored cups on the trees, the swinging lanterns, the broader sheen of the moonlight spreading over the foliage, and the lawn, and the walks.
"It is like fairyland!" she said.
They walked along the winding gravel-paths; and now that some familiar quadrille was being danced in that brilliant tent, there were fewer people out here in the moonlight.
"I should begin to believe that romance was possible," she said, with a smile, "if I often saw a beautiful scene like this. It is what we try to get in the theatre; but I see all the bare boards and the lime light--I don't have a chance of believing in it."
"Do you have a chance of believing in anything," said he, "on the stage?"
"I don't understand you," she said, gently; for she was sure he would not mean the rudeness that his words literally conveyed.
"And perhaps I cannot explain," said he. "But--but your father was talking the other day about your giving yourself up altogether to your art--living the lives of other people for the time being, forgetting yourself, sacrificing yourself, having no life of your own but that. What must the end of it be? --that you play with emotions and beliefs until you have no faith in any one--none left for yourself; it is only the material of your art. Would you not rather like to live your own life?"
He had spoken rather hesitatingly, and he was not at all sure that he had quite conveyed to her his meaning, though he had thought over the subject long enough and often enough to get his own impressions of it clear.
If she had been ten years older, and an experienced coquette, she would have said to herself, "_This man hates the stage because he is jealous of its hold on my life_," and she would have rejoiced over the inadvertent confession. But now these hesitating words of his seemed to have awakened some quick responsive thrill in her nature, for she suddenly said, with an earnestness that was not at all assumed: "Sometimes I have thought of that--it is so strange to hear my own doubts repeated. If I could choose my own life--yes, I would rather live that out than merely imagining the experiences of others. But what is one to do? You look around, and take the world as it is. Can anything be more trivial and disappointing? When you are Juliet in the balcony, or Rosalind in the forest, then you have some better feeling with you, if it is only for an hour or so."
"Yes," said he; "and you go on indulging in those doses of fictitious sentiment until--But I am afraid the night air is too cold for you. Shall we go back?"
She could not fail to notice the trace of bitterness, and subsequent coldness, with which he spoke. She knew that he must have been thinking deeply over this matter, and that it was no ordinary thing that caused him to speak with so much feeling. But, of course, when he proposed that they should return to the marquee, she consented. He could not expect her to stand there and defend her whole manner of life. Much less could he expect her to give up her profession merely because he had exercised his wits in getting up some fantastic theory about it. And she began to think that he had no right to talk to her in this bitter fashion.
When they had got half way back to the tent, he paused for a moment.
"I am going to ask a favor of you," he said, in a low voice. "I have spent a pleasant time in England, and I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for letting me become one of your friends. To-morrow morning I am going back home. I should like you to give me that flower--as some little token of remembrance."
The small fingers did not tremble at all as she took the flower from her dress. She presented it to him with a charming smile and without a word. What was the giving of a flower? There was a cart-load of roses in the tent.
But this flower she had worn next her heart.
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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12
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WHITE HEATHER.
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And now behold! the red flag flying from the summit of Castle Dare--a spot of brilliant color in this world of whirling mist and flashing sunlight. For there is half a gale blowing in from the Atlantic, and gusty clouds come sweeping over the islands, so that now the Dutchman, and now Fladda, and now Ulva disappears from sight, and then emerges into the sunlight again, dripping and shining after the bath, while ever and anon the huge promontory of Ru-Treshanish shows a gloomy purple far in the north. But the wind and the weather may do what they like to-day; for has not the word just come down from the hill that the smoke of the steamer has been made out in the south? and old Hamish is flying this way and that, fairly at his wits' end with excitement; and Janet Macleod has cast a last look at the decorations of heather and juniper in the great hall; while Lady Macleod, dressed in the most stately fashion, has declared that she is as able as the youngest of them to walk down to the point to welcome home her son.
"Ay, your leddyship, it is very bad," complains the distracted Hamish, "that it will be so rough a day this day, and Sir Keith not to come ashore in his own gig, but in a fishing-boat, and to come ashore at the fishing quay, too; but it is his own men will go out for him, and not the fishermen at all, though I am sure they will hef a dram whatever when Sir Keith comes ashore. And will you not tek the pony, your leddyship? for it is a long road to the quay."
"No, I will not take the pony, Hamish," said the tall, white-haired dame, "and it is not of much consequence what boat Sir Keith has, so long as he comes back to us. And now I think you had better go down to the quay yourself, and see that the cart is waiting and the boat ready."
But how could old Hamish go down to the quay? He was in his own person skipper, head keeper, steward, butler, and general major-domo, and ought on such a day as this to have been in half a dozen places at once. From the earliest morning he had been hurrying hither and thither, in his impatience making use of much voluble Gaelic. He had seen the yacht's crew in their new jersies. He had been round the kennels. He had got out a couple of bottles of the best claret that Castle Dare could afford. He had his master's letters arranged on the library table, and had given a final rub to the guns and rifles on the rack. He had even been down to the quay, swearing at the salmon-fishers for having so much lumber lying about the place where Sir Keith Macleod was to land. And if he was to go down to the quay now, how could he be sure that the ancient Christina, who was mistress of the kitchen as far as her husband Hamish would allow her to be, would remember all his instructions? And then the little granddaughter Christina, would she remember her part in the ceremony?
However, as Hamish could not be in six places at once, he decided to obey his mistress's directions, and went hurriedly off to the quay, overtaking on his way Donald the piper lad, who was apparelled in all his professional finery.
"And if ever you put wind in your pipes, you will put wind in your pipes this day, Donald," said he to the red-haired lad. "And I will tell you now what you will play when you come ashore from the steamer: it is the 'Farewell to Chubraltar' you will play."
"The 'Farewell to Gibraltar!'" said Donald, peevishly, for he was bound in honor to let no man interfere with his proper business. "It is a better march than that I will play, Hamish. It is the 'Heights of Alma,' that was made by Mr. Ross, the Queen's own piper; and will you tell me that the 'Heights of Alma' is not a better march than the 'Farewell to Gibraltar?'"
Hamish pretended to pay no heed to this impertinent boy. His eye was fixed on a distant black speck that was becoming more and more pronounced out there amidst the grays and greens of the windy and sunlit sea. Occasionally it disappeared altogether, as a cloud of rain swept across toward the giant cliffs of Mull, and then again it would appear, sharper and blacker than ever, while the masts and funnel were now visible as well as the hull. When Donald and his companion got down to the quay, they found the men already in the big boat, getting ready to hoist the huge brown lugsail; and there was a good deal of laughing and talking going on, perhaps in anticipation of the dram they were sure to get when their master returned to Castle Dare. Donald jumped down on the rude stone ballast, and made his way up to the bow; Hamish, who remained on shore, helped to shove her off; then the heavy lugsail was quickly hoisted, the sheet hauled tight; and presently the broad-beamed boat was ploughing its way through the rushing seas, with an occasional cloud of spray coming right over her from stem to stern. "Fhir a bhata," the men sung, until Donald struck in with his pipes, and the wild skirl of "The Barren Rocks of Aden" was a fitter sort of music to go with these sweeping winds and plunging seas.
And now we will board the steamer, where Keith Macleod is up on the bridge, occasionally using a glass, and again talking to the captain, who is beside him. First of all on board he had caught sight of the red flag floating over Castle Dare; and his heart had leaped up at that sign of welcome. Then he could make out the dark figures on the quay, and the hoisting of the lugsail, and the putting off of the boat. It was not a good day for observing things, for heavy clouds were quickly passing over, followed by bewildering gleams of a sort of watery sunlight; but as it happened, one of these sudden flashes chanced to light up a small plateau on the side of the hill above the quarry, just as the glass was directed on that point. Surely--surely--these two figures?
"Why, it is the mother--and Janet!" he cried.
He hastily gave the glass to his companion.
"Look!" said he. "Don't you think that is Lady Macleod and my cousin? What could have tempted the old lady to come away down there on such a squally day?"
"Oh yes, I think it is the ladies," said the captain; and then he added, with a friendly smile, "and I think it is to see you all the sooner, Sir Keith, that they have come down to the shore."
"Then," said he, "I must go down and get my gillie, and show him his future home."
He went below the hurricane deck to a corner in which Oscar was chained up. Beside the dog, sitting on a campstool, and wrapped round with a tartan plaid, was the person whom Macleod had doubtless referred to as his gillie. He was not a distinguished-looking attendant to be travelling with a Highland chieftain.
"Johnny, my man, come on deck now, and I will show you where you are going to live. You're all right now, aren't you? And you will be on the solid land again in about ten minutes."
Macleod's gillie rose--or, rather, got down--from the campstool, and showed himself to be a miserable, emaciated child of ten or eleven, with a perfectly colorless face, frightened gray eyes, and starved white hands. The contrast between the bronzed and bearded sailors--who were now hurrying about to receive the boat from Dare--and this pallid and shrunken scrap of humanity was striking; and when Macleod took his hand, and half led and half carried him up on deck, the look of terror that he directed on the plunging waters all around showed that he had not had much experience of the sea. Involuntarily he had grasped hold of Macleod's coat as if for protection.
"Now, Johnny, look right ahead. Do you see the big house on the cliffs over yonder?"
The child, still clinging on to his protector, looked all round with the dull, pale eyes, and at length said,-- "No."
"Can't you see that house, poor chap? Well, do you see that boat over there? You must be able to see that."
"Yes, sir."
"That boat is to take you ashore. You needn't be afraid. If you don't like to look at the sea, get down into the bottom of the boat, and take Oscar with you, and you'll see nothing until you are ashore. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Come along, then."
For now the wild skirl of Donald's pipes was plainly audible; and the various packages--the new rifle, the wooden case containing the wonderful dresses for Lady Macleod and her niece, and what not--were all ranged ready; to say nothing of some loaves of white bread that the steward was sending ashore at Hamish's request. And then the heaving boat came close to, her sail hauled down; and a rope was thrown and caught; and then there was a hazardous scrambling down the dripping iron steps, and a notable spring on the part of Oscar, who had escaped from the hands of the sailors. As for the new gillie, he resembled nothing so much as a limp bunch of clothes, as Macleod's men, wondering not a little, caught him up and passed him astern. Then the rope was thrown off, the steamer steamed slowly ahead, the lugsail was run up again, and away the boat plunged for the shore, with Donald playing the "Heights of Alma" as though he would rend the skies.
"Hold your noise, Donald!" his master called to him. "You will have plenty of time to play the pipes in the evening."
For he was greatly delighted to be among his own people again; and he was eager in his questions of the men as to all that had happened in his absence; and it was no small thing to them that Sir Keith Macleod should remember their affairs, too, and ask after their families and friends. Donald's loyalty was stronger than his professional pride. He was not offended that he had been silenced; he only bottled up his musical fervor all the more; and at length, as he neared the land, and knew that Lady Macleod and Miss Macleod were within hearing, he took it that he knew better than any one else what was proper to the occasion, and once more the proud and stirring march strove with the sound of the hurrying waves. Nor was that all. The piper lad was doing his best. Never before had he put such fire into his work; but as they got close inshore the joy in his heart got altogether the mastery of him, and away he broke into the mad delight of "Lady Mary Ramsay's Reel." Hamish on the quay heard, and he strutted about as if he were himself playing, and that before the Queen. And then he heard another sound--that of Macleod's voice: "_Stand by lads! ... Down with her! _"--and the flapping sail, with its swinging gaff, rattled down into the boat. At the same moment Oscar made a clear spring into the water, gained the landing-steps, and dashed upward--dripping as he was--to two ladies who were standing on the quay above. And Janet Macleod so far forgot what was due to her best gown that she caught his head in her arms, as he pawed and whined with delight.
That was a glad enough party that started off and up the hillside for Castle Dare. Janet Macleod did not care to conceal that she had been crying a little bit; and there were proud tears in the eyes of the stately old dame who walked with her; but the most excited of all was Hamish, who could by no means be got to understand that his master did not all at once want to hear about the trial of the young setters, and the price of the sheep sold the week before at Tobermory, and the stag that was chased by the Carsaig men on Tuesday.
"Confound it, Hamish!" Macleod said, laughing, "leave all those things till after dinner."
"Oh, ay, oh ay, Sir Keith, we will hef plenty of time after dinner," said Hamish, just as if he were one of the party, but very nervously working with the ends of his thumbs all the time, "and I will tell you of the fine big stag that has been coming down every night--every night, as I am a living man--to Mrs. Murdoch's corn: and I wass saying to her, 'Just hold your tongue, Mrs. Murdoch'--that wass what I will say to her--'just hold your tongue, Mrs. Murdoch, and be a civil woman, for a day or two days, and when Sir Keith comes home it iss no more at all the stag will trouble you--oh no, no more at all; there will be no more trouble about the stag when Sir Keith comes home.'"
And old Hamish laughed at his own wit, but it was in a sort of excited way.
"Look here, Hamish, I want you to do this for me," Macleod said; and instantly the face of the old man--it was a fine face, too, with its aquiline nose, and grizzled hair, and keen hawk-like eyes--was full of an eager attention. "Go back and fetch that little boy I left with Donald. You had better look after him yourself. I don't think any water came over him; but give him dry clothes if he is wet at all. And feed him up: the little beggar will take a lot of fattening without any harm."
"Where is he to go to?" said Hamish, doubtfully.
"You are to make a keeper of him. When you have fattened him up a bit, teach him to feed the dogs. When he gets bigger, he can clean the guns."
"I will let no man or boy clean the guns for you but myself, Sir Keith," the old man said, quite simply, and without a shadow of disrespect, "I will hef no risks of the kind."
"Very well, then; but go and get the boy, and make him at home as much as you can. Feed him up."
"Who is it, Keith?" his cousin said, "that you are speaking of as if he was a sheep or a calf?"
"Faith," said he, laughing, "if the philanthropists heard of it, they would prosecute me for slave-stealing. I bought the boy--for a sovereign."
"I think you have made a bad bargain, Keith," his mother said; but she was quite prepared to hear of some absurd whim of his.
"Well," said he, "I was going into Trafalgar Square, where the National Gallery of pictures is, mother, and there is a cab-stand in the street, and there was a cabman standing there, munching at a lump of dry bread that he cut with a jack-knife. I never saw a cabman do that before; I should have been less surprised if he had been having a chicken and a bottle of port. However, in front of this big cabman this little chap I have brought with me was standing; quite in rags; no shoes on his feet, no cap on his wild hair; and he was looking fixedly at the big lump of bread. I never saw any animal look so starved and so hungry; his eyes were quite glazed with the fascination of seeing the man ploughing away at this lump of loaf. And I never saw any child so thin. His hands were like the claws of a bird; and his trousers were short and torn so that you could see his legs were like two pipe-stems. At last the cabman saw him. 'Get out o' the way,' says he. The little chap slunk off, frightened, I suppose. Then the man changed his mind. 'Come here,' says he. But the little chap was frightened, and wouldn't come back; so he went after him, and thrust the loaf into his hand, and bade him be off. I can tell you, the way he went into that loaf was very fine to see. It was like a weasel at the neck of a rabbit. It was like an otter at the back of a salmon. And that was how I made his acquaintance," Macleod added, carelessly.
"But you have not told us why you brought him up here," his mother said.
"Oh," said he, with a sort of laugh, "I was looking at him, and I wondered whether Highland mutton and Highland air would make any difference in the wretched little skeleton; and so I made his acquaintance. I went home with him to a fearful place--I have got the address, but I did not know there were such quarters in London--and I saw his mother. The poor woman was very ill, and she had a lot of children; and she seemed quite glad when I offered to take this one and make a herd or a gamekeeper of him. I promised he should go to visit her once a year, that she might see whether there was any difference. And I gave her a sovereign."
"You were quite right, Keith," his cousin said, gravely; "You run a great risk. Do they hang slavers?"
"Mother," said he, for by this time the ladies were standing still, so that Hamish and the new gillie should overtake them, "you mustn't laugh at the little chap when you see him with the plaid taken off. The fact is, I took him to a shop in the neighborhood to get some clothes for him, but I couldn't get anything small enough. He _does_ look ridiculous; but you mustn't laugh at him, for he is like a girl for sensitiveness. But when he has been fed up a bit, and got some Highland air into his lungs, his own mother won't know him. And you will get him some other clothes, Janet--some kilts, maybe--when his legs get stronger."
Whatever Keith Macleod did was sure to be right in his mother's eyes, and she only said, with a laugh,-- "Well, Keith, you are not like your brothers. When they brought me home presents, it was pretty things; but all your curiosities, wherever you go, are the halt, and the lame, and the blind; so that people laugh at you, and say that Castle Dare is becoming the hospital of Mull."
"Mother, I don't care what the people say."
"And indeed I know that," she answered.
Their waiting had allowed Hamish and the new gillie to overtake them; and certainly the latter, deprived of his plaid, presented a sufficiently ridiculous appearance in the trousers and jacket that were obviously too big for him. But neither Lady Macleod nor Janet laughed at all when they saw this starved London waif before them.
"Johnny," said Macleod, "here are two ladies who will be very kind to you, so you needn't be afraid to live here."
But Johnny did look mortally afraid, and instinctively once more took hold of Macleod's coat. Then he seemed to have some notion of his duty. He drew back one foot, and made a sort of courtesy. Probably he had seen girls do this, in mock-heroic fashion, in some London court.
"And are you very tired?" said Janet Macleod, in that soft voice of hers that all children loved.
"Yes," said the child.
"Kott bless me!" cried Hamish, "I did not know that!" --and therewith the old man caught up Johnny Wickes as if he had been a bit of ribbon, and flung him on to his shoulder, and marched off to Castle Dare.
Then the three Macleods continued on their way--through the damp-smelling fir-wood; over the bridge that spanned the brawling brook; again through the fir-wood; until they reached the open space surrounding the big stone house. They stood for a minute there--high over the great plain of the sea, that was beautiful with a thousand tints of light. And there was the green island of Ulva, and there the darker rocks of Colonsay, and farther out, amidst the windy vapor and sunlight, Lunga, and Fladda, and the Dutchman's Cap, changing in their hue every minute as the clouds came driving over the sea.
"Mother," said he, "I have not tasted fresh air since I left. I am not sorry to get back to Dare."
"And I don't think we are sorry to see you back, Keith," his cousin said, modestly.
And yet the manner of his welcome was not imposing; they are not very good at grand ceremonies on the western shores of Mull. It is true that Donald, relieved of the care of Johnny Wickes, had sped by a short-cut through the fir-wood, and was now standing in the gravelled space outside the house, playing the "Heights of Alma" with a spirit worthy of all the MacCruimins that ever lived. But as for the ceremony of welcome, this was all there was of it: When Keith Macleod went up to the hall door, he found a small girl of five or six standing quite by herself at the open entrance. This was Christina, the granddaughter of Hamish, a pretty little girl with wide blue eyes and yellow hair.
"Halloo, Christina," said Macleod, "won't you let me into the house?"
"This is for you, Sir Keith," said she, in the Gaelic, and she presented him with a beautiful bunch of white heather. Now white heather, in that part of the country, is known to bring great good fortune to the possessor of it.
"And it is a good omen," said he, lightly, as he took the child up and kissed her. And that was the manner of his welcome to Castle Dare.
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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13
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AT HOME.
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The two women-folk, with whom he was most nearly brought into contact, were quite convinced that his stay in London had in nowise altered the buoyant humor and brisk activity of Keith Macleod. Castle Dare awoke into a new life on his return. He was all about and over the place accompanied by the faithful Hamish; and he had a friendly word and smile for every one he met. He was a good master: perhaps he was none the less liked because it was pretty well understood that he meant to be master. His good-nature had nothing of weakness in it. "If you love me, I love you," says the Gaelic proverb; "_otherwise do not come near me_." There was not a man or lad about the place who would not have adventured his life for Macleod; but all the same they were well aware that the handsome young master, who seemed to go through life with a merry laugh on his face, was not one to be trifled with. This John Fraser, an Aberdeen man, discovered on the second night after Macleod's return to Castle Dare.
Macleod had the salmon-fishing on this part of the coast, and had a boat's crew of four men engaged in the work. One of these having fallen sick, Hamish had to hire a new hand, an Aberdeenshire man, who joined the crew just before Macleod's departure from London. This Fraser turned out to be a "dour" man; and his discontent and grumbling seemed to be affecting the others, so that the domestic peace of Dare was threatened. On the night in question old Hamish came into Macleod's conjoint library and gun-room.
"The fishermen hef been asking me again, sir," observed Hamish, with his cap in his hand. "What will I say to them?"
"Oh, about the wages?" Macleod said, turning round.
"Ay, sir."
"Well, Hamish, I don't object. Tell them that what they say is right. This year has been a very good year; we have made some money; I will give them two shillings a week more if they like. But then, look here, Hamish--if they have their wages raised in a good year, they must have them lowered in a bad year. They cannot expect to share the profit without sharing the loss too. Do you understand that, Hamish?"
"Yes, Sir Keith, I think I do."
"Do you think you could put it into good Gaelic for them?"
"Oh ay."
"Then tell them to choose for themselves. But make it clear."
"Ay, Sir Keith," said Hamish. "And if it was not for that ---- man, John Fraser, there would be no word of this thing. And there is another thing I will hef to speak to you about, Sir Keith; and it is John Fraser, too, who is at the bottom of this, I will know that fine. It is more than two or three times that you will warn the men not to bathe in the bay below the castle; and not for many a day will any one do that, for the Cave bay it is not more as half a mile away. And when you were in London, Sir Keith, it was this man John Fraser he would bathe in the bay below the castle in the morning, and he got one or two of the others to join him; and when I bade him go away, he will say that the sea belongs to no man. And this morning, too--" "This morning!" Macleod said, jumping to his feet. There was an angry flash in his eyes.
"Ay, sir, this very morning I saw two of them myself--and John Fraser he was one of them--and I went down and said to them, 'It will be a bad day for you,' says I to them, 'if Sir Keith will find you in this bay.'"
"Are they down at the quay now?" Macleod said.
"Ay, they will be in the house now."
"Come along with me, Hamish. I think we will put this right."
He lifted his cap and went out into the cool night air, followed by Hamish. They passed through the dark fir-wood until they came in sight of the Atlantic again, which was smooth enough to show the troubled reflection of the bigger stars. They went down the hillside until they were close to the shore, and then they followed the rough path to the quay. The door of the square stone building was open; the men were seated on rude stools or on spare coils of rope, smoking. Macleod called them out, and they came to the door.
"Now look here, boys," said he, "you know I will not allow any man to bathe in the bay before the house. I told you before; I tell you now for the last time. They that want to bathe can go along to the Cave bay; and the end of it is this--and there will be no more words about it--that the first man I catch in the bay before the house I will take a horsewhip to him, and he will have as good a run as ever he had in his life."
With that he was turning away, when he heard one of the men mutter, "_I would like to see you do it! _" He wheeled round instantly--and if some of his London friends could have seen the look of his face at this moment, they might have altered their opinion about the obliteration of certain qualities from the temperament of the Highlanders of our own day.
"Who said that?" he exclaimed.
There was no answer.
"Come out here, you four men!" he said. "Stand in a line there. Now let the man who said that step out and face me. I will show him who is to be master here. If he thinks he can master me, well; but it is one or the other of us who will be master!"
There was not a sound or a motion; but Macleod sprang forward, caught the man Fraser by the throat, and shook him thrice--as he might have shaken a reed.
"You scoundrel!" he said. "You coward! Are you afraid to own it was you? There has been nothing but bad feeling since ever you brought your ugly face among us--well, we've had enough of you!"
He flung him back.
"Hamish," said he, "you will pay this man his month's wages to-night. Pack him off with the Gometra men in the morning; they will take him out to the _Pioneer_. And look you here, sir," he added, turning to Fraser, "it will be a bad day for you the day that I see your face again anywhere about Castle Dare."
He walked off and up to the house again, followed by the reluctant Hamish. Hamish had spoken of this matter only that Macleod should give the men a renewed warning; he had no notion that this act of vengeance would be the result. And where were they to get a man to put in Fraser's place?
It was about an hour later that Hamish again came into the room.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, "but the men are outside."
"I cannot see them."
"They are ferry sorry, sir, about the whole matter, and there will be no more bathing in the front of the house, and the man Fraser they hef brought him up to say he is ferry sorry too."
"They have brought him up?"
"Ay, sir," said Hamish, with a grave smile. "It was for fighting him they were one after the other because he will make a bad speech to you; and he could not fight three men one after the other; and so they hef made him come up to say he is ferry sorry too; and will you let him stay on to the end of the season?"
"No. Tell the men that if they will behave themselves, we can go on as we did before, in peace and friendliness; but I mean to be master in this place. And I will not have a sulky fellow like this Fraser stirring up quarrels. He must pack and be off."
"It will not be easy to get another man, Sir Keith," old Hamish ventured to say.
"Get Sandy over from the _Umpire_."
"But surely you will want the yacht, sir, when Mr. Ogilvie comes to Dare?"
"I tell you Hamish, that I will not have that fellow about the place. That is an end of it. Did you think it was only a threat that I meant? And have you not heard the old saying that 'one does not apply plaster to a threat?' You will send him to Gometra in the morning in time for the boat."
And so the sentence of banishment was confirmed; and Hamish got a young fellow from Ulva to take the place of Fraser; and from that time to the end of the fishing season perfect peace and harmony prevailed between master and men.
But if Lady Macleod and Janet saw no change whatever in Macleod's manner after his return from the South, Hamish, who was more alone with the young man, did. Why this strange indifference to the very occupations that used to be the chief interest of his life? He would not go out after the deer; the velvet would be on their horns yet. He would not go out after the grouse: what was the use of disturbing them before Mr. Ogilvie came up?
"I am in no hurry," he said, almost petulantly. "Shall I not have to be here the whole winter for the shooting?" --and Hamish was amazed to hear him talk of the winter shooting as some compulsory duty, whereas in these parts it far exceeded in variety and interest the very limited low-ground shooting of the autumn. Until young Ogilvie came up, Macleod never had a gun in his hand. He had gone fishing two or three days; but had generally ended by surrendering his rod to Hamish, and going for a walk up the glen, alone. The only thing he seemed to care about, in the way of out of door occupation, was the procuring of otter-skins; and every man and boy in his service was ordered to keep a sharp lookout on that stormy coast for the prince of fur-bearing animals. Years before he had got enough skins together for a jacket for his cousin Janet; and that garment of beautiful thick black fur--dyed black, of course--was as silken and rich as when it was made. Why should he forget his own theory of letting all animals have a chance in urging a war of extermination against the otter?
This preoccupation of mind, of which Hamish was alone observant, was nearly inflicting a cruel injury on Hamish himself. On the morning of the day on which Ogilvie was expected to arrive, Hamish went in to his master's library. Macleod had been reading a book, but he had pushed it aside, and now both his elbows were on the table, and he was leaning his head on his hands, apparently in deep meditation of some kind or other.
"Will I tek the bandage off Nell's foot now, sir?"
"Oh yes, if you like. You know as much as I do about it."
"Oh, I am quite sure," said Hamish, brightly, "that she will do ferry well to-morrow. I will tek her whatever; and I can send her home if it is too much for her."
Macleod took up his book again.
"Very well, Hamish. But you have plenty to do about the house. Duncan and Sandy can go with us to-morrow."
The old man started, and looked at his master for a second. Then he said, "Ferry well, sir," in a low voice, and left the room.
But for the hurt, and the wounded, and the sorrowful there was always one refuge of consolation in Castle Dare. Hamish went straight to Janet Macleod; and she was astonished to see the emotion of which the keen, hard, handsome face of the old man was capable. Who before had ever seen tears in the eyes of Hamish MacIntyre?
"And perhaps it is so," said Hamish, with his head hanging down, "and perhaps it is that I am an old man now, and not able any more to go up to the hills; but if I am not able for that, I am not able for anything; and I will not ask Sir Keith to keep me about the house, or about the yacht. It is younger men will do better as me; and I can go away to Greenock; and if it is an old man I am, maybe I will find a place in a smack, for all that--" "Oh, nonsense, Hamish!" Janet Macleod said, with her kindly eyes bent on him. "You may be sure Sir Keith did not mean anything like that--" "Ay, mem," said the old man, proudly, "and who wass it that first put a gun into his hand? and who wass it skinned the ferry first seal that he shot in Loch Scridain? and who wass it told him the name of every spar and sheet of the _Umpire_, and showed him how to hold a tiller? And if there is any man knows more as me about the birds and the deer, that is right--let him go out; but it is the first day I hef not been out with Sir Keith since ever I wass at Castle Dare; and now it is time that I am going away; for I am an old man; and the younger men they will be better on the hills, and in the yacht too. But I can make my living whatever."
"Hamish, you are speaking like a foolish man," said Janet Macleod to him. "You will wait here now till I go to Sir Keith."
She went to him.
"Keith," said she, "do you know that you have nearly broken old Hamish's heart?"
"What is the matter?" said he, looking up in wonder.
"He says you have told him he is not to go out to the shooting with you to-morrow; and that is the first time he has been superseded; and he takes it that you think he is an old man; and he talks of going away to Greenock to join a smack."
"Oh, nonsense!" Macleod said. "I was not thinking when I told him. He may come with us if he likes. At the same time, Janet, I should think Norman Ogilvie will laugh at seeing the butler come out as a keeper."
"You know quite well, Keith," said his cousin, "that Hamish is no more a butler than he is captain of the _Umpire_ or clerk of the accounts. Hamish is simply everybody and everything at Castle Dare. And if you speak of Norman Ogilvie--well, I think it would be more like yourself, Keith, to consult the feelings of an old man rather than the opinions of a young one."
"You are always on the right side, Janet. Tell Hamish I am very sorry. I meant him no disrespect. And he may call me at one in the morning if he likes. He never looked on me but as a bit of his various machinery for killing things."
"That is not fair of you, Keith. Old Hamish would give his right hand to save you the scratch of a thorn."
She went off to cheer the old man, and he turned to his book. But it was not to read it; it was only to stare at the outside of it in an absent sort of way. The fact is, he had found in it the story of a young aid-de-camp who was intrusted with a message to a distant part of the field while a battle was going forward, and who in mere bravado rode across a part of the ground open to the enemy's fire. He came back laughing. He had been hit, he confessed, but he had escaped: and he carelessly shook a drop or two of blood from a flesh wound on his hand. Suddenly, however, he turned pale, wavered a little, and then fell forward on his horse's neck, a corpse.
Macleod was thinking about this story rather gloomily. But at last he got up with a more cheerful air, and seized his cap.
"And if it is my death-wound I have got," he was thinking to himself, as he set out for the boat that was waiting for him at the shore, "I will not cry out too soon."
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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14
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A FRIEND.
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His death-wound! There was but little suggestion of any death-wound about the manner or speech of this light-hearted and frank-spoken fellow who now welcomed his old friend Ogilvie ashore. He swung the gun-case into the cart as if it had been a bit of thread. He himself would carry Ogilvie's top-coat over his arm.
"And why have you not come in your hunting tartan?" said he, observing the very precise and correct shooting costume of the young man.
"Not likely," said Mr. Ogilvie, laughing. "I don't like walking through clouds with bare knees, with a chance of sitting down on an adder or two. And I'll tell you what it is, Macleod; if the morning is wet, I will not go out stalking, if all the stags in Christendom were there. I know what it is; I have had enough of it in my younger days."
"My dear fellow," Macleod said, seriously, "you must not talk here as if you could do what you liked. It is not what you wish to do, or what you don't wish to do; it is what Hamish orders to have done. Do you think I would dare to tell Hamish what we must do to-morrow?"
"Very well, then, I will see Hamish myself; I dare say he remembers me."
And he did see Hamish that evening, and it was arranged between them that if the morning looked threatening, they would leave the deer alone, and would merely take the lower-lying moors in the immediate neighborhood of Castle Dare. Hamish took great care to impress on the young man that Macleod had not yet taken a gun in his hand, merely that there should be a decent bit of shooting when his guest arrived.
"And he will say to me, only yesterday," observed Hamish, confidentially--"it wass yesterday itself he wass saying to me, 'Hamish, when Mr. Ogilvie comes here, it will be only six days or seven days he will be able to stop, and you will try to get him two or three stags. And, Hamish'--this is what he will say to me--'you will pay no heed to me, for I hef plenty of the shooting whatever, from the one year's end to the other year's end, and it is Mr. Ogilvie you will look after.' And you do not mind the rain, sir? It is fine warm clothes you have got on--fine woollen clothes you have, and what harm will a shower do?"
"Oh, I don't mind the rain, so long as I can keep moving--that's the fact, Hamish," replied Mr. Ogilvie; "but I don't like lying in wet heather for an hour at a stretch. And I don't care how few birds there are, there will be plenty to keep us walking. So you remember me, after all, Hamish?"
"Oh ay, sir," said Hamish, with a demure twinkle in his eye. "I mind fine the time you will fall into the water off the rock in Loch na Keal."
"There, now," exclaimed Mr. Ogilvie. "That is precisely what I don't see the fun of doing, now that I have got to man's estate, and have a wholesome fear of killing myself. Do you think I would lie down now on wet sea-weed, and get slowly soaked through with the rain for a whole hour, on the chance of a seal coming on the other side of the rock? Of course when I tried to get up I was as stiff as a stone. I could not have lifted the rifle if a hundred seals had been there. And it was no wonder at all I slipped down into the water."
"But the sea-water," said Hamish, gravely; "there will no harm come to you of the sea-water."
"I want to have as little as possible of either sea-water or rain-water," said Mr. Ogilvie, with decision, "I believe Macleod is half an otter himself."
Hamish did not like this, but he only said, respectfully.
"I do not think Sir Keith is afraid of a shower of rain whatever."
These gloomy anticipations were surely uncalled for; for during the whole of the past week the Western Isles had basked in uninterrupted sunlight, with blue skies over the fair blue seas, and a resinous warmth exhaling from the lonely moors. But all the same, next morning broke as if Mr. Ogilvie's forebodings were only too likely to be realized. The sea was leaden-hued and apparently still, though the booming of the Atlantic swell into the great caverns could be heard; Staffa, and Lunga, and the Dutchman were of a dismal black; the brighter colors of Ulva and Colonsay seemed coldly gray and green; and heavy banks of cloud lay along the land, running out to Ru-Treshanish. The noise of the stream rushing down through the fir-wood close to the castle seemed louder than usual, as if rain had fallen during the night. It was rather cold, too: all that Lady Macleod and Janet could say failed to raise the spirits of their guest.
But when Macleod--dressed in his homespun tartan of yellow and black--came round from the kennels with the dogs, and Hamish, and the tall red-headed lad Sandy, it appeared that they considered this to be rather a fine day than otherwise, and were eager to be off.
"Come along, Ogilvie." Macleod cried, as he gave his friend's gun to Sandy, but shouldered his own. "Sorry we haven't a dog-cart to drive you to the moor, but it is not far off."
"I think a cigar in the library would be the best thing for a morning like this," said Ogilvie, rather gloomily, as he put up the collar of his shooting-jacket, for a drop or two of rain had fallen.
"Nonsense, man! the first bird you kill will cheer you up."
Macleod was right; they had just passed through the wood of young larches close to Castle Dare, and were ascending a rough stone road that led by the side of a deep glen, when a sudden whir close by them startled the silence of this gloomy morning. In an instant Macleod had whipped his gun from his shoulder and thrust it into Ogilvie's hands. By the time the young man had full-cocked the right barrel and taken a quick aim, the bird was half way across the valley; but all the same he fired. For another second the bird continued its flight, but in a slightly irregular fashion; then down it went like a stone into the heather on the opposite side of the chasm.
"Well done, sir!" cried old Hamish.
"Bravo!" called out Macleod.
"It was a grand long shot!" said Sandy, as he unslipped the sagacious old retriever, and sent her down into the glen.
They had scarcely spoken when another dark object, looking to the startled eye as if it were the size of a house, sprang from the heather close by, and went off like an arrow, uttering a succession of sharp crowings. Why did not he fire? Then they saw him in wild despair whip down the gun, full-cock the left barrel, and put it up again. The bird was just disappearing over a crest of rising ground, and as Ogilvie fired he disappeared altogether.
"He's down, sir!" cried Hamish, in great excitement.
"I don't think so," Ogilvie answered, with a doubtful air on his face, but with a bright gladness in his eyes all the same.
"He's down, sir," Hamish reasserted. "Come away Sandy, with the dog!" he shouted to the red-headed lad, who had gone down into the glen to help Nell in her researches. By this time they saw that Sandy was recrossing the burn with the grouse in his hand, Nell following him contentedly. They whistled, and again whistled; but Nell considered that her task had been accomplished, and alternately looked at them and up at her immediate master. However, the tall lad, probably considering that the whistling was meant as much for him as for the retriever, sprang up the side of the glen in a miraculous fashion, catching here and there by a bunch of heather or the stump of a young larch, and presently he had rejoined the party.
"Take time, sir," said he. "Take time. Maybe there is more of them about here. And the other one, I marked him down from the other side. We will get him ferry well."
They found nothing, however, until they had got to the other side of the hill, where Nell speedily made herself mistress of the other bird--a fine young cock grouse, plump and in splendid plumage.
"And what do you think of the morning now, Ogilvie?" Macleod asked.
"Oh, I dare say it will clear," said he, shyly; and he endeavored to make light of Hamish's assertions that they were "ferry pretty shots--ferry good shots; and it was always a right thing to put cartridges in the barrels at the door of a house, for no one could tell what might be close to the house; and he was sure that Mr. Ogilvie had not forgotten the use of a gun since he went away from the hills to live in England."
"But look here, Macleod," Mr. Ogilvie said; "why did not you fire yourself?" --he was very properly surprised; for the most generous and self-denying of men are apt to claim their rights when a grouse gets up to their side.
"Oh," said Macleod simply, "I wanted you to have a shot."
And indeed all through the day he was obviously far more concerned about Ogilvie's shooting than his own. He took all the hardest work on himself--taking the outside beat, for example, if there was a bit of unpromising ground to be got over. When one or other of the dogs suddenly showed by its uplifted fore-paw, its rigid tail, and its slow, cautious, timid look round for help and encouragement, that there was something ahead of more importance than a lark, Macleod would run all the risks of waiting to give Ogilvie time to come up. If a hare ran across with any chance of coming within shot of Ogilvie, Macleod let her go by unscathed. And the young gentleman from the South knew enough about shooting to understand how he was being favored both by his host and--what was a more unlikely thing--by Hamish.
He was shooting very well, too; and his spirits rose and rose until the lowering day was forgotten altogether.
"We are in for a soaker this time!" he cried, quite cheerfully, looking around at one moment.
All this lonely world of olive greens and browns had grown strangely dark. Even the hum of flies--the only sound audible in these high solitudes away from the sea--seemed stilled; and a cold wind began to blow over from Ben-an-Sloich. The plain of the valley in front of them began to fade from view; then they found themselves enveloped in a clammy fog, that settled on their clothes and hung about their eyelids and beard, while water began to run down the barrels of their guns. The wind blew harder and harder: presently they seemed to spring out of the darkness; and, turning, they found that the cloud had swept onward toward the sea, leaving the rocks on the nearest hillside all glittering wet in the brief burst of sunlight. It was but a glimmer. Heavier clouds came sweeping over; downright rain began to pour. But Ogilvie kept manfully to his work. He climbed over the stone walls, gripping on with his wet hands. He splashed through the boggy land, paying no attention to his footsteps. And at last he got to following Macleod's plan of crossing a burn, which was merely to wade through the foaming brown water instead of looking out for big stones. By this time the letters in his breast pocket were a mass of pulp.
"Look here, Macleod," said he, with the rain running down his face, "I can't tell the difference between one bird and another. If I shoot a partridge it isn't my fault."
"All right," said Macleod. "If a partridge is fool enough to be up here, it deserves it."
Just at this moment Mr. Ogilvie suddenly threw up his hands and his gun, as if to protect his face. An extraordinary object--a winged object, apparently without a tail, a whirring bunch of loose gray feathers, a creature resembling no known fowl--had been put up by one of the dogs, and it had flown direct at Ogilvie's head. It passed him at about half a yard's distance.
"What in all the world is that?" he cried, jumping round to have a look at it.
"Why," said Macleod, who was roaring with laughter, "it is a baby blackcock, just out of the shell, I should think."
A sudden noise behind him caused him to wheel round, and instinctively he put up his gun. He took it down again.
"That is the old hen," said he; "we'll leave her to look after her chicks. Hamish, get in the dogs, or they'll be for eating some of those young ones. And you, Sandy, where was it you left the basket? We will go for our splendid banquet now, Ogilvie."
That was an odd-looking party that by and by might have been seen crouching under the lee of a stone wall with a small brook running by their feet. They had taken down wet stones for seats; and these were somewhat insecurely fixed on the steep bank. But neither the rain, nor the gloom, nor the loneliness of the silent moors seemed to have damped their spirits much.
"It really is awfully kind of you, Ogilvie," Macleod said, as he threw half a sandwich to the old black retriever, "to take pity on a solitary fellow like myself. You can't tell how glad I was to see you on the bridge of the steamer. And now that you have taken all the trouble to come to this place, and have taken your chance of our poor shooting, this is the sort of day you get!"
"My dear fellow," said Mr. Ogilvie, who did not refuse to have his tumbler replenished by the attentive Hamish, "it is quite the other way. I consider myself precious lucky. I consider the shooting firstrate; and it isn't every fellow would deliberately hand the whole thing over to his friend, as you have been doing all day. And I suppose bad weather is as bad elsewhere as it is here."
Macleod was carelessly filling his pipe, and obviously thinking of something very different.
"Man, Ogilvie," he said, in a burst of confidence, "I never knew before how fearfully lonely a life we lead here. If we were out on one of the Treshanish Islands, with nothing round us but skarts and gulls, we could scarcely be lonelier. And I have been thinking all the morning what this must look like to you."
He glanced round--at the sombre browns and greens of the solitary moorland, at the black rocks jutting out here and there from the scant grass, at the silent and gloomy hills and the overhanging clouds.
"I have been thinking of the beautiful places we saw in London, and the crowds of people, the constant change, and amusement, and life. And I shouldn't wonder if you packed up your traps to-morrow morning and fled."
"My dear boy," observed Mr. Ogilvie, confidently, "you are giving me credit for a vast amount of sentiment. I haven't got it. I don't know what it is. But I know when I am jolly well off. I know when I am in good quarters, with good shooting, and with a good sort of chap to go about with. As for London--bah! I rather think you got your eyes dazzled for a minute, Macleod. You weren't long enough there to find it out. And wouldn't you get precious tired of big dinners, and garden-parties, and all that stuff, after a time? Macleod, do you mean to tell me you ever saw anything at Lady Beauregard's as fine as _that? _" And he pointed to a goodly show of birds, with a hare or two, that Sandy had taken out of the bag, so as to count them.
"Of course," said this wise young man, "there is one case in which that London life is all very well. If a man is awful spoons on a girl, then, of course, he can trot after her from house to house, and walk his feet off in the Park. I remember a fellow saying a very clever thing about the reasons that took a man into society. What was it, now? Let me see. It was either to look out for a wife, or--or----" Mr. Ogilvie was trying to recollect the epigram and to light a wax match at the same time, and he failed in both.
"Well," said he, "I won't spoil it; but don't you believe that any one you met in London wouldn't be precious glad to change places with us at this moment?"
Any one? What was the situation? Pouring rain, leaden skies, the gloomy solitude of the high moors, the sound of roaring waters. And here they were crouching under a stone wall, with their dripping fingers lighting match after match for their damp pipes, with not a few midges in the moist and clammy air, and with a faint halo of steam plainly arising from the leather of their boots. When Fionaghal the Fair Stranger came from over the blue seas to her new home, was this the picture of Highland life that was presented to her?
"Lady Beauregard, for example?" said Macleod.
"Oh, I am not talking about women," observed the sagacious boy; "I never could make out a woman's notions about any thing. I dare say they like London life well enough, for they can show off their shoulders and their diamonds."
"Ogilvie," Macleod said, with a sudden earnestness, "I am fretting my heart out here--that is the fact. If it were not for the poor old mother--and Janet--but I will tell you another time."
He got up on his feet, and took his gun from Sandy. His companion--wondering not a little, but saying nothing--did likewise. Was this the man who had always seemed rather proud of his hard life on the hills? Who had regarded the idleness and effeminacy of town life with something of an unexpressed scorn? A young fellow in robust health and splendid spirits--an eager sportsman and an accurate shot--out for his first shooting-day of the year: was it intelligible that he should be visited by vague sentimental regrets for London drawing-rooms and vapid talk? The getting up of a snipe interrupted these speculations; Ogilvie blazed away, missing with both barrels; Macleod, who had been patiently waiting to see the effect of the shots, then put up his gun, and presently the bird came tumbling down, some fifty yards off.
"You haven't warmed to it yet," Macleod said, charitably. "The first half hour after luncheon a man always shoots badly."
"Especially when his clothes are glued to his skin from head to foot," said Ogilvie.
"You will soon walk some heat into yourself."
And again they went on, Macleod pursuing the same tactics, so that his companion had the cream of the shooting. Despite the continued soaking rain, Ogilvie's spirits seemed to become more and more buoyant. He was shooting capitally; one very long shot he made, bringing down an old blackcock with a thump on the heather, causing Hamish to exclaim,-- "Well done, sir! It is a glass of whiskey you will deserve for that shot."
Whereupon Mr. Ogilvie stopped and modestly hinted that he would accept of at least a moiety of the proffered reward.
"Do you know, Hamish," said he, "that it is the greatest comfort in the world to get wet right through, for you know you can't be worse, and it gives you no trouble."
"And a whole glass will do you no harm, sir," shrewdly observed Hamish.
"Not in the clouds."
"The what, sir?"
"The clouds. Don't you consider we are going shooting through clouds?"
"There will be a snipe or two down here, sir," said Hamish, moving on; for he could not understand conundrums, especially conundrums in English.
The day remained of this moist character to the end; but they had plenty of sport, and they had a heavy bag on their return to Castle Dare. Macleod was rather silent on the way home. Ogilvie was still at a loss to know why his friend should have taken this sudden dislike to living in a place he had lived in all his life. Nor could he understand why Macleod should have deliberately surrendered to him the chance of bagging the brace of grouse that got up by the side of the road. It was scarcely, he considered, within the possibilities of human nature.
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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15
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A CONFESSION.
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And once again the big dining-hall of Castle Dare was ablaze with candles; and Janet was there, gravely listening to the garrulous talk of the boy-officer; and Keith Macleod, in his dress tartan; and the noble-looking old lady at the head of the table, who more than once expressed to her guest, in that sweetly modulated and gracious voice of hers, how sorry she was he had encountered so bad a day for the first day of his visit.
"It is different with Keith," said she, "for he is used to be out in all weathers. He has been brought up to live out of doors."
"But you know, auntie," said Janet Macleod, "a soldier is much of the same thing. Did you ever hear of a soldier with an umbrella?"
"All I know is," remarked Mr. Ogilvie--who, in his smart evening dress, and with his face flashed into a rosy warmth after the cold and the wet, did not look particularly miserable--"that I don't remember ever enjoying myself so much in one day. But the fact is, Lady Macleod, your son gave me all the shooting; and Hamish was sounding my praises all day long, so that I almost got to think I could shoot the birds without putting up the gun at all; and when I made a frightful bad miss, everybody declared the bird was dead round the other side of the hill."
"And indeed you were not making many misses," Macleod said. "But we will try your nerve, Ogilvie, with a stag or two, I hope."
"I am on for anything. What with Hamish's flattery and the luck I had to-day, I begin to believe I could bag a brace of tigers if they were coming at me fifty miles an hour."
Dinner over, and Donald having played his best (no doubt he had learned that the stranger was an officer in the Ninety-third), the ladies left the dining-hall, and presently Macleod proposed to his friend that they should go into the library and have a smoke. Ogilvie was nothing loath. They went into the odd little room, with its guns and rods and stuffed birds, and, lying prominently on the writing-table, a valuable little heap of dressed otter-skins. Although the night was scarcely cold enough to demand it, there was a log of wood burning in the fireplace; there were two easy-chairs, low and roomy; and on the mantelpiece were some glasses, and a big black broad-bottomed bottle, such as used to carry the still vintages of Champagne even into the remote wilds of the Highlands, before the art of making sparkling wines had been discovered. Mr. Ogilvie lit a cigar, stretched out his feet towards the blazing log, and rubbed his hands, which were not as white as usual.
"You are a lucky fellow, Macleod," said he, "and you don't know it. You have everything about you here to make life enjoyable."
"And I feel like a slave tied to a galley oar," said he, quickly. "I try to hide it from the mother--for it would break her heart--and from Janet too; but every morning I rise, the dismalness of being alone here--of being caged up alone--eats more and more into my heart. When I look at you, Ogilvie--to-morrow morning you could go spinning off to any quarter you liked, to see any one you wanted to see--" "Macleod," said his companion, looking up, and yet speaking rather slowly and timidly, "if I were to say what would naturally occur to any one--you won't be offended? What you have been telling me is absurd, unnatural, impossible, unless there is a woman in the case."
"And what then?" Macleod said, quickly, as he regarded his friend with a watchful eye, "You have guessed?"
"Yes," said the other: "Gertrude White."
Macleod was silent for a second or two. Then he sat down.
"I scarcely care who knows it now," said he, absently "so long as I can't fight it out of my own mind. I tried not to know it. I tried not to believe it. I argued with myself, laughed at myself, invented a hundred explanations of this cruel thing that was gnawing at my heart and giving me no peace night or day. Why, man, Ogilvie, I have read 'Pendennis!' Would you think it possible that any one who has read 'Pendennis' could ever fall in love with an actress?"
He jumped to his feet again, walked up and down for a second or two, twisting the while a bit of casting-line round his finger so that it threatened to cut into the flesh.
"But I will tell you now, Ogilvie--now that I am speaking to any one about it," said he--and he spoke in a rapid, deep, earnest voice, obviously not caring much what his companion might think, so that he could relieve his overburdened mind--"that it was not any actress I fell in love with. I never saw her in a theatre but that once. I hated the theatre whenever I thought of her in it. I dared scarcely open a newspaper, lest I should see her name. I turned away from the posters in the streets: when I happened by some accident to see her publicly paraded that way, I shuddered all through--with shame, I think; and I got to look on her father as a sort of devil that had been allowed to drive about that beautiful creature in vile chains. Oh, I cannot tell you! When I have heard him talking away in that infernal, cold, precise way about her duties to her art, and insisting that she should have no sentiments or feelings of her own, and that she should simply use every emotion as a bit of something to impose on the public--a bit of her trade, an exposure of her own feelings to make people clap their hands--I have sat still and wondered at myself that I did not jump up and catch him by the throat, and shake the life out of his miserable body."
"You have cut your hand, Macleod."
He shook a drop or two of blood off.
"Why, Ogilvie, when I saw you on the bridge of the steamer, I nearly went mad with delight. I said to myself, 'Here is some one who has seen her and spoken to her, who will know when I tell him.' And now that I am telling you of it, Ogilvie, you will see--you will understand--that it is not any actress I have fallen in love with--it was not the fascination of an actress at all, but the fascination of the woman herself; the fascination of her voice, and her sweet ways, and the very way she walked, too, and the tenderness of her heart. There was a sort of wonder about her; whatever she did or said was so beautiful, and simple, and sweet! And day after day I said to myself that my interest in this beautiful woman was nothing. Some one told me there had been rumors: I laughed. Could any one suppose I was going to play Pendennis over again? And then as the time came for me to leave, I was glad, and I was miserable at the same time. I despised myself for being miserable. And then I said to myself, 'This stupid misery is only the fancy of a boy. Wait till you get back to Castle Dare, and the rough seas, and the hard work of the stalking. There is no sickness and sentiment on the side of Ben-an-Sloich.' And so I was glad to come to Castle Dare, and to see the old mother, and Janet, and Hamish; and the sound of the pipes, Ogilvie--when I heard them away in the steamer, that brought tears to my eyes; and I said to myself, 'Now you are at home again, and there will be no more nonsense of idle thinking.' And what has it come to? I would give everything I possess in the world to see her face once more--ay, to be in the same town where she is. I read the papers, trying to find out where she is. Morning and night it is the same--a fire, burning and burning, of impatience, and misery, and a craving just to see her face and hear her speak."
Ogilvie did not know what to say. There was something in this passionate confession--in the cry wrung from a strong man, and in the rude eloquence that here and there burst from him--that altogether drove ordinary words of counsel or consolation out of the young man's mind.
"You have been hard hit, Macleod," he said, with some earnestness.
"That is just it," Macleod said, almost bitterly. "You fire at a bird. You think you have missed him. He sails away as if there was nothing the matter, and the rest of the covey no doubt think he is as well as any one of them. But suddenly you see there is something wrong. He gets apart from the others; he towers; then down he comes, as dead as a stone. You did not guess anything of this in London?"
"Well," said Ogilvie, rather inclined to beat about the bush, "I thought you were paying her a good deal of attention. But then--she is very popular, you know, and receives a good deal of attention; and--and the fact is, she is an uncommonly pretty girl, and I thought you were flirting a bit with her, but nothing more than that. I had no idea it was something more serious than that."
"Ay," Macleod said, "if I myself had only known! If it was a plunge--as people talk about falling in love with a woman--why, the next morning I would have shaken myself free of it, as a Newfoundland dog shakes himself free of the water. But a fever, a madness, that slowly gains on you--and you look around and say it is nothing, but day after day it burns more and more. And it is no longer something that you can look at apart from yourself--it is your very self; and sometimes, Ogilvie, I wonder whether it is all true, or whether it is mad I am altogether. Newcastle--do you know Newcastle?"
"I have passed through it, of course," his companion said, more and more amazed at the vehemence of his speech.
"It is there she is now--I have seen it in the papers; and it is Newcastle--Newcastle--Newcastle--I am thinking of from morning till night, and if I could only see one of the streets of it I should be glad. They say it is smoky and grimy; I should be breathing sunlight if I lived in the most squalid of all its houses. And they say she is going to Liverpool, and to Manchester, and to Leeds; and it is as if my very life were being drawn away from me. I try to think what people may be around her; I try to imagine what she is doing at a particular hour of the day; and I feel as if I were shut away in an island in the middle of the Atlantic, with nothing but the sound of the waves around my ears. Ogilvie, it is enough to drive a man out of his senses."
"But, look here, Macleod," said Ogilvie, pulling himself together; for it was hard to resist the influence of this vehement and uncontrollable passion--"look here, man; why don't you think of it in cold blood? Do you expect me to sympathize with you as a friend? Or would you like to know what any ordinary man of the world would think of the whole case?"
"Don't give me your advice, Ogilvie," said he, untwining and throwing away the bit of casting-line that had cut his finger. "It is far beyond that. Let me talk to you--that is all. I should have gone mad in another week, if I had had no one to speak to; and as it is, what better am I than mad? It is not anything to be analyzed and cured: it is my very self; and what have I become?"
"But look here, Macleod--I want to ask you a question: would you marry her?"
The common-sense of the younger man was re-asserting itself. This was what any one--looking at the whole situation from the Aldershot point of view--would at the outset demand? But if Macleod had known all that was implied in the question, it is probable that a friendship that had existed from boyhood would then and there have been severed. He took it that Ogilvie was merely referring to the thousand and one obstacles that lay between him and that obvious and natural goal.
"Marry her!" he exclaimed. "Yes, you are right to look at it in that way--to think of what it will all lead to. When I look forward, I see nothing but a maze of impossibilities and trouble. One might as well have fallen in love with one of the Roman maidens in the Temple of Vesta. She is a white slave. She is a sacrifice to the monstrous theories of that bloodless old pagan, her father. And then she is courted and flattered on all sides; she lives in a smoke of incense: do you think, even supposing that all other difficulties were removed--that she cared for no one else, that she were to care for me, that the influence of her father was gone--do you think she would surrender all the admiration she provokes and the excitement of the life she leads, to come and live in a dungeon in the Highlands? A single day like to-day would kill her, she is so fine and delicate--like a rose leaf, I have often thought. No, no, Ogilvie, I have thought of it every way. It is like a riddle that you twist and twist about to try and get the answer; and I can get no answer at all, unless wishing that I had never been born. And perhaps that would have been better."
"You take too gloomy a view of it, Macleod," said Ogilvie. "For one thing, look at the common-sense of the matter. Suppose that she is very ambitious to succeed in her profession, that is all very well; but, mind you, it is a very hard life. And if you put before her the chance of being styled Lady Macleod--well, I may be wrong, but I should say that would count for something. I haven't known many actresses myself--" "That is idle talk," Macleod said; and then he added, proudly, "You do not know this woman as I know her."
He put aside his pipe; but in truth he had never lit it.
"Come," said he, with a tired look, "I have bored you enough. You won't mind, Ogilvie? The whole of the day I was saying to myself that I would keep all this thing to myself, if my heart burst over it; but you see I could not do it, and I have made you the victim, after all. And we will go into the drawing-room now; and we will have a song. And that was a very good song you sang one night in London, Ogilvie--it was about 'Death's black wine'--and do you think you could sing us that song to-night?"
Ogilvie looked at him.
"I don't know what you mean by the way you are talking, Macleod," said he.
"Oh," said he, with a laugh that did not sound quite natural, "have you forgotten it? Well, then, Janet will sing us another song--that is, 'Farewell, Manchester.' And we will go to bed soon to-night, for I have not been having much sleep lately. But it is a good song--it is a song you do not easily forget--that about 'Death's black wine.'"
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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16
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REBELLION.
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And where was she now--that strange creature who had bewildered and blinded his eyes and so sorely stricken his heart? It was, perhaps, not the least part of his trouble that all his passionate yearning to see her, and all his thinking about her and the scenes in which he had met her, seemed unable to conjure up any satisfactory vision of her. The longing of his heart went out from him to meet--a phantom. She appeared before him in a hundred shapes, now one, now the other; but all possessed with a terrible fascination from which it was in vain for him to try to flee.
Which was she, then--the pale, and sensitive, and thoughtful-eyed girl who listened with such intense interest to the gloomy tales of the Northern seas; who was so fine, and perfect, and delicate; who walked so gracefully and smiled so sweetly; the timid and gentle companion and friend?
Or the wild coquette, with her arch, shy ways, and her serious laughing, and her befooling of the poor stupid lover? He could hear her laugh now; he could see her feed her canary from her own lips. Where was the old mother whom that madcap girl teased and petted and delighted?
Or was not this she--the calm and gracious woman who received as a matter of right the multitude of attentions that all men--and women too--were glad to pay her? The air fine about her; the south winds fanning her cheek; the day long, and balmy, and clear. The white-sailed boats glide slowly through the water; there is a sound of music and of gentle talk; a butterfly comes fluttering over the blue summer seas. And then there is a murmuring refrain in the lapping of the waves: _Rose Leaf! Rose Leaf! what faint wind will carry you away to the south? _ Or this audacious Duchess of Devonshire, with the flashing black eyes, and a saucy smile on her lips? She knows that every one regards her; but what of that? Away she goes through the brilliant throng with that young Highland officer, with glowing light and gay costumes and joyous music all around her. What do you think of her, you poor clown, standing all alone and melancholy, with your cap and bells? Has she pierced your heart too with a flash of the saucy black eyes?
But there is still another vision; and perhaps this solitary dreamer, who has no eyes for the great slopes of Ben-an-Sloich that stretch into the clouds, and no ears for the soft calling of the sea-birds as they wheel over his head, tries hardest to fix this one in his memory. Here she is the neat and watchful house-mistress, with all things bright and shining around her; and she appears, too, as the meek daughter and the kind and caressing sister. Is it not hard that she should be torn from this quiet little haven of domestic duties and family affection to be bound hand and foot in the chains of art, and flung into the arena to amuse that great ghoul-faced thing, the public? The white slave does not complain. While as yet she may, she presides over the cheerful table; and the beautiful small hands are helpful, and that light morning costume is a wonder of simplicity and grace. And then the garden, and the soft summer air, and the pretty ways of the two sisters: why should not this simple, homely, beautiful life last forever, if only the summer and the roses would last forever?
But suppose now that we turn aside from these fanciful pictures of Macleod's and take a more commonplace one of which he could have no notion whatever. It is night--a wet and dismal night--and a four-wheeled cab is jolting along through the dark and almost deserted thoroughfares of Manchester. Miss Gertrude White is in the cab, and the truth is that she is in a thorough bad temper. Whether it was that the unseemly scuffle that took place in the gallery during the performance, or whether it is that the streets of Manchester, in the midst of rain and after midnight are not inspiriting, or whether it is merely that she has got a headache, it is certain that Miss White is in an ill-humor, and that she has not spoken a word to her maid, her only companion, since together they left the theatre. At length the cab stops opposite a hotel, which is apparently closed for the night. They get out, cross the muddy pavements under the glare of a gas-lamp; after some delay get into the hotel; pass through a dimly lit and empty corridor; and then Miss White bids her maid good-night and opens the door of a small parlor.
Here there is a more cheerful scene. There is a fire in the room; and there is supper laid on the table; while Mr. Septimus White, with his feet on the fender and his back turned to the lamp, is seated in an easy-chair, and holding up a book to the light so that the pages almost touch his gold-rimmed spectacles. Miss White sits down on the sofa on the dark side of the room. She has made no response to his greeting of "Well, Gerty?"
At length Mr. White becomes aware that his daughter is sitting there with her things on, and he turns from his book to her.
"Well, Gerty," he repeats, "aren't you going to have some supper?"
"No, thank you," she says.
"Come, come," he remonstrates, "that won't do. You must have some supper. Shall Jane get you a cup of tea?"
"I don't suppose there is any one up below; besides, I don't want it," says Miss White, rather wearily.
"What is the matter?"
"Nothing," she answers; and then she looks at the mantelpiece. "No letter from Carry?"
"No."
"Well, I hope you won't make her an actress, papa," observes Miss White, with no relevance, but with considerable sharpness in her tone.
In fact, this remark was so unexpected and uncalled-for that Mr. White suddenly put his book down on his knee, and turned his gold spectacles full on his daughter's face.
"I will beg you to remember, Gerty," he remarked, with some dignity, "that I did not make you an actress, if that is what you imply. If it had not been entirely your wish, I should never have encouraged you; and I think it shows great ingratitude, not only to me but to the public also, that when you have succeeded in obtaining a position such as any woman in the country might envy, you treat your good fortune with indifference, and show nothing but discontent. I cannot tell what has come over you of late. You ought certainly to be the last to say anything against a profession that has gained for you such a large share of public favor--" "Public favor!" she said, with a bitter laugh. "Who is the favorite of the public in this very town? Why, the girl who plays in that farce--who smokes a cigarette, and walks round the stage like a man, and dances a breakdown. Why wasn't I taught to dance breakdowns?"
Her father was deeply vexed; for this was not the first time she had dropped small rebellious hints. And if this feeling grew, she might come to question his most cherished theories.
"I should think you were jealous of that girl," said he, petulantly, "if it were not too ridiculous. You ought to remember that she is an established favorite here. She has amused these people year after year; they look on her as an old friend; they are grateful to her. The means she uses to make people laugh may not meet with your approval; but she knows her own business, doubtless; and she succeeds in her own way."
"Ah, well," said Miss White, as she put aside her bonnet, "I hope you won't bring up Carry to this sort of life."
"To what sort of life?" her father exclaimed, angrily. "Haven't you everything that can make life pleasant? I don't know what more you want. You have not a single care. You are petted and caressed wherever you go. And you ought to have the delight of knowing that the further you advance in your art the further rewards are in store for you. The way is clear before you. You have youth and strength; and the public is only too anxious to applaud whatever you undertake. And yet you complain of your manner of life."
"It isn't the life of a human being at all," she said, boldly--but perhaps it was only her headache, or her weariness, or her ill-humor, that drove her to this rebellion; "it is the cutting one's self off from everything that makes life worth having. It is a continual degradation--the exhibition of feelings that ought to be a woman's most sacred and secret possession. And what will the end of it be? Already I begin to think I don't know what I am. I have to sympathize with so many characters--I have to be so many different people--that I don't quite know what my own character is, or if I have any at all--" Her father was staring at her in amazement. What had led her into these fantastic notions? While she was professing that her ambition to become a great and famous actress was the one ruling thought and object of her life, was she really envying the poor domestic drudge whom she saw coming to the theatre to enjoy herself with her fool of a husband, having withdrawn for an hour or two from her housekeeping books and her squalling children? At all events, Miss White left him in no doubt as to her sentiments at that precise moment. She talked rapidly, and with a good deal of bitter feeling; but it was quite obvious, from the clearness of her line of contention, that she had been thinking over the matter. And while it was all a prayer that her sister Carry might be left to live a natural life, and that she should not be compelled to exhibit, for gain or applause, emotions which a woman would naturally lock up in her own heart, it was also a bitter protest against her own lot. What was she to become, she asked? A dram-drinker of fictitious sentiment? A Ten-minutes' Emotionalist? It was this last phrase that flashed in a new light on her father's bewildered mind. He remembered it instantly. So that was the source of inoperation?
"Oh, I see now," he said, with angry scorn. "You have learned your lesson well. A 'Ten-minutes' Emotionalist:' I remember. I was wondering who had put such stuff into your head."
She colored deeply, but said nothing.
"And so you are taking your notion, as to what sort of life you would lead, from a Highland savage--a boor whose only occupations are eating and drinking and killing wild animals. A fine guide, truly! He has had so much experience in æsthetic matters! Or is it _metapheesics_ is his hobby? And what, pray, is his notion as to what life should be? that the noblest object of a man's ambition should be to kill a stag? It was a mistake for Dante to let his work eat into his heart; he should have devoted himself to shooting rabbits. And Raphael--don't you think he would have improved his digestion by giving up pandering to the public taste for pretty things, and taking to hunting wild-boars? that is the theory, isn't it? Is that the _metapheesics_ you have learned?"
"You may talk about it," she said, rather humbly--for she knew very well she could not stand against her father in argument, especially on a subject that he rather prided himself on having mastered--"but you are not a woman, and you don't know what a woman feels about such things."
"And since when have you made the discovery? What has happened to convince you so suddenly that your professional life is a degradation?"
"Oh," she said, carelessly, "I was scarcely thinking of myself. Of course I know what lies before me. It was about Carry I spoke to you."
"Carry shall decide for herself, as you did; and when she has done so, I hope she won't come and blame me the first time she gets some ridiculous idea into her head."
"Now, papa, that isn't fair," the eldest sister said, in a gentler voice. "You know I never blamed you. I only showed you that even a popular actress sometimes remembers that she is a woman. And if she is a woman, you must let her have a grumble occasionally."
This conciliatory tone smoothed the matter down at once; and Mr. White turned to his book with another recommendation to his daughter to take some supper and get to bed.
"I will go now," she said, rather wearily, as she rose. "Good-night, papa--What is that?"
She was looking at a parcel that lay on a chair.
"It came for you, to-night. There was seven and sixpence to pay for extra carriage--it seems to have been forwarded from place to place."
"As if I had not enough luggage to carry about with me!" she said.
But she proceeded to open the parcel all the same, which seemed to be very carefully swathed in repeated covers of canvas. And presently she uttered a slight exclamation. She took up one dark object after another, passing her hand over them, and back again, and finally pressing them to her cheek.
"Just look at these, papa--did you ever in all your life see anything so beautiful?"
She came to a letter, too; which she hastily tore open and read. It was a brief note, in terms of great respect, written by Sir Keith Macleod, and begging Miss White's acceptance of a small parcel of otter-skins, which he hoped might be made into some article of attire. Moreover, he had asked his cousin's advice on the matter; and she thought there were enough; but if Miss White, on further inquiry, found she would rather have one or two more, he had no doubt that within the next month or so he could obtain these also. It was a very respectful note.
But there was no shyness or timidity about the manner of Miss White when she spread those skins out along the sofa, and again and again took them up to praise their extraordinary glossiness and softness.
"Papa," she exclaimed, "it is a present fit for a prince to make!"
"I dare say you will find them useful."
"And whatever is made of them," said she, with decision, "that I shall keep for myself--it won't be one of my stage properties."
Her spirits rose wonderfully. She kept on chatting to her father about these lovely skins, and the jacket she would have of them. She asked why he was so dull that evening. She protested that she would not take any supper unless he had some too: whereupon he had a biscuit and a glass of claret, which, at all events, compelled him to lay aside his book. And then, when she had finished her supper, she suddenly said,-- "Now, Pappy dear, I am going to tell you a great secret. I am going to change the song in the second act."
"Nonsense!" said he; but he was rather glad to see her come back to the interest of her work.
"I am," she said, seriously. "Would you like to hear it?"
"You will wake the house up."
"And if the public expect an actress to please them," she said, saucily, "they must take the consequences of her practising."
She went to the piano, and opened it. There was a fine courage in her manner as she struck the chords and sang the opening lines of the gay song:-- "'Threescore o' nobles rode up the King's ha' But bonnie Glenogie's the flower of them a', Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie black e'e.'" --but here her voice dropped, and it was almost in a whisper that she let the maiden of the song utter the secret wish of her heart-- "'_Glenogie, dear mither, Glenogie for me_.'
"Of course," she said, turning round to her father, and speaking in a business-like way, though there was a spice of proud mischief in her eyes, "There is a stumbling-block, or where would the story be! Glenogie is poor; the mother will not let her daughter have anything to do with him; the girl takes to her bed with the definite intention of dying."
She turned to the piano again. " 'There is, Glenogie, a letter for thee, Oh, there is, Glenogie, a letter for thee. The first line he looked at, a light laugh laughed he; But ere he read through it, tears blinded his e'e.' "How do you like the air, papa?"
Mr. White did not seem over well pleased. He was quite aware that his daughter was a very clever young woman; and he did not know what insane idea might have got into her head of throwing an allegory at him.
"The air," said he, coldly, "is well enough. But I hope you don't expect an English audience to understand that doggerel Scotch."
"Glenogie understand it, any way," said she, blithely, "and naturally he rode off at once to see his dying sweetheart. " 'Pale and wan was she, when Glenogie gaed ben, But rosy-red grew she when Glenogie sat down. She turned away her head, but the smile was in her e'e, _Oh, binna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee_.'"
She shut the piano.
"Isn't it charmingly simple and tender, papa?" she said, with the same mischief in her eyes.
"I think it is foolish of you to think of exchanging that piece of doggerel--" "For what?" said she, standing in the middle of the room. "For this?"
And therewith she sang these lines--giving an admirable burlesque imitation of herself, and her own gestures, and her own singing in the part she was then performing:-- "The morning bells are swinging, ringing, Hail to the day! The birds are winging, singing To the golden day-- To the joyous day-- The morning bells are swinging, ringing, And what do they say? O bring my love to my love! O bring my love to-day! O bring my love to my love! To be my love alway!'"
It certainly was cruel to treat poor Mrs. Ross's home-made lyrics so; but Miss White was burlesquing herself as well as the song she had to sing. And as her father did not know to what lengths this iconoclastic fit might lead her, he abruptly bade her good-night and went to bed, no doubt hoping that next morning would find the demon exorcised from his daughter.
As for her, she had one more loving look over the skins, and then she carefully read through the note that accompanied them. There was a smile on her face--perhaps of pleasure, perhaps of amusement at the simplicity of the lines. However, she turned aside, and got hold of a small writing-desk, which she placed on the table. " 'Oh, here is, Glenogie, a letter for thee,'" she hummed to herself, with a rather proud look on her face, as she seated herself and opened the desk.
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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17
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"FHIR A BHATA!"
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Young Ogilvie had obtained some brief extension of his leave, but even that was drawing to a close; and Macleod saw with a secret dread that the hour of his departure was fast approaching. And yet he had not victimized the young man. After that first burst of confidence he had been sparing in his references to the trouble that had beset him. Of what avail, besides, could Mr. Ogilvie's counsels be? Once or twice he had ventured to approach the subject with some commonplace assurances that there were always difficulties in the way of two people getting married, and that they had to be overcome with patience and courage. The difficulties that Macleod knew of as between himself and that impossible goal were deeper than any mere obtaining of the consent of friends or the arrangement of a way of living. From the moment that the terrible truth was forced on him he had never regarded his case but as quite hopeless; and yet that in no way moderated his consuming desire to see her--to hear her speak--even to have correspondence with her. It was something that he could send her a parcel of otter-skins.
But all the same Mr. Ogilvie was in some measure a friend of hers. He knew her--he had spoken to her--no doubt when he returned to the South he would see her one day or another, and he would surely speak of the visit he had paid to Castle Dare. Macleod set about making that visit as pleasant as might be, and the weather aided him. The fair heavens shone over the windy blue seas; and the green island of Ulva lay basking in the sunlight, and as the old _Umpire_, with her heavy bows parting the rushing waves, carried them out to the west, they could see the black skarts standing on the rocks of Gometra, and clouds of puffins wheeling round the dark and lonely pillars of Staffa; while away in the north, as they got clear of Treshanish Point, the mountains of Rum and of Skye appeared a pale and spectral blue, like ghostly shadows at the horizon. And there was no end to the sports and pastimes that occupied day after day. On their first expedition up the lonely corries of Ben-an-Sloich young Ogilvie brought down a royal hart--though his hand trembled for ten minutes after he pulled the trigger. They shot wild duck in Loch Scridain, and seals in Loch-na-Keal, and rock-pigeons along the face of the honey-combed cliffs of Gribun. And what was this new form of sport? They were one day being pulled in the gig up a shallow loch in the hope of finding a brood or two of young mergansers, when Macleod, who was seated up at the bow, suddenly called to the man to stop. He beckoned to Ogilvie, who went forward and saw, quietly moving over the sea-weed, a hideously ugly fish with the flat head and sinister eyes of a snake. Macleod picked up the boat-hook, steadied himself in the boat, and then drove the iron spike down.
"I have him," he said. "That is the snake of the sea--I hate him as I hate a serpent."
He hoisted out of the water the dead dog-fish, which was about four feet long, and then shook it back.
"Here, Ogilvie," said he, "take the boat-hook. There are plenty about here. Make yourself St. Patrick exterminating snakes."
Ogilvie tried the dog-fish spearing with more or less success; but it was the means of procuring for him a bitter disappointment. As they went quietly over the sea-weed--the keel of the boat hissing through it and occasionally grating on the sand--they perceived that the water was getting a bit deeper, and it was almost impossible to strike the boat-hook straight. At this moment, Ogilvie, happening to cast a glance along the rocks close by them, started and seized Macleod's arm. What the frightened eyes of the younger man seemed to see was a great white and gray object lying on the rocks, and staring at him with huge black eyes. At first it almost appeared to him to be a man with a grizzled and hairy face; then he tried to think of some white beast with big black eyes; then he knew. For the next second there was an unwieldy roll down the rocks, and then a heavy splash in the water; and the huge gray seal had disappeared. And there he stood helpless, with the boat-hook in his hand.
"It is my usual luck," said he, in despair. "If I had had my rifle in my hand, we should never have got within a hundred yards of the beast. But I got an awful fright. I never before saw a live seal just in front of one's nose like that."
"You would have missed him," said Macleod, coolly.
"At a dozen yards?"
"Yes. When you come on one so near as that, you are too startled to take aim. You would have blazed away and missed."
"I don't think so," said Ogilvie, with some modest persistence. "When I shot that stag, I was steady enough, though I felt my heart thumping away like fun."
"There you had plenty of time to take your aim--and a rock to rest your rifle on." And then he added: "You would have broken Hamish's heart, Ogilvie, if you had missed that stag. He was quite determined you should have one on your first day out; and I never saw him take such elaborate precautions before. I suppose it was terribly tedious to you; but you may depend on it it was necessary. There isn't one of the younger men can match Hamish, though he was bred a sailor."
"Well," Mr. Ogilvie admitted, "I began to think we were having a great deal of trouble for nothing; especially when it seemed as though the wind were blowing half a dozen ways in the one valley."
"Why, man," Macleod said, "Hamish knows every one of those eddies just as if they were all down on a chart. And he is very determined, too, you shall have another stag before you go, Ogilvie; for it is not much amusement we have been giving you since you came to us."
"That is why I feel so particularly jolly at the notion of having to go back," said Mr. Ogilvie, with very much the air of a schoolboy at the end of his holiday. "The day after to-morrow, too!"
"To-morrow, then, we will try to get a stag for you; and the day after you can spend what time you can at the pools in Glen Muick."
These last two days were right royal days for the guest at Castle Dare. On the deer-stalking expedition Macleod simply refused to take his rifle with him and spent all his time in whispered consultations with Hamish, and with eager watching of every bird whose solitary flight along the mountain-side might startle the wary hinds. After a long day of patient and stealthy creeping, and walking through bogs and streams, and slow toiling up rocky slopes, the party returned home in the evening; and when it was found that a splendid stag--with brow, bay, and tray, and crockets complete--was strapped on to the pony, and when the word was passed that Sandy the red-haired and John from the yacht were to take back the pony to a certain well-known cairn where another monarch of the hills lay slain, there was a great rejoicing through Castle Dare, and Lady Macleod herself must needs come out to shake hands with her guest, and to congratulate him on his good fortune.
"It is little we have been able to do to entertain you," said the old silver-haired lady, "but I am glad you have got a stag or two."
"I knew what Highland hospitality was before I came to Castle Dare," said the boy, modestly. "But you have been kinder to me even than anything I knew before."
"And you will leave the heads with Hamish," said she, "and we will send them to Glasgow to be mounted for you, and then we will send them South to you."
"Indeed no," said he (though he was thinking to himself that it was no wonder the Macleods of Dare were poor); "I will not put you to any such trouble. I will make my own arrangements with Hamish."
"Then you will tell him not to forget Aldershot."
"I think, Lady Macleod," said the young lieutenant, "that my mess-companions will be sorry to hear that I have left Dare. I should think they ought to have drunk your health many times ere now."
Next day, moreover, he was equally successful by the side of the deep brown pools in Glen Muick. He was a pretty fair fisherman, though he had had but small experience with such a mighty engine of a rod as Hamish put into his hands. When, however, he showed Hamish the fine assortment of salmon flies he had brought with him, the old man only shook his head. Thereafter, whenever Hamish went with him, nothing was said about flies until they neared the side of the brawling stream that came pouring down between the gray rocks and the patches of moist brown moor. Hamish would sit down on a stone, and take out a tin box and open it. Then he would take a quick look round--at the aspect of the clouds, the direction of the wind, and so forth; and then, with a nimbleness that any one looking at his rough hands and broad thumbs would have considered impossible, would busk up a weapon of capture that soon showed itself to be deadly enough. And on this last day of Ogilvie's stay at Castle Dare he was unusually lucky--though of course there were one or two heartrending mishaps. As they walked home in the evening--the lowering day had cleared away into a warm sunset, and they could see Colonsay, and Fladda, and the Dutchman's Cap, lying dark and purple on a golden sea--Ogilvie said:-- "Look here, Macleod, if you would like me to take one of these salmon for Miss White, I could take it as part of my luggage, and have it delivered at once."
"That would be no use," said he, rather gloomily. "She is not in London. She is at Liverpool or Manchester by this time. I have already sent her a present."
Ogilvie did not think fit to ask what; though he had guessed.
"It was a parcel of otter-skins," Macleod said. "You see, you might present that to any lady--it is merely a curiosity of the district--it is no more than if an acquaintance were to give me a chip of quartz he had brought from the Rocky Mountains with a few grains of copper or silver in it."
"It is a present any lady would be glad to have," observed Mr. Ogilvie, with a smile. "Has she got them yet?"
"I do not know," Macleod answered. "Perhaps there is not time for an answer. Perhaps she has forgotten who I am, and is affronted at a stranger sending her a present."
"Forgotten who you are!" Ogilvie exclaimed; and then he looked round to see that Hamish and Sandy the red-haired were at a convenient distance. "Do you know this, Macleod? A man never yet was in love with a woman without the woman being instantly aware of it."
Macleod glanced at him quickly; then turned away his head again, apparently watching the gulls wheeling high over the sea--black spots against the glow of the sunset.
"That is foolishness," said he. "I had a great care to be quite a stranger to her all the time I was in London. I myself scarcely knew--how could she know? Sometimes I thought I was rude to her, so that I should deceive myself into believing she was only a stranger."
Then he remembered one fact, and his downright honesty made him speak again.
"One night, it is true," said he--"it was the last night of my being in London--I asked a flower from her. She gave it to me. She was laughing at the time. That was all."
The sunset had gone away, and the clear northern twilight was fading too, when young Ogilvie, having bade good-bye to Lady Macleod and her niece Janet, got into the broad-beamed boat of the fishermen, accompanied by his friend. There was something of a breeze, and they hoisted a lugsail so that they should run out to meet the steamer. Donald the piper lad was not with them; Macleod wanted to speak to his friend Ogilvie as he was leaving.
And yet he did not say anything of importance. He seemed to be chiefly interested in finding out whether Ogilvie could not get a few days' leave, about Christmas, that he might come up and try the winter shooting. He was giving minute particulars about the use of arsenic paste when the box of skins to be despatched by Hamish reached London; and he was discussing what sort of mounting should be put on a strange old bottle that Janet Macleod had presented to the departing guest. There was no word of that which lay nearest his heart.
And so the black waves rolled by them; and the light at the horizon began to fade; and the stars were coming out one by one; while the two sailors forward (for Macleod was steering) were singing to themselves: "_Fhir a bhata (na horo eile) Fhir a bhata (na horo eile) Fhir a bhata (na horo eile) Chead soire slann leid ge thobh a theid u! _" that is to say, "O Boatman, And Boatman, And Boatman, A hundred farewells to you wherever you may go!"
And then the lugsail was hauled down, and they lay on the lapping water; and they could hear all around them the soft callings of the guillemots and razor-bills, and other divers whose home is the heaving wave. And then the great steamer came up and slowed; and the boat was hauled alongside and young Ogilvie sprang up the slippery steps.
"Good-bye, Macleod!"
"Good-bye, Ogilvie! Come up at Christmas."
The great bulk of the steamer soon floated away, and the lugsail was run up again, and the boat made slowly back for Castle Dare. "Fhir a bhata!" the men sung; but Macleod scarcely heard them. His last tie with the South had been broken.
But not quite. It was about ten o'clock that night that word came to Castle Dare that Dugald the Post had met with an accident that morning while starting from Bunessan; and that his place had been taken by a young lad who had but now arrived with the bag. Macleod hastily looked over the bundle of newspapers, etc., they brought him and his eager eyes fell on an envelope, the writing on which made his heart jump.
"Give the lad a half-crown," said he.
And then he went to his own room. He had the letter in his hand; and he knew the handwriting: but there was no wind of the night that could bring him the mystic message she had sent with it: "_Oh, here is, Glenogie, a letter for thee! _"
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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18
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CONFIDENCES.
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For a second or two he held the letter in his hand, regarding the outside of it; and it was with more deliberation than haste that he opened it. Perhaps it was with some little tremor of fear--lest the first words that should meet his eye might be cruelly cold and distant. What right had he to expect anything else? Many a time, in thinking carefully over the past, he had recalled the words--the very tone--in which he had addressed her, and had been dismayed to think of their reserve, which had on one or two occasions almost amounted to austerity. He could expect little beyond a formal acknowledgment of the receiving of his letter, and the present that had accompanied it.
Imagine, then, his surprise when he took out from the envelope a number of sheets closely written over in her beautiful, small, neat hand. Hastily his eye ran over the first few lines; and then surprise gave way to a singular feeling of gratitude and joy. Was it indeed she who was writing to him thus? When he had been thinking of her as some one far away and unapproachable--who could have no thought of him or of the too brief time in which he had been near to her--had she indeed been treasuring up some recollection that she now seemed disposed to value?
"You will guess that I am woman enough," she wrote, "to be greatly pleased and flattered by your sending me such a beautiful present; but you must believe me when I say that its chief value to me was its showing me that I had another friend in the world who was not disposed to forget me the next day after bidding me good-bye. Perhaps you will say that I am cynical; but actresses are accustomed to find the friendships they make--outside the sphere of their own profession--of a singularly temporary character. We are praised and flattered to-day, and forgotten to-morrow. I don't complain. It is only natural. People go away to their own families and home occupations; why should they remember a person who has amused them for an hour?"
Miss Gertrude White could, when she chose, write a clever and interesting letter--interesting from its very simplicity and frankness; and as Macleod read on and on, he ceased to feel any wonder that this young lady should be placing before him such ample revelations of her experiences and opinions. Indeed, it was more than suggested in this confidential chat that Sir Keith Macleod himself had been the first cause of her having carefully studied her own position, and the influence likely to be exerted on her by her present mode of life.
"One meets with the harsher realities of an actress's life," she said, "in the provinces. It is all very fine in London, when all the friends you happen to have are in town, and where there is constant amusement, and pleasant parties, and nice people to meet; and then you have the comforts of your own home around you, and quiet and happy Sundays. But a provincial tour! --the constant travelling, and rehearsals with strange people, and damp lodgings, and miserable hotels, and wet Sundays in smoky towns! Papa is very good and kind, you know; but he is interested in his books, and he goes about all day hunting after curiosities, and one has not a soul to speak to. Then the audiences: I have witnessed one or two scenes lately that would unnerve any one; and of course I have to stand helpless and silent on the stage until the tumult is stilled and the original offenders expelled. Some sailors the other evening amused themselves by clambering down the top gallery to the pit, hanging on to the gas-brackets and the pillars; and one of them managed to reach the orchestra, jump from the drum on to the stage, and then offered me a glass of whiskey from a big black bottle he had in his hand. When I told papa, he laughed, and said I should be proud of my triumph over the man's imagination. But when the people roared with laughter at my discomfiture, I felt as though I would rather be earning my bread by selling watercresses in the street or by stitching in a garret."
Of course the cry of the poor injured soul found a ready echo in his heart. It was monstrous that she should be subjected to such indignities. And then that cruel old pagan of a father--was he not ashamed of himself to see the results of his own cold-blooded theories? Was this the glory of art? Was this the reward of the sacrifice of a life? That a sensitive girl should be publicly insulted by a tipsy maniac, and jeered at by a brutal crowd? Macleod laid down the letter for a minute or two, and the look on his face was not lovely to see.
"You may think it strange that I should write thus to you," she said; "but if I say that it was yourself who first set me thinking about such things? And since I have been thinking about them I have had no human being near me to whom I could speak. You know papa's opinions. Even if my dearest friend, Mrs. Ross, were here, what would she say? She has known me only in London. She thinks it a fine thing to be a popular actress. She sees people ready to pet me, in a way--so long as society is pleased to have a little curiosity about me. But she does not see the other side of the picture. She does not even ask how long all this will last. She never thinks of the cares and troubles and downright hard work. If ever you heard me sing, you will know that I have very little of a voice, and that not worth much; but trifling as it is, you would scarcely believe the care and cultivation I have to spend on it, merely for business purposes. Mrs. Ross, no doubt, sees that it is pleasant enough for a young actress, who is fortunate enough to have won some public favor, to go sailing in a yacht on the Thames, on a summer day, with nice companions around her. She does not see her on a wet day in Newcastle, practising scales for an hour at a stretch, though her throat is half choked with the fog, in a dismal parlor with a piano out of tune, and with the prospect of having to go out through the wet to a rehearsal in a damp and draughty theatre, with escaped gas added to the fog. That is very nice, isn't it?"
It almost seemed to him--so intense and eager was his involuntary sympathy--as though he himself were breathing fog, and gas, and the foul odors of an empty theatre. He went to the window and threw it open, and sat down there. The stars were no longer quivering white on the black surface of the water, for the moon had risen now in the south, and there was a soft glow all shining over the smooth Atlantic. Sharp and white was the light on the stone-walls of Castle Dare, and on the gravelled path, and the rocks and the trees around; but faraway it was a milder radiance that lay over the sea, and touched here and there the shores of Inch Kenneth and Ulva and Colonsay. It was a fair and peaceful night, with no sound of human unrest to break the sleep of the world. Sleep, solemn and profound, dwelt over the lonely islands--over Staffa, with her resounding caves, and Fiadda, with her desolate rocks, and Iona, with her fairy-white sands, and the distant Dutchman, and Coll, and Tiree, all haunted by the wild sea-birds' cry; and a sleep as deep dwelt over the silent hills, far up under the cold light of the skies. Surely, if any poor suffering heart was vexed by the contentions of crowded cities, here, if anywhere in the world, might rest and peace and loving solace be found. He sat dreaming there; he had half forgotten the letter.
He roused himself from his reverie, and returned to the light.
"And yet I would not complain of mere discomfort," she continued, "if that were all. People who have to work for their living must not be too particular. What pains me most of all is the effect that this sort of work is having on myself. You would not believe--and I am almost ashamed to confess--how I am worried by small and mean jealousies and anxieties, and how I am tortured by the expression of opinions which, all the same, I hold in contempt. I reason with myself to no purpose. It ought to be no concern of mine if some girl in a burlesque makes the house roar, by the manner in which she walks up and down the stage smoking a cigar; and yet I feel angry at the audience for applauding such stuff, and I wince when I see her praised in the papers. Oh! these papers! I have been making minute inquiries of late; and I find that the usual way in these towns is to let the young literary aspirant who has just joined the office, or the clever compositor who has been promoted to the sub-editor's room, try his hand first of all at reviewing books, and then turn him on to dramatic and musical criticism! Occasionally a reporter, who has been round the police courts to get notes of the night charges, will drop into the theatre on his way to the office, and 'do a par.,' as they call it. Will you believe it possible that the things written of me by these persons--with their pretentious airs of criticism, and their gross ignorance cropping up at every point--have the power to vex and annoy me most terribly? I laugh at the time, but the phrase rankles in my memory all the same. One learned young man said of me the other day: 'It is really distressing to mark the want of unity in her artistic characterizations when one regards the natural advantages that nature has heaped upon her with no sparing hand.' The natural advantages that nature has heaped upon me! 'And perhaps, also,' he went on to say, 'Miss White would do well to pay some little more attention before venturing on pronouncing the classic names of Greece. Iphigenia herself would not have answered to her name if she had heard it pronounced with the accent on the fourth syllable.'"
Macleod brought his fist down on the table with a bang.
"If I had that fellow," said he, aloud--"if I had that fellow, I should like to spin for a shark off Dubh Artach lighthouse." And here a most unholy vision rose before him of a new sort of sport--a sailing launch going about six knots an hour, a goodly rope at the stern with a huge hook through the gill of the luckless critic, a swivel to make him spin, and then a few smart trips up and down by the side of the lonely Dubh Artach rocks, where Mr. Ewing and his companions occasionally find a few sharks coming up to the surface to stare at them.
"Is it not too ridiculous that such things should vex me--that I should be so absolutely at the mercy of the opinion of people whose judgment I know to be absolutely valueless? I find the same thing all around me. I find a middle-aged man, who knows his work thoroughly, and has seen all the best actors of the past quarter of a century, will go about quite proudly with a scrap of approval from some newspaper, written by a young man who has never travelled beyond the suburbs of his native town, and has seen no acting beyond that of the local company. But there is another sort of critic--the veteran, the man who has worked hard on the paper and worn himself out, and who is turned off from politics, and pensioned by being allowed to display his imbecility in less important matters. Oh dear! what lessons he reads you! The solemnity of them! Don't you know that at the end of the second act the business of Mrs. So-and-So (some actress who died when George IV. was king) was this, that, or the other? --and how dare you, you impertinent minx, fly in the face of well-known stage traditions? I have been introduced lately to a specimen of both classes. I think the young man--he had beautiful long fair hair and a Byronic collar, and was a little nervous--fell in love with me, for he wrote a furious panegyric of me, and sent it next morning with a bouquet, and begged for my photograph. The elderly gentleman, on the other hand, gave me a great deal of good advice; but I subdued even him, for before he went away he spoke in a broken voice, and there were tears in his eyes, which papa said were owing to a variety of causes. It is ludicrous enough, no doubt, but it is also a little bit humiliating. I try to laugh the thing away, whether the opinion expressed about me is solemnly stupid or merely impertinent, but the vexation of it remains; and the chief vexation to me is that I should have so little command of myself, so little respect for myself, as to suffer myself to be vexed. But how can one help it? Public opinion is the very breath and life of a theatre and of every one connected with it; and you come to attach importance to the most foolish expression of opinion in the most obscure print."
"And so, my dear friend, I have had my grumble out--and made my confession too, for I should not like to let every one know how foolish I am about those petty vexations--and you will see that I have not forgotten what you said to me, and that further reflection and experience have only confirmed it. But I must warn you. Now that I have victimized you to this fearful extent, and liberated my mind, I feel much more comfortable. As I write, there is a blue color coming into the window that tells me the new day is coming. Would it surprise you if the new day brought a complete new set of feelings? I have begun to doubt whether I have got any opinions--whether, having to be so many different people in the course of a week, I have any clear notion as to what I myself am. One thing is certain, that I have been greatly vexed and worried of late by a succession of the merest trifles; and when I got your kind letter and present this evening, I suddenly thought, Now for a complete confession and protest. I know you will forgive me for having victimized you, and that as soon as you have thrown this rambling epistle into the fire you will try to forget all the nonsense it contains and will believe that I hope always to remain your friend, "GERTRUDE WHITE."
His quick and warm sympathy refused to believe the half of this letter. It was only because she knew what was owing to the honor and self-respect of a true woman that she spoke in this tone of bitter and scornful depreciation of herself. It was clear that she was longing for the dignity and independence of a more natural way of life. And this revelation--that she was not, after all, banished forever into that cold region of art in which her father would fain keep her--somewhat bewildered him at first. The victim might be reclaimed from the altar and restored to the sphere of simple human affections, natural duties, and joy? And if he-- Suddenly, and with a shock of delight that made his heart throb, he tried to picture this beautiful fair creature sitting over there in that very chair by the side of the fire, her head bent down over her sewing, the warm light of the lamp touching the tender curve of her cheek. And when she lifted her head to speak to him--and when her large and lambent eyes met his--surely Fionaghal, the fair poetess from strange lands, never spoke in softer tones than this other beautiful stranger, who was now his wife and his heart's companion. And now he would bid her lay aside her work, and he would get a white shawl for her, and like a ghost she would steal out with him into the moonlight air. And is there enough wind on this summer night to take them out from the sombre shore to the open plain of the sea? Look now, as the land recedes, at the high walls of Castle Dare, over the black cliffs, and against the stars. Far away they see the graveyard of Inch Kenneth, the stones pale in the moonlight. And what song will she sing now, that Ulva and Colonsay may awake and fancy that some mermaiden is singing to bewail her lost lover? The night is sad, and the song is sad; and then, somehow, he finds himself alone in this waste of water, and all the shores of the islands are silent and devoid of life, and there is only the echo of the sad singing in his ears-- He jumps to his feet, for there is a knocking at the door. The gentle Cousin Janet enters, and hastily he thrusts that letter into his pocket, while his face blushes hotly.
"Where have you been, Keith?" she says, in her quiet, kindly way. "Auntie would like to say good-night to you now."
"I will come directly," said he.
"And now that Norman Ogilvie is away, Keith," said she, "you will take more rest about the shooting; for you have not been looking like yourself at all lately; and you know, Keith, when you are not well and happy, it is no one at all about Dare that is happy either. And that is why you will take care of yourself."
He glanced at her rather uneasily; but he said, in a light and careless way,-- "Oh, I have been well enough, Janet, except that I was not sleeping well one or two nights. And if you look after me like that, you will make me think I am a baby, and you will send me some warm flannels when I go up on the hills."
"It is too proud of your hardihood you are, Keith," said his cousin, with a smile. "But there never was a man of your family who would take any advice."
"I would take any advice from you, Janet," said he; and therewith he followed her to bid good-night to the silver-haired mother.
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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19
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A RESOLVE.
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He slept but little that night, and early the next morning he was up and away by himself--paying but little heed to the rushing blue seas, and the white gulls, and the sunshine touching the far sands on the shores of Iona. He was in a fever of unrest. He knew not what to make of that letter; it might mean anything or nothing. Alternations of wild hope and cold despair succeeded each other. Surely it was unusual for a girl so to reveal her innermost confidences to any one whom she considered a stranger? To him alone had she told this story of her private troubles. Was it not in effect asking for a sympathy which she could not hope for from any other? Was it not establishing a certain secret between them? Her own father did not know. Her sister was too young to be told. Friends like Mrs. Ross could not understand why this young and beautiful actress, the favorite of the public, could be dissatisfied with her lot. It was to him alone she had appealed.
And then again he read the letter. The very frankness of it made him fear. There was none of the shyness of a girl writing to one who might be her lover. She might have written thus to one of her school-companions. He eagerly searched it for some phrase of tenderer meaning; but no there was a careless abandonment about it, as if she had been talking without thinking of the person she addressed. She had even joked about a young man falling in love with her. It was a matter of perfect indifference to her. It was ludicrous as the shape of the lad's collar was ludicrous, but of no more importance. And thus she receded from his imagination again, and became a thing apart--the white slave bound in those cruel chains that seemed to all but herself and him the badges of triumph.
_Herself and him_--the conjunction set his heart throbbing quickly. He eagerly bethought himself how this secret understanding could be strengthened, if only he might see her and speak to her. He could tell by her eyes what she meant, whatever her words might be. _If only he could see her again:_ all his wild hopes, and fears, and doubts--all his vague fancies and imaginings--began to narrow themselves down to this one point; and this immediate desire became all-consuming. He grew sick at heart when he looked round and considered how vain was the wish.
The gladness had gone from the face of Keith Macleod. Not many months before, any one would have imagined that the life of this handsome young fellow, whose strength, and courage, and high spirits seemed to render him insensible to any obstacle, had everything in it that the mind of man could desire. He had a hundred interests and activities; he had youth and health, and a comely presence; he was on good terms with everybody around him--for he had a smile and a cheerful word for each one he met, gentle or simple. All this gay, glad life seemed to have fled. The watchful Hamish was the first to notice that his master began to take less and less interest in the shooting and boating and fishing; and at times the old man was surprised and disturbed by an exhibition of querulous impatience that had certainly never before been one of Macleod's failings. Then his cousin Janet saw that he was silent and absorbed; and his mother inquired once or twice why he did not ask one or other of his neighbors to come over to Dare to have a day's shooting with him.
"I think you are finding the place lonely, Keith, now that Norman Ogilvie is gone," said she.
"Ah, mother," he said, with a laugh, "it is not Norman Ogilvie, it is London, that has poisoned my mind. I should never have gone to the South. I am hungering for the fleshpots of Egypt already; and I am afraid some day I will have to come and ask you to let me go away again."
He spoke jestingly, and yet he was regarding his mother.
"I know it is not pleasant for a young man to be kept fretting at home," said she. "But it is not long now I will ask you to do that, Keith."
Of course this brief speech only drove him into more vigorous demonstration that he was not fretting at all; and for a time he seemed more engrossed than ever in all the occupations he had but recently abandoned. But whether he was on the hillside, or down in the glen, or out among the islands, or whether he was trying to satisfy the hunger of his heart with books long after every one in Castle Dare had gone to bed, he could not escape from this gnawing and torturing anxiety. It was no beautiful and gentle sentiment that possessed him--a pretty thing to dream about during a summer's morning--but, on the contrary, a burning fever of unrest, that left him peace nor day nor night. "Sudden love is followed by sudden hate," says the Gaelic proverb; but there had been no suddenness at all about this passion that had stealthily got hold of him; and he had ceased even to hope that it might abate or depart altogether. He had to "dree his weird." And when he read in books about the joy and delight that accompany the awakening of love--how the world suddenly becomes fair, and the very skies are bluer than their wont--he wondered whether he was different from other human beings. The joy and delight of love? He knew only a sick hunger of the heart and a continual and brooding despair.
One morning he was going along the cliffs, his only companion being the old black retriever, when suddenly he saw, far away below him, the figure of a lady. For a second his heart stood still at the sight of this stranger; for he knew it was neither the mother nor Janet; and she was coming along a bit of greensward from which, by dint of much climbing, she might have reached Castle Dare. But as he watched her he caught sight of some other figures, farther below on the rocks. And then he perceived--as he saw her return with a handful of bell-heather--that this party had come from Iona, or Bunessan, or some such place, to explore one of the great caves on this coast, while this lady had wandered away from them in search of some wild flowers. By and by he saw the small boat, with its spritsail white in the sun, go away toward the south, and the lonely coast was left as lonely as before.
But ever after that he grew to wonder what Gertrude White, if ever she could be persuaded to visit his home, would think of this thing and of that thing--what flowers she would gather--whether she would listen to Hamish's stories of the fairies--whether she would be interested in her small countryman, Johnny Wickes, who was now in kilts, with his face and legs as brown as a berry--whether the favorable heavens would send her sunlight and blue skies, and the moonlight nights reveal to her the solemn glory of the sea and the lonely islands. Would she take his hand to steady herself in passing over the slippery rocks? What would she say if suddenly she saw above her--by the opening of a cloud--a stag standing high on a crag near the summit of Ben-an-Sloich? And what would the mother and Janet say to that singing of hers, if they were to hear her put all the tenderness of the low, sweet voice into "Wae's me for Prince Charlie?"
There was one secret nook that more than any other he associated with her presence; and thither he would go when this heart-sickness seemed too grievous to be borne. It was down in a glen beyond the fir-wood; and here the ordinary desolation of this bleak coast ceased, for there were plenty of young larches on the sides of the glen, with a tall silver-birch or two; while down in the hollow there were clumps of alders by the side of the brawling stream. And this dell that he sought was hidden away from sight, with the sun but partially breaking through the alders and rowans, and bespeckling the great gray boulders by the side of the burn, many of which were covered by the softest of olive-green moss. Here, too, the brook, that had been broken just above by intercepting stones, swept clearly and limpidly over a bed of smooth rock; and in the golden-brown water the trout lay, and scarcely moved until some motion of his hand made them shoot up stream with a lightning speed. And then the wild flowers around--the purple ling and red bell-heather growing on the silver-gray rocks; a foxglove or two towering high above the golden-green breckans; the red star of a crane's-bill among the velvet moss. Even if she were overawed by the solitariness of the Atlantic and the gloom of the tall cliffs and their yawning caves, surely here would be a haven of peace and rest, with sunshine, and flowers, and the pleasant murmur of the stream. What did it say, then, as one sat and listened in the silence? When the fair poetess from strange lands came among the Macleods, did she seek out this still retreat, and listen, and listen, and listen until she caught the music of this monotonous murmur, and sang it to her harp? And was it not all a song about the passing away of life, and how that summer days were for the young, and how the world was beautiful for lovers? "Oh, children!" it seemed to say, "why should you waste your lives in vain endeavor, while the winter is coming quick, and the black snowstorms, and a roaring of wind from the sea? Here I have flowers for you, and beautiful sunlight, and the peace of summer days. Time passes--time passes--time passes--and you are growing old. While as yet the heart is warm and the eye is bright, here are summer flowers for you, and a silence fit for the mingling of lovers' speech. If you listen not, I laugh at you and go my way. But the winter is coming fast."
Far away in these grimy towns, fighting with mean cares and petty jealousies, dissatisfied, despondent, careless as to the future, how could this message reach her to fill her heart with the singing of a bird? He dared not send it, at all events. But he wrote to her. And the bitter travail of the writing of that letter he long remembered. He was bound to give her his sympathy, and to make light as well as he could of those very evils which he had been the first to reveal to her. He tried to write in as frank and friendly a spirit as she had done; the letter was quite cheerful.
"Did you know," said he, "that once upon a time the chief of the Macleods married a fairy? And whether Macleod did not treat her well, or whether the fairy-folk reclaimed her, or whether she grew tired of the place, I do not know quite; but, at all events, they were separated, and she went away to her own people. But before she went away she gave to Macleod a fairy banner--the _Bratach sith_ it is known as--and she told him that if ever he was in great peril, or had any great desire, he was to wave that flag, and whatever he desired would come to pass. But the virtue of the _Bratach sith_ would depart after it had been waved three times. Now the small green banner has been waved only twice; and now I believe it is still preserved in the Castle of Dunvegan, with power to work one more miracle on behalf of the Macleods. And if I had the fairy flag, do you know what I would do with it? I would take it in my hand, and say: '_I desire the fairy people to remove my friend Gertrude White from all the evil influences that disturb and distress her. I desire them to heal her wounded spirit, and secure for her everything that may tend to her lifelong happiness. And I desire that all the theatres in the kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland--with all their musical instruments, lime-light, and painted scenes--may be taken and dropped into the ocean, midway between the islands of Ulva and Coll, so that the fairy folk may amuse them selves in them if they will so please_.' Would not that be a very nice form of incantation? We are very strong believers here in the power of one person to damage another in absence; and when you can kill a man by sticking pins into a waxen image of him--which everybody knows to be true--surely you ought to be able to help a friend, especially with the aid of the _Bratach sith_. Imagine Covent Garden Theatre a hundred fathoms down in the deep sea, with mermaidens playing the brass instruments in the orchestra, and the fairy-folk on the stage, and seals disporting themselves in the stalls, and guillemots shooting about the upper galleries in pursuit of fish. But we should get no peace from Iona. The fairies there are very pious people. They used to carry St. Columba about when he got tired. They would be sure to demand the shutting up of all the theatres, and the destruction of the brass instruments. And I don't see how we could reasonably object."
It was a cruel sort of jesting; but how otherwise than as a jest could he convey to her, an actress, his wish that all theatres were at the bottom of the sea? For a brief time that letter seemed to establish some link of communication between him and her. He followed it on its travels by sea and land. He thought of its reaching the house in which she dwelt--perhaps some plain and grimy building in a great manufacturing city, or perhaps a small quiet cottage up by Regent's Park half hidden among the golden leaves of October. Might she not, moreover, after she had opened it and read it, be moved by some passing whim to answer it, though it demanded no answer? He waited for a week, and there was no word or message from the South. She was far away, and silent. And the hills grew lonelier than before, and the sickness of his heart increased.
This state of mind could not last. His longing and impatience and unrest became more than he could bear. It was in vain that he tried to satisfy his imaginative craving with these idle visions of her: it was she herself he must see; and he set about devising all manner of wild excuses for one last visit to the South. But the more he considered these various projects, the more ashamed he grew in thinking of his taking any one of them and placing it before the beautiful old dame who reigned in Castle Dare. He had barely been three months at home; how could he explain to her this sudden desire to go away again?
One morning his cousin Janet came to him.
"Oh, Keith!" said she, "the whole house is in commotion; and Hamish is for murdering some of the lads; and there is no one would dare to bring the news to you. The two young buzzards have escaped!"
"I know it," he said. "I let them out myself."
"You!" she exclaimed in surprise; for she knew the great interest he had shown in watching the habits of the young hawks that had been captured by a shepherd lad.
"Yes; I let them out last night. It was a pity to have them caged up."
"So long as it was yourself, it is all right," she said; and then she was going away. But she paused and turned, and said to him, with a smile, "And I think you should let yourself escape, too, Keith, for it is you too that are caged up; and perhaps you feel it now more since you have been to London. And if you are thinking of your friends in London, why should you not go for another visit to the South before you settle down to the long winter?"
For an instant he regarded her with some fear. Had she guessed his secret? Had she been watching the outward signs of this constant torture he had been suffering? Had she surmised that the otter-skins about which he had asked her advice were not consigned to any one of the married ladies whose acquaintance he had made in the South, and of whom he had chatted freely enough in Castle Dare? Or was this merely a passing suggestion thrown out by one who was always on the lookout to do a kindness?
"Well, I would like to go, Janet," he said, but with no gladness in his voice; "and it is not more than a week or two I should like to be away; but I do not think the mother would like it; and it is enough money I have spent this year already--" "There is no concern about the money, Keith," said she, simply, "since you have not touched what I gave you. And if you are set upon it, you know auntie will agree to whatever you wish."
"But how can I explain to her? It is unreasonable to be going away."
How, indeed, could he explain? He was almost assuming that those gentle eyes now fixed on him could read his heart, and that she would come to aid him in his suffering without any further speech from him. And that was precisely what Janet Macleod did--whether or not she had guessed the cause of his desire to get away.
"If you were a schoolboy, Keith, you would be cleverer at making an excuse for playing truant," she said, laughing. "And I could make one for you now."
"You?"
"I will not call it an excuse, Keith," she said, "because I think you would be doing a good work; and I will bear the expense of it, if you please."
He looked more puzzled than ever.
"When we were at Salen yesterday I saw Major Stuart, and he has just came back from Dunrobin. And he was saying very great things about the machine for the drying of crops in wet weather, and he said he would like to go to England to see the newer ones and all the later improvements, if these was a chance of any one about here going shares with them. And it would not be very much. Keith, if you were to share with him; and the machine it can be moved about very well; and in the bad weather you could give the cotters some help, to say nothing about our own hay and corn. And that is what Major Stuart was saying yesterday, that if there was any place that you wanted a drying-machine for the crops it was in Mull."
"I have been thinking of it myself," he said, absently, "but our farm is too small to make it pay--" "But if Major Stuart will take half the expense? And even if you lost a little, Keith, you would save a great deal to the poorer people who are continually losing their little patches of crops. And will you go and be my agent, Keith, to go and see whether it is practicable?"
"They will not thank you, Janet, for letting them have this help for nothing."
"They shall not have it for nothing," said she--for she had plenty of experience in dealing with the poorer folk around--"they must pay for the fuel that is used. And now, Keith, if it is a holiday you want, will not that be a very good holiday, and one to be used for a very good purpose, too?"
She left him. Where was the eager joy with which he ought to have accepted this offer? Here was the very means placed within his reach of satisfying the craving desire of his heart; and yet, all the same, he seemed to shrink back with a vague and undefined dread. A thousand impalpable fears and doubts beset his mind. He had grown timid as a woman. The old happy audacity had been destroyed by sleepless nights and a torturing anxiety. It was a new thing for Keith Macleod to have become a prey to strange unintelligible forebodings.
But he went and saw Major Stuart--a round, red, jolly little man, with white hair and a cheerful smile, who had a sombre and melancholy wife. Major Stuart received Macleod's offer with great gravity. It was a matter of business that demanded serious consideration. He had worked out the whole system of drying crops with hot air as it was shown him in pamphlets, reports, and agricultural journals, and he had come to the conclusion that--on paper at least--it could be made to pay. What was wanted was to give the thing a practical trial. If the system was sound, surely any one who helped to introduce it into the Western Highlands was doing a very good work indeed. And there was nothing but personal inspection could decide on the various merits of latest improvements.
This was what he said before his wife one night at dinner. But when the ladies had left the room, the little stout major suddenly put up both his hands, snapped his thumb and middle finger, and very cleverly executed one or two reel steps.
"By George! my boy," said he, with a ferocious grin on his face, "I think we will have a little frolic--a little frolic! --a little frolic! You were never shut up in a house for six months with a woman like my wife, were you, Macleod? You were never reminded of your coffin every morning, were you? Macleod, my boy, I am just mad to get after those drying-machines!"
And indeed Macleod could not have had a merrier companion to go South with him than this rubicund major just escaped from the thraldom of his wife. But it was with no such high spirits that Macleod set out. Perhaps it was only the want of sleep that had rendered him nerveless and morbid; but he felt, as he left Castle Dare, that there was a lie in his actions, if not in his words. And as for the future that lay before him, it was a region only of doubt, and vague regrets, and unknown fears; and he was entering upon it without any glimpse of light, and without the guidance of any friendly hand.
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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20
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OTTER-SKINS.
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"AH, pappy," said Miss Gertrude White to her father and she pretended to sigh as she spoke--"this is a change indeed!"
They were driving up to the gate of the small cottage in South Bank. It was the end of October. In the gardens they passed the trees were almost bare; though such leaves as hung sparsely on the branches of the chestnuts and maples were ablaze with russet and gold in the misty sunshine.
"In another week," she continued, "there will not be a leaf left. I dare say there is not a single geranium in the garden. All hands on deck to pipe a farewell: 'Ihr Matten, lebt wohl, Ihr sonnigen Weiden Der Senne muss scheiden, Der Sommer ist hin.'
Farewell to the blue mountains of Newcastle, and the sunlit valleys of Liverpool, and the silver waterfalls of Leeds; the summer is indeed over; and a very nice and pleasant summer we have had of it."
The flavor of sarcasm running through this affected sadness vexed Mr. White, and he answered, sharply, "I think you have little reason to grumble over a tour which has so distinctly added to your reputation."
"I was not aware," said she, with a certain careless sauciness of manner, "that an actress was allowed to have a reputation; at least, there are always plenty of people anxious enough to take it away."
"Gertrude," said he, sternly, "what do you mean by this constant carping? Do you wish to cease to be an actress? Or what in all the world do you want?"
"To cease to be an actress?" she said, with a mild wonder, and with the sweetest of smiles, as she prepared to get out of the open door of the cab. "Why, don't you know; pappy, that a leopard cannot change his spots, or an Etheopian his skin? Take care of the step, pappy! That's right. Come here, Marie, and give the cabman a hand with this portmanteau."
Miss White was not grumbling at all--but, on the contrary, was quite pleasant and cheerful--when she entered the small house and found herself once more at home.
"Oh, Carry," she said, when her sister followed her into her room; "you don't know what it is to get back home, after having been bandied from one hotel to another hotel, and from one lodging-house to another lodging-house, for goodness knows how long."
"Oh, indeed!" said Miss Carry, with such marked coldness that her sister turned to her.
"What is the matter with you?"
"What is the matter with _you? _" the younger sister retorted, with sudden fire. "Do you know that your letters to me have been quite disgraceful?"
"You are crazed, child--you wrote something about it the other day--I could not make out what you meant," said Miss White; and she went to the glass to see that the beautiful brown hair had not been too much disarranged by the removal of her bonnet.
"It is you are crazed, Gertrude White," said Carry, who had apparently picked up from some melodrama the notion that it was rather effective to address a person by her full name. "I am really ashamed of you--that you should have let yourself be bewitched by a parcel of beasts' skins. I declare that your ravings about the Highlands, and fairies, and trash of that sort, have been only fit for a penny journal--" Miss White turned and stared--as well she might. This indignant person of fourteen had flashing eyes and a visage of wrath. The pale, calm, elder sister only remarked, in that deep-toned and gentle voice of hers, "Your language is pretty considerably strong, Carry. I don't know what has aroused such a passion in you. Because I wrote to you about the Highlands? Because I sent you that collection of legends? Because it seemed to me, when I was in a wretched hotel in some dirty town, I would rather be away yachting or driving with some one of the various parties of people whom I know, and who had mostly gone to Scotland this year? If you are jealous of the Highlands, Carry, I will undertake to root out the name of every mountain and lake that has got hold of my affections."
She was turning away again, with a quiet smile on her face, when her younger sister arrested her.
"What's that?" said she, so sharply, and extending her forefinger so suddenly, that Gertrude almost shrank back.
"What's what?" she said, in dismay--fearing, perhaps, to hear of an adder being on her shoulder.
"You know perfectly well," said Miss Carry, vehemently, "it is the Macleod tartan!"
Now the truth was that Miss White's travelling-dress was of an unrelieved gray; the only scrap of color about her costume being a tiny thread of tartan ribbon that just showed in front of her collar.
"The Macleod tartan?" said the eldest sister, demurely. "And what if it were the Macleod tartan?"
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Gerty! There was quite enough occasion for people to talk in the way he kept coming here; and now you make a parade of it; you ask people to look at you wearing a badge of servitude--you say, 'Oh, here I am; and I am quite ready to be your wife when you ask me, Sir Keith Macleod!'"
There was no flush of anger in the fair and placid face; but rather a look of demure amusement in the downcast eyes.
"Dear me, Carry!" said she, with great innocence, "the profession of an actress must be looking up in public estimation when such a rumor as that could even get into existence. And so people have been so kind as to suggest that Sir Keith Macleod, the representative of one of the oldest and proudest families in the kingdom, would not be above marrying a poor actress who has her living to earn, and who is supported by the half-crowns and half-sovereigns of the public? And indeed I think it would look very well to have him loitering about the stage-doors of provincial theatres until his wife should be ready to come out; and would he bring his gillies, and keepers, and head-foresters, and put them into the pit to applaud her? Really, the role you have cut out for a Highland gentleman--" "A Highland gentleman!" exclaimed Carry. "A Highland pauper! But you are quite right, Gerty, to laugh at the rumor. Of course it is quite ridiculous. It is quite ridiculous to think that an actress whose fame is all over England--who is sought after by everybody, and the popularest favorite ever seen--would give up everything and go away and marry an ignorant Highland savage, and look after his calves and his cows and hens for him. That is indeed ridiculous, Gerty."
"Very well, then, put it out of your mind; and never let me hear another word about it," said the popularest favorite, as she undid the bit of tartan ribbon; "and if it is any great comfort to you to know, this is not the Macleod tartan but the MacDougal tartan, and you may put it in the fire if you like."
Saying which, she threw the bit of costume which had given so great offence on the table. The discomfited Carry looked at it, but would not touch it. At last she said, "Where are the skins, Gerty?"
"Near Castle Dare," answered Miss White, turning to get something else for her neck; "there is a steep hill, and the road comes over it. When you climb to the top of the hill and sit down, the fairies will carry you right to the bottom if you are in a proper frame of mind. But they won't appear at all unless you are at peace with all men. I will show you the skins when you are in a proper frame of mind, Carry."
"Who told you that story?" she asked quickly.
"Sir Keith Macleod," the elder sister said, without thinking.
"Then he has been writing to you?"
"Certainly."
She marched out of the room. Gertrude White, unconscious of the fierce rage she had aroused, carelessly proceeded with her toilet, trying now one flower and now another in the ripples of her sun-brown hair, but finally discarding these half-withered things for a narrow band of blue velvet.
"Threescore o' nobles rode up the king's ha'," she was humming thoughtlessly to herself as she stood with her hands uplifted to her head, revealing the beautiful lines of her figure, "But Bonnie Glenogie's the flower o' them a'; Wi' his milk-white steed and his coal-black e'e: Glenogie, dear mither, Glenogie for me!"
At length she had finished, and was ready to proceed to her immediate work of overhauling domestic affairs. When Keith Macleod was struck by the exceeding neatness and perfection of arrangement in this small house, he was in nowise the victim of any stage-effect. Gertrude White was at all times and in all seasons a precise and accurate house-mistress. Harassed, as an actress must often be, by other cares; sometimes exhausted with hard work; perhaps tempted now and again by the self-satisfaction of a splendid triumph to let meaner concerns go unheeded; all the same, she allowed nothing to interfere with her domestic duties.
"Gerty," her father said, impatiently, to her a day or two before they left London for the provinces, "what is the use of your going down to these stores yourself? Surely you can send Jane or Marie. You really waste far too much time over the veriest trifles: how can it matter what sort of mustard we have?"
"And, indeed, I am glad to have something to convince me that I am a human being and a woman," she had said, instantly, "something to be myself in. I believe Providence intended me to be the manager of a Swiss hotel."
This was one of the first occasions on which she had revealed to her father that she had been thinking a good deal about her lot in life, and was perhaps beginning to doubt whether the struggle to become a great and famous actress was the only thing worth living for. But he paid little attention to it at the time. He had a vague impression that it was scarcely worth discussing about. He was pretty well convinced that his daughter was clever enough to argue herself into any sort of belief about herself, if she should take some fantastic notion into her head. It was not until that night in Manchester that he began to fear there might be something serious in these expressions of discontent.
On this bright October morning Miss Gertrude White was about to begin her domestic inquiries, and was leaving her room humming cheerfully to herself something about the bonnie Glenogie of the song, when she was again stopped by her sister, who was carrying a bundle.
"I have got the skins," she said, gloomily. "Jane took them out."
"Will you look at them?" the sister said, kindly. "They are very pretty. If they were not a present, I would give them to you, to make a jacket of them." " _I_ wear them?" said she. "Not likely!"
Nevertheless she had sufficient womanly curiosity to let her elder sister open the parcel; and then she took up the otter-skins one by one, and looked at them.
"I don't think much of them," she said.
The other bore this taunt patiently.
"They are only big moles, aren't they? And I thought moleskin was only worn by working-people."
"I am a working-person too," Miss Gertrude White said: "but, in any case, I think a jacket of these skins will look lovely."
"Oh, do you think so? Well, you can't say much for the smell of them."
"It is no more disagreeable than the smell of a sealskin jacket."
She laid down the last of the skins with some air of disdain.
"It will be a nice series of trophies, anyway--showing you know some one who goes about spending his life in killing inoffensive animals."
"Poor Sir Keith Macleod! What has he done to offend you, Carry?"
Miss Carry turned her head away for a minute; but presently she boldly faced her sister.
"Gerty, you don't mean to marry a beauty man!"
Gerty looked considerably puzzled; but her companion continued, vehemently,-- "How often have I heard you say you would never marry a beauty man--a man who has been brought up in front of the looking-glass--who is far too well satisfied with his own good looks to think of anything or anybody else! Again and again you have said that, Gertrude White. You told me, rather than marry a self-satisfied coxcomb, you would marry a misshapen, ugly little man, so that he would worship you all the days of your life for your condescension and kindness."
"Very well, then!"
"And what is Sir Keith Macleod but a beauty man?"
"He is not!" and for once the elder sister betrayed some feeling in the proud tone of her voice. "He is the manliest-looking man that I have ever seen; and I have seen a good many more men than you. There is not a man you know whom he could not throw across the canal down there. Sir Keith Macleod a beauty man! --I think he could take on a good deal more polishing, and curling, and smoothing without any great harm. If I was in any danger, I know which of all the men I have seen I would rather have in front of me--with his arms free; and I don't suppose he would be thinking of any looking-glass! If you want to know about the race he represents, read English history, and the story of England's wars. If you go to India, or China, or Africa, or the Crimea, you will hear something about the Macleods, I think!"
Carry began to cry.
"You silly thing, what is the matter with you?" Gertrude White exclaimed; but of course her arm was round her sister's neck.
"It is true, then."
"What is true?"
"What people say."
"What do people say?"
"That you will marry Sir Keith Macleod."
"Carry!" she said, angrily, "I can't imagine who has been repeating such idiotic stories to you, I wish people would mind their own business. Sir Keith Macleod marry me!"
"Do you mean to say he has never asked you?" Carry said, disengaging herself, and fixing her eyes on her sister's face.
"Certainly not!" was the decided answer; but all the same, Miss Gertrude White's forehead and cheeks flushed slightly.
"Then you know that he means to; and that is why you have been writing to me, day after day, about the romance of the Highlands, and fairy stories, and the pleasure of people who could live without caring for the public. Oh, Gerty, why won't you be frank with me, and let me know the worst at once?"
"If I gave you a box on the ears," she said, laughing, "that would be the worst at once; and I think it would serve you right for listening to such tittle-tattle and letting your head be filled with nonsense. Haven't you sufficient sense to know that you ought not to compel me to speak of such a thing--absurd as it is? I cannot go on denying that I am about to become the wife of Tom, Dick, or Harry; and you know the stories that have been going about for years past. Who was I last? The wife of a Russian nobleman who gambled away all my earnings at Homburg. You are fourteen now, Carry; you should have more sense."
Miss Carry dried her eyes; but she mournfully shook her head. There were the otter-skins lying on the table. She had seen plenty of the absurd paragraphs about her sister which good-natured friends had cut out of provincial and foreign papers and forwarded to the small family at South Bank. But the mythical Russian nobleman had never sent a parcel of otter-skins. These were palpable and not to be explained away. She sorrowfully left the room, unconvinced.
And now Miss Gertrude White set to work with a will; and no one who was only familiar with her outside her own house would have recognized in this shifty, practical, industrious person, who went so thoroughly into all the details of the small establishment, the lady who, when she went abroad among the gayeties of the London season, was so eagerly sought after, and flattered, and petted, and made the object of all manner of delicate attentions. Her father, who suspected that her increased devotion to these domestic duties was but part of that rebellious spirit she had recently betrayed, had nevertheless to confess that there was no one but herself whom he could trust to arrange his china and dust his curiosities. And how could he resent her giving instructions to the cook, when it was his own dinner that profited thereby?
"Well, Gerty," he said that evening after dinner, "what do you think about Mr. ----'s offer? It is very good-natured of him to let you have the ordering of the drawing-room scene, for you can have the furniture and the color to suit your own costume."
"Indeed I shall have nothing whatever to do with it," said she, promptly. "The furniture at home is enough for me. I don't wish to become the upholsterer of a theatre."
"You are very ungrateful, then. Half the effect of a modern comedy is lost because the people appear in rooms which resemble nothing at all that people ever lived in. Here is a man who gives you _carte blanche_ to put a modern drawing-room on the stage; and your part would gain infinitely from having real surroundings. I consider it a very flattering offer."
"And perhaps it is, pappy," said she, "but I think I do enough if I get through my own share of the work. And it is very silly of him to want me to introduce a song into this part, too. He knows I can't sing--" "Gerty!" her sister said.
"Oh, you know as well as I. I can get through a song well enough in a room; but I have not enough voice for a theatre; and although he says it is only to make the drawing-room scene more realistic--and that I need not sing to the front--that is all nonsense. I know what it is meant for--to catch the gallery. Now I refuse to sing for the gallery."
This was decided enough.
"What was the song you put into your last part, Gerty?" her sister asked. "I saw something in the papers about it."
"It was a Scotch one, Carry; I don't think you know it."
"I wonder it was not a Highland one," her sister said, rather spitefully.
"Oh, I have a whole collection of Highland ones now, would you like to hear one? Would you, pappy?"
She went and fetched the book, and opened the piano.
"It is an old air that belonged to Scarba," she said, and then she sang, simply and pathetically enough, the somewhat stiff and cumbrous English translation of the Gaelic words. It was the song of the exiled Mary Macleod, who, sitting on the shores of "sea-worn Mull," looks abroad on the lonely islands of Scarba, and Islay, and Jura, and laments that she is far away from her own home.
"How do you like it, pappy?" she said, when she had finished. "It is a pity I do not know the Gaelic. They say that when the chief heard these verses repeated, he let the old woman go back to her own home."
One of the two listeners, at all events, did not seem to be particularly struck by the pathos of Mary Macleod's lament. She walked up to the piano.
"Where did you get that book, Gerty?" she said, in a firm voice.
"Where?" said the other, innocently. "In Manchester, I think it was, I bought it."
But before she had made the explanation, Miss Carry, convinced that this, too, had come from her enemy, had seized the book and turned to the title-page. Neither on title-page nor on fly-leaf, however, was there any inscription.
"Did you think it had come with the otter-skins, Carry?" the elder sister said, laughing; and the younger one retired, baffled and chagrined, but none the less resolved that before Gertrude White completely gave herself up to this blind infatuation for a savage country and for one of its worthless inhabitants, she would have to run the gauntlet of many a sharp word of warning and reproach.
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{
"id": "15587"
}
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21
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IN LONDON AGAIN.
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On through the sleeping counties rushed the train--passing woods, streams, fertile valleys, and clustering villages, all palely shrouded in the faint morning mist that had a sort of suffused and hidden sunlight in it; the world had not yet awoke. But Macleod knew that, ere he reached London people would be abroad; and he almost shrank from meeting the look of those thousands of eager faces. Would not some of them guess his errand? Would he not be sure to run against a friend of hers--an acquaintance of his own? It was with a strange sense of fear that he stepped out and on to the platform at Euston Station; he glanced up and down; if she were suddenly to confront his eyes! A day or two ago it seemed as if innumerable leagues of ocean lay between him and her, so that the heart grew sick with thinking of the distance; now that he was in the same town with her, he felt so close to her that he could almost hear her breathe.
Major Stuart has enjoyed a sound night's rest, and was now possessed of quite enough good spirits and loquacity for two. He scarcely observed the silence of his companion. Together they rattled away through this busy, eager, immense throng, until they got down to the comparative quiet of Bury Street; and here they were fortunate enough to find not only that Macleod's old rooms were unoccupied, but that his companion could have the corresponding chambers on the floor above. They changed their attire; had breakfast; and then proceeded to discuss their plans for the day. Major Stuart observed that he was in no hurry to investigate the last modifications of the drying-machines. It would be necessary to write and appoint an interview before going down into Essex. He had several calls to make in London; if Macleod did not see him before, they should meet at seven for dinner. Macleod saw him depart without any great regret.
When he himself went outside it was already noon, but the sun had not yet broken through the mist, and London seemed cold, and lifeless, and deserted. He did not know of any one of his former friends being left in the great and lonely city. He walked along Piccadilly, and saw how many of the houses were shut up. The beautiful foliage of the Green Park had vanished; and here and there a red leaf hung on a withered branch. And yet, lonely as he felt in walking through this crowd of strangers, he was nevertheless possessed with a nervous and excited fear that at any moment he might have to quail before the inquiring glance of a certain pair of calm, large eyes. Was this, then, really Keith Macleod who was haunted by these fantastic troubles? Had he so little courage that he dared not go boldly up to her house and hold out his hand to her? As he walked along this thoroughfare, he was looking far ahead; and when any tall and slender figure appeared that might by any possibility be taken for hers, he watched it with a nervous interest that had something of dread in it. So much for the high courage born of love!
It was with some sense of relief that he entered Hyde Park, for here there were fewer people. And as he walked on, the day brightened. A warmer light began to suffuse the pale mist lying over the black-green masses of rhododendrons, the leafless trees, the damp grassplots, the empty chairs; and as he was regarding a group of people on horseback who, almost at the summit of the red hill, seemed about to disappear into the mist, behold! a sudden break in the sky; a silvery gleam shot athwart from the south, so that these distant figures grew almost black; and presently the frail sunshine of November was streaming all over the red ride and the raw green of the grass. His spirits rose somewhat. When he reached the Serpentine, the sunlight was shining on the rippling blue water; and there were pert young ladies of ten or twelve feeding the ducks; and away on the other side there was actually an island amidst the blue ripples; and the island, if it was not as grand as Staffa nor as green as Ulva, was nevertheless an island, and it was pleasant enough to look at, with its bushes, and boats, and white swans. And then he bethought him of his first walks by the side of this little lake--when Oscar was the only creature in London he had to concern himself with--when each new day was only a brighter holiday than its predecessor--when he was of opinion that London was the happiest and most beautiful place in the world; and of that bright morning, too, when he walked through the empty streets at dawn, and came to the peacefully flowing river.
These idle meditations were suddenly interrupted. Away along the bank of the lake his keen eye could make out a figure, which, even at that distance, seemed so much to resemble one he knew, that his heart began to beat quick. Then the dress--all of black, with a white hat and white gloves; was not that of the simplicity that had always so great an attraction for her? And he knew that she was singularly fond of Kensington Gardens; and might she not be going thither for a stroll before going back to the Piccadilly Theater? He hastened his steps. He soon began to gain on the stranger; and the nearer he got the more it seemed to him that he recognized the graceful walk and carriage of this slender woman. She passed under the archway of the bridge. When she had emerged from the shadow, she paused for a moment or two to look at the ducks on the lake; and this arch of shadow seemed to frame a beautiful sunlit picture--the single figure against a background of green bushes. And if this were indeed she, how splendid the world would all become in a moment! In his eagerness of anticipation he forgot his fear. What would she say? Was he to hear her laugh once more, and take her hand? Alas! When he got close enough to make sure, he found that his beautiful figure belonged to a somewhat pretty, middle-aged lady, who had brought a bag of scraps with her to feed the ducks. The world grew empty again. He passed on, in a sort of dream. He only knew he was in Kensington Gardens; and that once or twice he had walked with her down those broad alleys in the happy summer-time of flowers, and sunshine, and the scent of limes. Now there was a pale blue mist in the open glades; and a gloomy purple instead of the brilliant green of the trees; and the cold wind that came across rustled the masses of brown orange leaves that were lying scattered on the ground. He got a little more interested when he neared the Round Pond; for the wind had freshened; and there were several handsome craft out there on the raging deep, braving well the sudden squalls that laid them right on their beam-ends, and then let them come staggering and dripping up to windward. But there were two small boys there who had brought with them a tiny vessel of home-made build, with a couple of lugsails, a jib, and no rudder; and it was a great disappointment to them that this nondescript craft would move, if it moved at all, in an uncertain circle. Macleod came to their assistance--got a bit of floating stick, and carved out of it a rude rudder, altered the sails, and altogether put the ship into such sea-going trim that, when she was fairly launched, she kept a pretty good course for the other side, where doubtless she arrived in safety, and discharged her passengers and cargo. He was almost sorry to part with the two small ship-owners. They almost seemed to him the only people he knew in London.
But surely he had not come all the way from Castle Dare to walk about Kensington Gardens! What had become of that intense longing to see her--to hear her speak--that had made his life at home a constant torment and misery? Well, it still held possession of him; but all the same there was this indefinable dread that held him back. Perhaps he was afraid that he would have to confess to her the true reason for his having come to London. Perhaps he feared he might find her something entirely different from the creature of his dreams. At all events as he returned to his room and sat down by himself to think over all the things that might accrue from this step of his, he only got farther and farther into a haze of nervous indecision. One thing only was clear to him: with all his hatred and jealousy of the theatre, to the theatre that night he would have to go. He could not know that she was so near to him--that at a certain time and place he would certainly see her and listen to her--without going. He bethought him, moreover, of what he had once heard her say--that while she could fairly well make out the people in the galleries and boxes, those who were sitting in the stalls close to the orchestra were, by reason of the glare of the foot-lights, quite invisible to her. Might he not, then, get into some corner where, himself unseen, he might be so near to her that he could almost stretch out his hand to her and take her hand, and tell, by its warmth and throbbing, that it was a real woman, and not a dream, that filled his heart?
Major Stuart was put off by some excuse, and at eight o'clock Macleod walked up to the theatre. He drew near with some apprehension; it almost seemed to him as though the man in the box-office recognized him, and knew the reason for his demanding one of those stalls. He got it easily enough; there was no great run on the new piece, even though Miss Gertrude White was the heroine. He made his way along the narrow corridors; he passed into the glare of the house; he took his seat with his ears dinned by the loud music, and waited. He paid no heed to his neighbors; he had already twisted up the programme so that he could not have read it if he had wished; he was aware mostly of a sort of slightly choking sensation about the throat.
When Gertrude White did appear--she came in unexpectedly--he almost uttered a cry: and it would have been a cry of delight. For there was a flesh and blood woman, a thousand times more interesting, and beautiful, and lovable than all his fancied pictures of her. Look how she walks--how simply and gracefully she takes off her hat and places it on the table! Look at the play of light, and life, and gladness on her face--at the eloquence of her eyes! He had been thinking of her eyes as too calmly observant and serious: he saw them now, and was amazed at the difference--they seemed to have so much clear light in them, and pleasant laughter. He did not fear at all that she should see him. She was so near--he wished he could take her hand and lead her away. What concern had these people around with her? This was Gertrude White--whom he knew. She was a friend of Mrs. Ross's; she lived in a quiet little home, with an affectionate and provoking sister; she had a great admiration for Oscar the collie; she had the whitest hand in the world as she offered you some salad at the small, neat table. What was she doing here--amidst all this glaring sham--before all these people? " _Come away quickly! _" his heart cried to her. " _Quick--quick--let us get away together: there is some mistake--some illusion: outside you will breathe the fresh air, and get into the reality of the world again; and you will ask about Oscar, and young Ogilvie: and one might hold your hand--your real warm hand--and perhaps hold it tight, and not give it up to any one whatsoever! _" His own hand was trembling with excitement. The eagerness of delight with which he listened to every word uttered by the low-toned and gentle voice was almost painful; and yet he knew it not. He was as one demented. This was Gertrude White--speaking, walking, smiling, a fire of beauty in her clear eyes; her parted lips when she laughed letting the brilliant light just touch for an instant the milk-white teeth. This was no pale Rose Leaf at all--no dream or vision--but the actual laughing, talking, beautiful woman, who had more than ever of that strange grace and witchery about her that had fascinated him when first he saw her. She was so near that he could have thrown a rose to her--a red rose, full blown and full scented. He forgave the theatre--or rather he forgot it--in the unimaginable delight of being so near her. And when at length she left the stage, he had no jealousy of the poor people who remained there to go through their marionette business. He hoped they might all become great actors and actresses. He even thought he would try to get to understand the story--seeing he should have nothing else to do until Gertrude White came back again.
Now Keith Macleod was no more ignorant or innocent than anybody else; but there was one social misdemeanor--mere peccadillo, let us say--that was quite unintelligible to him. He could not understand how a man could go flirting after a married woman; and still less could he understand how a married woman should, instead of attending to her children and her house and such matters, make herself ridiculous by aping girlhood and pretending to have a lover. He had read a great deal about this, and he was told it was common; but he did not believe it. The same authorities assured him that the women of England were drunkards in secret; he did not believe it. The same authorities insisted that the sole notion of marriage that occupied the head of an English girl of our own day was as to how she should sell her charms to the highest bidder; he did not believe that either. And indeed he argued with himself, in considering to what extent books and plays could be trusted in such matters, that in one obvious case the absurdity of these allegations was proved. If France were the France of French playwrights and novelists, the whole business of the country would come to a standstill. If it was the sole and constant occupation of every adult Frenchman to run after his neighbor's wife, how could bridges be built, taxes collected, fortifications planned? Surely a Frenchman must sometimes think, if only by accident, of something other than his neighbor's wife? Macleod laughed to himself in the solitude of Castle Dare, and contemptuously flung the unfinished paper-covered novel aside.
But what was his surprise and indignation--his shame, even--on finding that this very piece in which Gertrude White was acting was all about a jealous husband, and a gay and thoughtless wife, and a villain who did not at all silently plot her ruin, but frankly confided his aspirations to a mutual friend, and rather sought for sympathy; while she, Gertrude White herself, had, before all these people, to listen to advances which, in her innocence, she was not supposed to understand. As the play proceeded, his brows grew darker and darker. And the husband, who ought to have been the guardian of his wife's honor? Well, the husband in this rather poor play was a creation that is common in modern English drama. He represented one idea at least that the English playwright has certainly not borrowed from the French stage. Moral worth is best indicated by a sullen demeanor. The man who has a pleasant manner is dangerous and a profligate; the virtuous man--the true-hearted Englishman--conducts himself as a boor, and proves the goodness of his nature by his silence and his sulks. The hero of this trumpery piece was of this familiar type. He saw the gay fascinator coming about his house; but he was too proud and dignified to interfere. He knew of his young wife becoming the byword of his friends; but he only clasped his hands on his forehead, and sought solitude, and scowled as a man of virtue should. Macleod had paid but little attention to stories of this kind when he had merely read them; but when the situation was visible--when actual people were before him--the whole thing looked more real, and his sympathies became active enough. How was it possible, he thought, for this poor dolt to fume and mutter, and let his innocent wife go her own way alone and unprotected, when there was a door in the room, and a window by way of alternative? There was one scene in which the faithless friend and the young wife were together in her drawing-room. He drew nearer to her; he spake softly to her; he ventured to take her hand. And while he was looking up appealingly to her, Macleod was regarding his face. He was calculating to himself the precise spot between the eyes where a man's knuckles would most effectually tell; and his hand was clinched, and his teeth set hard. There was a look on his face which would have warned any gay young man that when Macleod should marry, his wife would need no second champion.
But was this the atmosphere by which she was surrounded? It is needless to say that the piece was proper enough. Virtue was triumphant; vice compelled to sneak off discomfited. The indignant outburst of shame, and horror, and contempt on the part of the young wife, when she came to know what the villain's suave intentions really meant, gave Miss White an excellent opportunity of displaying her histrionic gifts; and the public applauded vehemently; but Macleod had no pride in her triumph. He was glad when the piece ended--when the honest-hearted Englishman so far recovered speech as to declare that his confidence in his wife was restored, and so far forgot his stolidity of face and demeanor as to point out to the villain the way to the door instead of kicking him thither. Macleod breathed more freely when he knew that Gertrude White was now about to go away to the shelter and quiet of her own home. He went back to his rooms, and tried to forget the precise circumstances in which he had just seen her.
But not to forget herself. A new gladness filled his heart when he thought of her--thought of her not now as a dream or a vision, but as the living and breathing woman whose musical laugh seemed still to be ringing in his ears. He could see her plainly--the face all charged with life and loveliness; the clear bright eyes that he had no longer any fear of meeting; the sweet mouth with its changing smiles. When Major Stuart came home that night he noticed a most marked change in the manner of his companion. Macleod was excited, eager, talkative; full of high spirits and friendliness; he joked his friend about his playing truant from his wife. He was anxious to know all about the major's adventures, and pressed him to have but one other cigar, and vowed that he would take him on the following evening to the only place in London where a good dinner could be had. There was gladness in his eyes, a careless satisfaction in his manner; he was ready to do anything, go anywhere. This was more like the Macleod of old. Major Stuart came to the conclusion that the atmosphere of London had had a very good effect on his friend's spirits.
When Macleod went to bed that night there were wild and glad desires and resolves in his brain that might otherwise have kept him awake but for the fatigue he had lately endured. He slept, and he dreamed; and the figure that he saw in his dreams--though she was distant, somehow--had a look of tenderness in her eyes, and she held a red rose in her hand.
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{
"id": "15587"
}
|
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