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: A Perilous Expedition.
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Upon the eleventh of November the boys arrived at Tours. They had started for that place, as the national headquarters, the moment they arrived at Cherbourg. At Tours men's hopes were high for, a week before, Aurelles de Paladine had driven back Von der Tann, and reoccupied Orleans. Every hour fresh troops were arriving, and passing forwards. The town was literally thronged with soldiers, of all sorts: batteries of artillery, regiments of cavalry, squadrons of Arab Spahis--looking strangely out of place in their white robes, and unmoved countenance, in this scene of European warfare--franc tireurs, in every possible variety of absurd and unsuitable uniform.
In all this din and confusion, the young Barclays felt quite bewildered. The first thing was, evidently, to get new uniforms; then to report themselves. There was no difficulty about the former matter, for every tailor in Tours had, for the time being, turned military outfitter and, by dint of offering to pay extra, their uniforms were promised for the next morning. That matter settled, they determined to go at once to the Prefecture, and report themselves.
As they turned out of the crowded Rue Royal, they received two hearty slaps on the shoulder, which almost knocked them down; while a hearty voice exclaimed: "My dear boys, I am glad to see you!"
They looked round and--to their astonishment and delight--saw Colonel Tempe. For a minute or two, the hand shakings and greetings were so hearty that no questions could be asked.
"I thought a German prison would not hold you long, boys," the colonel said. "I saw your father, as I came through Dijon; and I said to him that I should be surprised if you did not turn up soon, especially when I heard from him that you were at Mayence, only two days' tramp from the frontier."
"But what are you doing here, colonel?"
"Just at present, I am working at headquarters. Between ourselves, the army of the east is coming round to join Aurelles. Our poor fellows were pretty nearly used up, and I found that I could do little real good with the other corps. So I gave up the command; and was sent here to confer with Gambetta, and he has kept me.
"Now, what are you going to do?"
"We were going to report ourselves, colonel."
"No use going today--too late. Come and dine with me, at the Bordeaux. Have you got rooms?"
"Not yet, colonel."
"Then I can tell you you won't get them, at all. The place is crowded--not a bed to be had, for love or money. I've got rooms, by the greatest good luck. One of you can have the sofa; the other an armchair, or the hearth rug, whichever suits you best."
"Thank you, very much; we shall do capitally," the boys said.
"And now, have you any news from Paris?"
"We have no late news from Paris but, worse still, the news gets very slowly and irregularly into Paris. The pigeons seem to get bewildered with the snow, or else the Prussians shoot them."
"But surely, with such an immense circle to guard, there could be no great difficulty in a messenger finding his way in?"
"There is a difficulty, and a very great one," Colonel Tempe said; "for of all who have tried, only one or two have succeeded. Now come along, or we shall be late for dinner."
It was a curious medley at the table d'hote, at the Hotel de Bordeaux. Generals, with their breasts covered with orders, and simple franc tireurs; officers, of every arm of the service; ministers and members of the late Corps Legislatif; an American gentleman, with his family; English newspaper correspondents; army contractors; and families, refugees from Paris. After dinner they went to a cafe--literally crowded with officers--and thence to Colonel Tempe's rooms, where they sat down quietly, to chat over what had taken place since the last visit.
"But where is your Irishman? Your father told me he was with you. I suppose you could not get him out."
"Oh yes, Tim's here," Ralph said, laughing, "but he ran across a couple of Irishmen belonging to the foreign legion and--as he would have been in our way, and we did not know where we were going to sleep--we gave him leave till to-morrow morning, when he is to meet us in front of the railway station."
"By the way, boys, I suppose you know you have each got a step?"
"No," the boys cried. "Really?"
"Yes, really," the colonel said. "That good fellow, Cambriels, sent in a strong report in your favor upon resigning his command; rehearsing what you did with us, and requesting that the step might be at once given to you. As a matter of course it was, in the next Gazette."
"Of course, we feel pleased, colonel; but it seems absurd, so young as we are. Why, if we go on like this, in another six months we may be majors."
"In ordinary times it would be absurd, lads; and it would not be possible for you to hold the grade you do now--still less higher ones--unless you understood thoroughly your duty. At the present moment, everything is exceptional. A man who, perhaps, only served a few months in the army, years ago, is made a general, and sent to organize a camp of new levies. Of course, he could not command these troops in the field, could not even drill them on the parade ground. But that is of no matter. He has a talent for organization, and therefore is selected to organize the camp and, to enable him to do so efficiently, he receives the nominal rank of general.
"In ordinary times a man could not get promoted--three or even four times, in as many weeks--over the heads of hundreds of others, without causing an immense amount of jealousy; without, in fact, upsetting the whole traditions of the army.
"Now, it is altogether different. The officers of the regular army are almost all prisoners. Everyone is new, everyone is unaccustomed to his work; and men who show themselves to be good men can be rewarded and promoted with exceptional rapidity, without exciting any feeling of jealousy, whatever. Besides which, the whole thing is provisional. When the war is over, everyone will either go back into private life or, if they continue to serve, will be gazetted into the regular army, according to some scale or other to be hereafter determined upon. Some inconveniences no doubt will arise, but they will hardly be serious.
"I was offered a general's rank, a month ago; but I declined it, as it would have entailed either my undertaking duties for which I am unfit; or setting to, to organize young levies, and giving up active service.
"No, if you go on as you have hitherto done, boys, you may be colonels in another six months; for when a name is recommended for promotion for good service, by a general, you may well suppose there is no question asked as to his age. Of course, no general would recommend you as captains to command companies in a regiment, because you are altogether ignorant of a captain's duty; but you are quite capable of filling the duties of captain, on the staff, as those duties require only clear headedness, pluck, attention, and common sense.
"What I should like to win, even more than a company--were I in your place--would be a commander's cross in the legion of honor. I had the cross, years ago; but I only had the commander's cross a fortnight ago, for the Bridge of Vesouze."
"Ah, yes," Ralph said, "that would be worth winning, but that is hopeless."
Colonel Tempe was silent. Ralph and Percy looked at him.
"You mean," Ralph said, after a pause, "that there is a chance of our winning it."
"Well, boys," Colonel Tempe said, "I don't know that I am right in leading you into danger, but I do think that you might win it. I was mentioning your names, only yesterday, to Gambetta. A dispatch had just come in from Paris, grumbling at receiving no news from the country; and Gambetta was lamenting over the impossibility of arranging for simultaneous movements, owing to the breakdown of the pigeons, and the failure of the messengers; when I said: "'There were two young English fellows with us, in the Vosges--they were on Cambriels' staff last, and are now prisoners--who if they were here would, I believe, get in if anyone could. They went down, over and over again, among the Germans; and I could lay any money that they would succeed.' " 'How did they get taken prisoners?' Gambetta asked, as sharp as a knife. " 'By no fault of their own,' I answered. 'They went out on leave, to see me; and slept with a party of franc tireurs--where they of course had no authority, as to sentries--and the party was surprised, at night, and completely cut up. They were taken prisoners, but I do not expect that they will remain so for long.'
"Gambetta did not say anything, then; but when I left him, an hour afterwards, he remarked: "'If you hear of those young fellows you were speaking of having returned, send them to me, Tempe.'"
Ralph looked at Percy, and checked the offer to go which he saw was on his brother's lips.
"I think it might be done, colonel," he said, quietly; "but it is a serious matter, and we will think it over, before we give an opinion."
Ralph then changed the subject, and they talked over the events which had happened in the Vosges, the strategy and maneuvers of General Michel, the arrival of Garibaldi, the doings of the franc tireurs, etc.
"By the way," the colonel said, "there was a telegram in, this evening--just as I left the office--that the Germans occupied Dijon, yesterday."
"You don't say so!" the boys said, jumping from their seats. "Was there any fighting?"
"Yes, some Mobiles and franc tireurs made a very plucky defense, outside the town. Owing to some gross mismanagement, the great bulk of the troops had been withdrawn, only the day before. After two or three hours' fighting, our men fell back; the Prussians, as usual, shelled the town; and the authorities surrendered."
"The fighting could not have been our side of the town," Ralph said, thoughtfully.
"No, just the other side," Colonel Tempe said. "As my wife is still at home, and our place is not many hundred yards from yours, that was the first thing I thought of."
"I wonder if papa was in the fight?" Percy said, anxiously.
"I should think it probable, boys, that my old friend would have gone out; but I do not think that you need be uneasy about it for, from what the telegram said, our loss was small. The troops fell back into the town, and retreated unmolested through it. So your father would, no doubt, have changed his things in the town, and have walked quietly back again.
"He had volunteered into the national guard, when I came last through Dijon; and was hard at work, drilling them. Of course, he had his old rank of captain."
At ten o'clock the boys said that they would go for a stroll, before lying down for the night. They were out upwards of an hour; and returned, at the end of that time, with serious but resolved faces. The colonel was out, when they returned; and found them stretched on the sofa and hearth rug, when he came in. They gave him a sleepy good night, and no other word was exchanged.
In the morning, they were up at eight o'clock. Colonel Tempe was already dressed, and they went out together to get their coffee and milk. As they were taking it, Ralph told him that they had made up their minds to make the attempt to enter Paris, with dispatches; but that they saw but one way to do so; and that, unless they could be furnished with the necessary papers, they should abandon all idea of the enterprise.
Ten minutes later, they entered the Prefecture. Colonel Tempe went in at once to see Gambetta, while the boys remained in the anteroom. In ten minutes their friend came out again, and beckoned to them to come into the next room.
"These are the Lieutenants Barclay," he said.
The boys bowed; and examined, with attentive curiosity, the man who was, at that time, the absolute ruler of France. A dark man; with a short black beard, keen eyes, and a look of self reliance and energy. A man who committed endless mistakes, but who was the life and soul of the French resistance. A man to whom--had he lived in olden times--the Romans would have erected a statue because, in her deepest misfortunes, he never despaired of the Republic.
He looked keenly at the young men.
"Colonel Tempe tells me that you have rendered very great service, by going among the enemy in disguise; and that you are willing to make an attempt to carry dispatches into Paris."
"We are ready to try," Ralph said, respectfully; "but after talking it over in every way, we can see but one disguise which would enable us to penetrate the enemy's lines, near enough to the ground between the two armies to render an attempt possible; and even that disguise will be useless, unless we can procure certain papers."
"What is your plan?" Monsieur Gambetta asked.
"We intend to go as German Jews," Ralph said. "The Prussians strip all the clocks, pictures, and furniture of any value from the villas they occupy, and send them back to Germany. There are a number of Jews who follow the army; and either buy these stolen goods from them, or undertake to convey them back to Germany at a certain price. Several of these Jews--with their wagons full of clocks, and other articles--have been captured by our franc tireurs or troops and, no doubt, papers of some kind have been found upon them. These papers would naturally be sent here. If we could be provided with them we could, I have little doubt, penetrate their lines."
"An excellent idea," the minister said. "I have no doubt that we have such papers."
And he struck a small hand bell on the table. An attendant entered.
"Tell Captain Verre I wish to speak to him."
"Captain Verre," he said, when that officer entered, "there were some papers came last week, from General Faidherbe, relative to those wagons--laden with clocks, ladies' dresses, and so on--that were captured near Mezieres. Just look through them, and see if there were any German permits for the bearers to pass freely, for the purpose of trading. If so, let me have them at once."
The officer at once left the room.
"Supposing--as I have no doubt--that we can give you the papers, what is your course?"
"Speed is, naturally, an essential," Ralph said. "We shall disguise ourselves at once and, upon receipt of the dispatches, start from here to Orleans by train; with two good horses--which can, of course, be furnished us. We shall ride through the forest of Orleans, and so to Montargis; cross the Loing there, and make straight for Melun--keeping always through by-lanes. As far as we know, there are no large bodies of the enemy along that line.
"When we get near the town, we shall leave our horses with some village Maire, or give them to a farmer, and walk into the place boldly. You will furnish us with a note to the Maire of Melun, as well as a circular to all French authorities, to give us any help; and we shall get him to assist us at once to buy a wagon, and two strong horses. With these we shall drive round, direct, to Versailles. Our pass will admit us into the town, without difficulty; and then we shall naturally be guided by circumstances. We must be furnished with a considerable sum of money, to make purchases of plunder."
"An admirable plan," said the minister, warmly, "and one that deserves--even should it not obtain--success.
"I need not speak to you of reward because, as gentlemen, I know that you make the attempt from the love of honor Colonel Tempe has before spoken to me of you, and you were highly commended by General Cambriels. Your names will, therefore, be in the next Gazette for the cross of the legion of honor; and if you succeed, you will come back captains and commanders of the Legion. I may mention--although I know that it will not add to your motive to succeed--that you will be entitled to the reward, of fifty thousand francs, which has been offered to anyone who will carry in dispatches to Paris."
At this moment the officer entered.
"Here are the papers the Jews with the captured wagons carried," he said. "They are signed by the general at Frankfort, and countersigned by at least a dozen military authorities. There are three of them."
The minister glanced at them.
"They will do well," he said. "Will you be ready to start tomorrow morning?"
"Quite ready," Ralph said.
"Very well. Then if you will be here at half-past five, the dispatches will be ready; written, of course, so as to fold up in the smallest possible compass.
"Captain Verre, will you see that two of the best horses in my stable are put into boxes, in the train that leaves at six tomorrow morning."
The boys now rose to leave.
"Good morning," the minister said. "All the letters of recommendation, the dispatches, and the money will be ready when you come, in the morning."
The boys, on going out, held a long consultation over their disguises. Examining the papers, they found that one was for two persons of the same name--Isaac Kraph and Aaron Kraph--father and son; the father, as described in the pass, forty-five years old, the son eighteen. This pass they determined to use.
The task of changing Percy into a Jew boy, of eighteen, was evidently an easy one. His clear complexion was the only difficulty, and this could be readily disguised. Ralph's disguise was a more difficult one; and there was a considerable debate as to whether he had better go as a red Jew, or a dark Jew. The latter was finally determined upon as, otherwise, the contrast between the supposed father and son would be too striking.
They then went to their tailor, and found their uniforms ready. They at once put them on, as the peculiarity of the purchases they intended to make was so great that, had they been in their civilian dress, it was certain that they would have been regarded with suspicion; and would have, perhaps, had difficulty in obtaining what they wanted.
Their first visit was to a hairdresser's shop. Rather to the astonishment of the proprietor, they told him that they wished to speak to him in a private room; and still more to his astonishment, when the door was closed, they told him that they wanted their hair dyed quite black. The hairdresser could hardly believe his ears. The boys had both brown, wavy hair--Percy's being the lightest--and that two young officers of the staff should, at such a time, desire to dye their hair struck the man almost dumb with astonishment.
Ralph smiled.
"No wonder you are surprised, but we have an important mission to carry out, and it is essential that we should be completely disguised. We are going as spies into Von der Tann's camp. This, of course, is in the strictest confidence."
The hairdresser was at once struck with the importance of the occasion.
"You want an instantaneous dye?" he asked.
"Certainly," Ralph said, "and one that will last, at any rate, for a week."
There was no difficulty whatever in complying with the request and, in ten minutes, the boys' heads were raven in their blackness.
"Now," Ralph said, "I want my brother's hair--which is fortunately very long--to be completely frizzled; and I want a pair of the tongs you do it with, so as to be able to do it for ourselves."
This also was easy enough.
"Now," Ralph went on, "for myself, I want my hair to be very long; to come down over my ears on to my collar, all the way round."
"But the only way to do that is to have a wig specially made for you."
"Not at all," Ralph said. "I could not put on a wig, even if you had one just as I want it, ready. The parting always shows, if it is narrowly looked at. I want some long flat bands of hair, like those you use for chignons. It must be black, to match my hair as it is now; but put a few streaks of gray into it. I must have a band of this hair, long enough to go round the head, from just above one ear to just above the other. If you part my hair, just at the place where the band is to go; brush the hair up; put the band of artificial hair on, with shoemaker's wax, or something else to hold tight; then brush the hair back again over the band, it would be absolutely impossible to see it was not all natural. Then cut the long hair so as to lie on my coat collar, frizzle it and the natural hair, and I will defy the keenest-eyed Prussian to see anything wrong about it."
As soon as the hairdresser understood exactly what Ralph wanted, he entered heartily into his plans; and several of the short flat bands of black hair, used for chignons, were sewn on to a band. This was fastened on to Ralph's head, in the way he had suggested; the long tresses were cut to the required length; the tongs were used on them, and on the natural hair; and plenty of oil put on and, in an hour, his headdress was perfect--an immense bush of frizzly hair. The cloth was taken from round his neck and, as he looked at himself in the glass, he joined heartily in Percy's shout of laughter.
"But, Ralph, how are you to go out in your uniform, and that head of hair?"
"Dear me," Ralph said, "I had quite forgotten that. Go to the tailor's, Percy, and tell them to send the suit I changed there in here, directly."
Percy went off for the clothes, and Ralph then went on: "Now I want a black or grayish beard, whiskers, and mustache."
"I have not got such a thing," the hairdresser said, "but I know a man who keeps them. I will get it for you, in a quarter of an hour."
In a few minutes Percy returned, with a boy with Ralph's clothes. In a short time they were ready to start.
"You do look a strange object, Ralph."
"Never mind, Percy, there are plenty of strange objects here. No one will notice me."
Then saying that they would call in again in half an hour, for the beard, they went to a chemist's; from whom--after some talk--they obtained a mixture to give a slightly brown tinge to their faces.
They now dived into the back streets of the town, found a second-hand clothes shop, and speedily got the articles they required. Ralph had a long greatcoat, with a fur collar; and a pair of high boots, coming up to his knees and to be worn over the trousers. A black fur cap completed his costume. Percy had a black cap, made of rough cloth, with a peak and with flaps to come down over the ears; an old greatcoat, with fur round the pockets and collar; a bright-colored handkerchief, to go two or three times round the neck; and high boots like those of Ralph.
They then returned to the hairdresser, and Ralph insisted that the beard and mustache should be fastened on not only in the ordinary manner--with springs--but with cobbler's wax.
"My life," he said, "might depend upon the things not slipping, at any moment."
They now went home. The moment that they entered their rooms, Ralph exclaimed: "Why, we have forgotten all about Tim!"
"So we have," Percy said. "He was to have met us in front of the railway station at nine o'clock and, of course, he has no idea where to find us. I will go there. Very likely the poor fellow is waiting still."
Percy hurried off; and found Tim, as he had expected, sitting upon the steps going up to the railway station. He jumped up, with a cry of joy, upon seeing Percy.
"The Vargin be praised, Mister Percy! I began to think that you must have been sent off somewhere, without time to warn me; and I couldn't, for the life of me, make out what to do."
"We have not gone, Tim," Percy said, not wishing to hurt the attached fellow's feelings, by telling him that he had been forgotten; "but we are starting tomorrow. I will tell you all about it, when we get in. We have been to see Monsieur Gambetta, this morning and, do you know, we met Colonel Tempe last night, and are stopping in his rooms."
So saying, he walked along at a quick pace towards their lodgings; Tim occasionally glancing a puzzled look at him. By the time they reached the room, Ralph had stained his face and hands, and was busy dressing in his disguise. His back was to the door, when they entered; but he had heard the Irishman's voice on the stair.
"Well, Tim, how are you?" he said, turning round.
"Holy Vargin!" ejaculated Tim, dropping into a chair, and crossing himself with great fervor "Sure, I'm bewitched. Here's an ould gentleman, wid a wonderful head of hair, has been staleing Mister Ralph's voice."
The two boys went off in a shout of laughter at Tim's genuine terror.
"Sure, I'm bewitched, entirely," he went on. "He laughs for all the world like Mister Ralph. Did ye iver see the like?
"What is it all, Mister Percy dear?"
Percy had by this time taken off his cap; and Tim, as he looked him fairly in the face, gave another start.
"By the mother of Moses!" he exclaimed, in terror, "we're all bewitched. Mister Ralph's turned into an ould man, with a furze bush of hair; and Mister Percy's beautiful hair has all turned black, and shriveled itself up. Am I turning, myself, I wonder?" and he looked into the glass, to see if any change had taken place in his own abundant crop of red hair.
The boys were laughing so that they could not speak for some time, and Tim sat gazing at them in speechless bewilderment. At last Percy, by a great effort, recovered himself; and explained to him the whole circumstances of the case. The Irishman's astonishment ceased now, but his dismay was as great as ever.
"Then is it alone you're going?" he said, at last. "Are you going into danger again, without taking me with you? You'd never do that, surely, Mister Ralph?"
"I am very sorry, Tim, to be separated from you," Ralph said; "but it is quite impossible for you to go with us. If you understood French and German as well as we do, the case would be different; but as it is, the thing is absolutely impossible. You know how great a trouble it was to disguise you, before; and it would treble our anxieties and difficulties. Not only that; but even if, in the face of every possible danger, we got you into Paris with us, there would be great difficulty in getting you out. Gambetta will give orders for us to be allowed to come out, in the first balloon; but it is by no means easy to get places in balloons, and it is unlikely in the extreme that we should be able to bring you out with us. So there you would be, shut up in Paris and separated from us, for months.
"No, no, Tim, the matter is altogether impossible. You stay quietly here and, in ten days or a fortnight--if all goes well--we shall be back again with you."
"And is it in a balloon you're thinking of coming out, Mister Ralph; flying like a bird through the air? Och, wirra, wirra! I'll never see yees again."
"Nonsense, Tim, there's no danger in a balloon. If getting in were no more dangerous than getting out, there would not be much peril in the matter."
"Ah, Mister Ralph dear, how can you be risking your life, and the life of your brother in that way? Shooting at a Prussian, or getting shot at, is all well enough; or going among them with your hair all puffed out, and your face painted brown, and the hair growing all over your face before its time, I say nothing against; but flying through the air, in a balloon, is just tempting the good Providence. I know what it will be. You'll be just touching against a cloud, and tumbling out, and breaking yourselves into smithereens; and nothing to take home to your dear father and mother, not to mention Miss Milly," and Tim fairly blubbered with grief, at the thought.
The boys had great difficulty in pacifying the attached fellow; at last, with a face expressive of mournful resignation, he agreed to remain with Colonel Tempe until they returned; or until their prolonged absence rendered it likely that they would not return at all--Tim evidently making up his mind that the latter contingency would happen. In that case, as Tim--now his corps had ceased to exist--need no longer serve, he expressed his determination to return to Dijon; and to stay with Captain Barclay until the end of the war--as he should not, he said, have the heart to fight any more, when his masters were both killed.
While the conversation had been going on, the boys had continued their toilettes. The preparation which they had obtained gave them an olive complexion; and their transformation was now so complete that the boys would have passed each other unknown, even had they looked steadily at each other. Ralph, especially, was utterly unlike himself.
They now told Tim to go out and get his breakfast, and to return in two hours' time; and then started themselves, rounding their shoulders, and so narrowing their chests as much as possible. Ralph stopped at an optician's, bought a pair of slightly-colored spectacles, and put them on.
It was now twelve o'clock--the preparations having taken them three hours--and they went to the cafe where they were to meet Colonel Tempe, to breakfast. He was already there, and they walked up to the table where he was sitting.
"These seats are engaged," Colonel Tempe said, shortly.
The Barclays sat down at the next table; and called, in a foreign accent, for two glasses of beer. Then they spoke together, for some little time, about a journey from Saint Malo which they had just made; and Ralph then turned to Colonel Tempe, still speaking French with a strong foreign accent.
"Pardon me, colonel," he said, "we have just arrived from England. We have a very large quantity of army shoes, and I should feel under a great obligation if you could inform me who is the proper person to whom to apply."
Colonel Tempe at once informed them, adding: "If your shoes are good ones, and the price fair, and you can deliver them soon, you will not have to wait long; for they are greatly wanted."
"We have also some harness, for artillery horses," Ralph added.
"I do not know about that," the colonel said; "but you will obtain all information from the officer I have mentioned."
"Thank you very much," Ralph said, and returned to his seat.
Colonel Tempe looked at his watch, a little impatiently. Ralph, after a minute or two, again approached him.
"Don't you think we may as well have breakfast, colonel?" he said, in his natural voice.
The colonel looked at him, in speechless surprise.
"So the disguises are pretty good?" Ralph said, smiling.
"Impossible!" the colonel exclaimed. "Do my eyes or my ears deceive me? Can it really be--?"
"It's us, sure enough, colonel; and now, I suppose we may as well sit down."
So saying, the boys took their seats at the table; but Colonel Tempe still looked from one to the other, in astonishment.
"Wonderful!" he at last said, "wonderful! Even now I know who it is, I do not see the faintest possible resemblance.
"Percy is, of course, less altered than you are, Ralph, because he is still young looking; but even now I should not recognize him. As for you, with that wonderful head of hair, and that beard, you look fifty; and as unlike yourself as possible. Upon my word, if it were anywhere else but here in Tours--where there are all sorts of oddities--I should be ashamed, as a colonel in the army, to sit down to table with you."
"You are a little ashamed, as it is," Ralph laughed. "We had not intended to come out in our new character, so soon; but when my hair was once done, you see, it was impossible to go about in uniform."
"But what in the world have you done with your hair?" the colonel said, examining him closely; for Ralph had taken off his fur cap and laid it beside him. "You have not got a wig on; and yet, all that frizzly bunch cannot be your own."
Ralph explained how it was managed, and added: "And now, colonel, that you have recovered from your surprise, let us have breakfast."
Breakfast was ordered, to which the boys did full justice; but Colonel Tempe was still getting on but slowly, for he could not take his eyes off Ralph's face.
"Will all that frizzle keep in?" he asked, presently.
"Yes; the man said that the false hair--which is the greater portion of it--will keep as well for a week; and we have got a small curling iron, so we can beautify ourselves up when we like."
"Well, boys, I have no doubt, now, that you will be able to get as far as Versailles; as to getting through, that's another matter--but if anyone can, you will, I am convinced."
"I have not much doubt about it, colonel," Ralph said. "I seem to see my way quite clearly into Paris. Much more clearly, indeed, than I do to getting out again."
"Oh, it does not matter about getting out again, boys. You can stop quietly in there, until the end of the siege."
"That is just what we don't want to do," Percy said. "Would you kindly ask them to put into the dispatches a request that we may be sent out again, by the first balloon that comes? We have no fancy, either of us, for eating rats and cats; which I suppose is what it will come to, before it is over."
"I will see to it, boys," the colonel said, smiling; "but really, I should advise your staying there. You have done all--and more than--your share of work."
The boys shook their heads; and it was arranged that, if they got in, they should come out again in a balloon.
The next morning, the boys were up at half-past four and, at half-past five, were at the Prefecture. Colonel Tempe sent in his name to the minister, and they were at once admitted. Gambetta was at his writing table.
"Good morning, Colonel Tempe," he said, cordially; and then added, in some surprise, "who are these men you have with you, and where are your young Englishmen? I hope they will not be late."
"These are they," the colonel said, smiling.
"They are who?" Gambetta said, puzzled. "I do not understand you, colonel."
"These are the Lieutenants Barclay," Colonel Tempe said.
The minister looked from the colonel to the two boys, and back again.
"Do you mean to say--?" he began, incredulously.
"Yes, sir, it is us," Ralph said; "and I do not think there is much fear of our being recognized."
"So little that I do not recognize you, now.
"There is no mistake, colonel?" he said, gravely; "no mystification? You give me your pledge, and assurance, that these are the officers who have volunteered for this duty? Remember, any mistake might be fatal."
"These are certainly the Barclays, sir. I give you my word."
"It is a marvelous disguise," Gambetta said, his doubts now laid at rest; "and does them immense credit.
"There are the dispatches, gentlemen. They are done up in these two quills, and sealed. They are of the utmost importance; and must not, at any hazard, fall into the hands of the enemy. The dispatches are in duplicate so that, in case one only gets in, the purpose is served.
"This is a circular letter, to all maires and other French authorities, ordering them to give you every possible assistance.
"This is a special note, to the Maire of Melun.
"Here is a letter to General Aurelles, at Orleans. If he is not in when you arrive, the chief of his staff will do. He is ordered to send a staff officer with you, through the lines, as far as you require him. The horses are in the train.
"Now, goodbye. I wish you a very good future, for you are gallant young fellows."
So saying, he shook them warmly by the hand; and they hurried off to the train.
|
{
"id": "22060"
}
|
15
|
: The Expedition.
|
A special telegram had been sent forward from Tours to station master at Orleans, to request him to order the two horses, sent forward in the train, to be got out of their boxes without any loss of time; and to do anything else which the owners of the horses required. Accordingly, as the train was waiting outside the station, the guard came round and asked at each carriage for the owners of the horses. He appeared a little surprised, when two Jews answered the inquiry; as he had expected that they were officers of high rank, and importance.
"The compliments of the stationmaster," he said, "and is there anything he can do with the horses?"
"Yes," Ralph said. "Give my compliments to the station master; and say that I shall be much obliged if he will get them out of the horse boxes, without loss of time, and send them on at once to the headquarters of General Aurelles. We will go on at once, in a vehicle."
Five minutes afterwards the train drew up at the platform, and the guard ran up.
"This way, gentlemen. A carriage is engaged."
Upon arriving at headquarters they found that--owing to the forethought of Colonel Tempe--they were expected for, upon sending in their names, they were at once admitted; although several officers, of all grades, were waiting in the anteroom.
The colonel of the staff gave a movement of surprise.
"There is some mistake here," he said, to the orderly who had shown them in; "I ordered the Lieutenants Barclay to be admitted."
"These are the gentlemen who gave me the card, colonel," the orderly answered.
"It is so," Ralph said. "If you will favor us with a moment alone, we will explain the matter to you."
The colonel led the way into a small cabinet, adjoining.
"We are bearers of dispatches, for General Trochu," Ralph said; "and have disguised ourselves, to endeavor to pass through the German lines."
"Oh, is that it?" the colonel said. "I must really apologize; but no one," he said, smiling, "could recognize you, in that disguise, to be French officers. Before we speak further, I must ask you for some proof that you are what you state yourselves to be; for at present I have only your cards."
"Here is our letter from Monsieur Gambetta to General Aurelles," Ralph said. "It is directed to be opened by you, should he be absent."
"That is all right," the colonel said, when he had read it. "My surprise at your appearance was natural, for the telegram we received this morning only said: "'The two Lieutenants Barclay will arrive, by six o'clock train. Their business is most important. Have a well-mounted officer of staff ready to accompany them through lines.'
"I thought, of course, that you had orders to report on position of troops; and felt, I admit, rather angry that Gambetta should wish to send subaltern officers to inspect matters concerning which he has full reports.
"You wish, of course, to go on at once?"
"Our horses will be here in five minutes," Ralph said, "and we wish to get as far as possible, tonight. We mean to cross the Loing at Montargis, and get as far as we can, tonight; so as to arrive either at Meaux, or Melun, tomorrow evening. We should, of course, prefer Melun, as being much the shortest route towards Versailles. We shall, of necessity, be guided by the position of the Germans."
"You have not breakfasted, of course?" the colonel said. "I was just going to sit down, when you came in; for I go out to the front at ten, and it is half-past nine, now. You will have no chance of getting anything, before you arrive at Montargis.
"I can introduce you to the officer who will accompany you."
The boys readily accepted the invitation, and at once followed the colonel into another room; where breakfast was laid, and several officers of the staff were waiting for the arrival of the colonel, to begin. There was a general look of surprise, when he entered with two strange-looking Jews; which was not a little increased when he said: "Gentlemen, the Lieutenants Barclay. You look surprised; but your astonishment will cease when I tell you that they are upon an important mission, and do not look like themselves. And now to table, for they have to start in ten minutes.
"Captain Duprat, let me make you specially acquainted with these gentlemen. They are bound for Montargis, and you will see them through our outposts."
In another quarter of an hour, the boys were issuing from the streets of Orleans; and were soon going along, at a hand gallop, by the road along the banks of the Loire; while to the north stretched the flat and densely-wooded country known as the Forest of Orleans. As far as Chateauneuf they kept near the river. Here they halted half an hour, to give breathing time to their horses; then started again, and rode fast to Bellegarde. Here was the last post of regular troops, but Cathlineau's franc tireurs were scattered throughout the country, as far as Montargis; and it would have been more difficult for the Barclays to have passed through them than through the regular troops, as they had less respect for passes.
After another halt, they again started; and Captain Duprat accompanied them as far as Montargis, where there was a small body of franc tireurs. Captain Duprat's orders were to sleep at Montargis, and then return to Chateauneuf the next day.
The boys felt rather stiff and tired, as they rode into Montargis; for they had not been on horseback since the day when they were taken prisoners, in the Vosges, and they had ridden forty miles since breakfast. They would, however, have willingly pushed on another twenty miles; but their horses had even a longer day's work before them, on the morrow.
Being accompanied by a staff officer, no questions whatever were asked them and, after a good dinner at the hotel, they went to the Maire, to inquire whether he could tell them as to the advanced posts of the Germans. This functionary--like such functionaries in general--could give them but slight information but, as far as he knew, there were no German troops on the right bank of the Loing, south of its junction with the Yonne. Beyond the Yonne they were scattered pretty thickly, everywhere.
At daybreak the next morning, they started. Captain Duprat turned his horse's head westward again, while the Barclays rode north. Their pace was rapid; as they never drew rein, except at villages, to ask whether the Prussians had been heard of. They heard of parties at Lorrez, and Cheroy; but as they kept through by-lanes, and as the country was thickly wooded, the risk was--at present--small. They had with them an excellent map, which enabled them to follow the smallest footpaths.
At eleven o'clock, they stopped at the little hamlet of Montarlet. There they breakfasted, and gave the horses an hour's rest while they consulted with the Maire. He was a miller, and turned out a shrewd fellow; entering into the matter with great warmth. He advised them to ford the Yonne between Montereau and its junction with the Loing; to keep to the woods for ten miles, and then to turn to the left, and to cross the Seine--at one of the numerous fords there--into the Forest of Fontainebleau; and they would then find themselves between that town and Melun, and could ride boldly into Melun, as if they had come from Fontainebleau.
"I know every foot of the country," he said, "and will guide you, till you are safely across the Seine. If we should, by any chance, fall upon a patrol of the enemy, it will be simple enough to say that I am a miller of Montarlet; and that you have shown me your permission to travel about, through the German line; and have asked me to guide you, by the shortest way, to Melun."
They had every reason to be thankful to their guide, for they found that there were a great many scattered parties of Uhlans about. By dint of making detours through woods, however, they succeeded in striking the Seine, at Fontaine le Port, without once meeting them.
This village was, however, occupied by some half-dozen cavalry; and it was impossible to pass the river, unseen by them. The Barclays thanked, very warmly, their friend the Maire, and promised to mention his conduct, upon their return to Tours; and then, saying goodbye to him, rode into the village alone. The sergeant of Uhlans came to the door of the principal cabaret, and looked out.
"Good day," Ralph said, in German, reining up his horse. "Is it here that I cross the river, for Fontainebleau? They told me, at Le Chatelet, that it was shorter than going round by the main road."
"Yes, you are right here," the sergeant said. "Have you passes?"
"Oh yes," Ralph said, laughing. "It would have been no easy matter to get from Frankfort here, without them."
So saying, he pulled out the Prussian permit.
"That is right," the sergeant said. "Your horses look very done."
"We have ridden from Coulommiers through Rozoy, and Normant."
"It would have been an easier road to have gone from Normant through Melun," the sergeant said. And he took out a map, and examined it. "No, I see le Chatelet is a more direct line."
"We have time to wait an hour," Ralph said, turning to Percy; "and it will be better for our beasts. See that they are rubbed down, and fed."
The sergeant gave a peremptory shout, and the master of the wine shop ran out. The sergeant pointed to the horses.
"Do you speak French?" he asked Ralph.
"No," Ralph said, "but my son does.
"Aaron, tell him to rub them down, and feed them well; and see to it, yourself. These dogs are capable of cheating even a horse."
Ralph then entered the cabaret, and called for some bread and cheese and a bottle of the best wine, with three glasses. The Prussian sergeant sat down with them, and talked of Germany for an hour. Then they started again, crossed the river and, an hour and a half later, entered Melun. Here, as they came in by the road from Fontainebleau--which was held in force by the Germans--no question was asked.
They rode their tired horses through the streets, until they saw a quiet hotel. Riding into the yard, they told the hostler to put up their horses, and to clean and feed them well; enforcing their request with a five-franc piece. They then entered the hotel, and found that they could have beds; as the number of German officers quartered upon this house was smaller than usual, owing to the greater portion of the troops having been pushed on, to reinforce Von der Tann.
It was now half-past five, and was already dusk. They therefore went at once to the Maire; to whom they presented Gambetta's letter, and requested his assistance in purchasing a van, with a pair of good strong horses, at once.
"It will be next to impossible to get horses," the Maire said, "but I will do my best. I have two carriage horses, of good breed; but I fear, if I were to let you have them, the Prussians might remark it."
"We have two first-rate animals," Ralph said, "from Gambetta's own stables. They have carried us a hundred miles, since breakfast time yesterday. They are likely to be at least as good as yours are, only they want a few days' rest. Will you exchange?"
"Certainly," the Maire said, at once. "If any inquiries were to be made about it, I need make no secret of that transaction.
"As for the covered cart, I will send round at once to those of my neighbors who have one; and as you are ready to pay for it, and as the Prussians are requisitioning them without payment, you can rely upon having one tomorrow morning, ready for your start. I will send a note round to you, tonight, to tell you where it is, at present."
"We had better go now to the German commandant's office, and get our passes countersigned. When that is done, we shall be all right for Versailles."
"Yes, I should advise you to do that," the Maire said. "You will not have much difficulty. They are civil enough about passes, and matters of that kind. Will you mention you have seen me?"
"Not unless any question is asked about horses; in which case we should of course mention that--hearing you had a pair of horses, and ours requiring rest--we had changed with you."
They now went boldly to the orderly room. An officer was on duty.
"Will you please to visa this for Versailles?" Ralph said, in German.
The officer took it, glanced at it, and at them.
"The last visa I see was at Meaux, a fortnight since."
"We have been traveling on horseback, since," Ralph said; "and have had no occasion to have it visaed, as it has always passed us without trouble. As we are now going to Versailles, with a wagon, we thought it better to have the pass visaed here."
"Where have you come from, now?"
"From Fontainebleau," Ralph said. "We have been down to Pithiviers, and I sent off four wagon loads of things from there, for the frontier."
"Your best way is through Corbeil, and Longjumeau," the officer said, handing back the paper.
"Thank you, sir," Ralph replied, "that is the way we are intending to go."
In the evening, the Maire himself came in to look at the horses; and told them that he had obtained a good light-covered wagon, with springs, which had been used for the removal of furniture. The price was a thousand francs.
"If you like," he said, "to come round with me now; my servant shall take the horses round there, put them in, and bring the wagon here; and he can then take your horses back with him to my stables.
"Please to write me a paper--signed by the name on your German pass--saying that you have bought my horses of me, and have sold me yours. Put down any figures you like as having passed between us. You are upon a very perilous expedition and, in case of anything happening to you, it would be well for me that nothing, beyond a mere business transaction, could be traced between us."
At seven o'clock the next morning they started. The distance was only thirty miles, but the roads were terribly slippery from the deep snow, now trampled flat by the immense traffic of the army. It was five in the afternoon when they reached the first sentries, at the entrance to Versailles. The pass was sufficient, and they went on uninterrupted. Percy drove, and Ralph sat beside him.
The town swarmed with officers and soldiers, of all ranks. No one paid them any attention, and they drove through the Place d'Armes and on to the marketplace; where they knew there were many inns, frequented by the market people. Here--as they expected--they found it impossible to get a bed; but they had no difficulty in obtaining permission for the wagon to stand in a yard, and were lucky enough to get stable room for the horses. They went into the town and bought four blankets; and as, at starting, they had filled the wagon two feet deep with straw, they had--in spite of the cold weather--every hope of passing a comfortable night.
Dinner was the next thing and, that over, they strolled about until nine o'clock. It was a singular sight, this army of invaders comfortably quartered in the ancient capital of France. The palace, the statues in front of it, everything told of the glories of France; every park around, every little palace was infinitely associated with its sovereigns; and here, in the midst of these memorials, the German invaders stalked carelessly, drank in the cafes, or feasted in the hotels, as if the place had belonged to them from time immemorial. Afar off, in the quiet of the evening, could be heard the distant boom of the guns round the beleaguered city.
There were several things which the Barclays wanted to get; but they had no difficulty with them, as the shops were all open, as usual. The population had a depressed look. All classes were suffering much, with the exception of the shopkeepers, whose business was as brisk as ever--save only those tradesmen who dealt in articles of female attire, for which there was no demand, whatever. The ladies of Versailles went as little as possible into the streets; and when they did so, all dressed themselves in black, or other somber colors.
By nine o'clock the shops were all closed; and the Barclays returned to their wagon, with their purchases in their hands.
"It's awfully cold, Ralph!" Percy said, as they rolled themselves in their blankets, and covered themselves over with straw.
"It is, Percy; but it will be a deal colder, in the river."
Percy gave a shudder at the thought.
"Don't you think, Ralph, that there is any possibility of entering on either of the other sides?"
"Not the slightest, Percy. It must be across the river, or not at all. The sentries will not be anything like so thick, upon that side."
Had anyone looked into the wagon, at eight o'clock next morning, he would have been surprised at the occupation upon which the boys were engaged. Each was sewing a piece of thin waterproof cloth upon a pair of white woolen gloves; so that the fingers, when outspread, had the appearance of the webbed foot of a frog.
"That ought to help us," Ralph said, when they finished. "For a really long swim, I daresay they would be very fatiguing; but it is cold, not fatigue, we have to fear, and speed is therefore everything."
At nine o'clock, Ralph went to the office of the general in command. There were a number of other persons waiting for permits, and Ralph waited his turn to go in to the officer engaged in signing them.
"I am from Frankfort, as my papers show," he said, handing the officer his pass. "I wish for a pass to go, with my horse and cart, to Bellevue. There are, I hear, many officers desirous of selling, or sending home, articles they have saved."
Saved, it may be mentioned, was the word employed in the German army for stolen--which has an ugly sound.
The officer signed the paper.
"You must not go by the Sevres route," he said. "You must turn off at Viroflay, and go by Chaville."
Half an hour later they started in the wagon At the gates of Versailles--a mile from the town--they were stopped by sentries; but allowed to pass on production of the order, with the necessary stamp.
"Everything is going on well, thus far," Ralph said, as they turned off from the main road, at Viroflay. "It looks like snow, too, which would exactly suit us."
Viroflay was crowded with Prussian troops. An officer stopped them, as they passed.
"Where are you going to?"
"We are going to Bellevue," Ralph said. "We are purchasers of any curiosities or souvenirs of the war--such as pictures, or clocks--and we also undertake to deliver, in Germany, any article which may be entrusted to our charge. We have our passes and papers, in regular order."
"Wait a minute," the officer said. "Draw up at that villa there."
The wagon drew up to the villa, the officer walking in front. He motioned to Ralph to dismount, and to follow him into the house; leaving Percy in charge of the wagon Five or six officers were sitting in what had been the drawing room of the villa.
"Who have you got here?" one of them asked, as Ralph's conductor entered.
"A worthy Hebrew," the other laughed, "who will either purchase, or carry home, articles saved."
There was a general movement of interest. The furniture of the room was a wreck, the papers were hanging in strips, a broken chair was blazing upon the fire; several family portraits on the wall were pierced with holes, having evidently served the purpose of targets, for pistol shooting.
Ralph's conductor left the room for a moment, and returned with a very handsome drawing room clock; worth, Ralph knew, at least fifteen hundred francs.
"How much will you give for that?"
Ralph examined it critically.
"Four hundred francs," he said.
"Nonsense! It cost five times that."
"About four times," Ralph said, "when it was new. It is not new, now, and it has to be taken to Germany. If you prefer it, I will carry it to Frankfort; and send it on thence by rail, at ten percent upon its value."
"Yes, I will agree to that," the officer said. "How much will that be?"
"I am content to take it at your own valuation," Ralph said. "The value you set upon the clock was two thousand francs."
There was a laugh among the other officers.
"He has you there, major."
"Not at all," the officer said. "He shall take it at the valuation he placed upon it--four hundred francs."
"Pardon me," Ralph said, "I did not value it at that sum, I only offered to give that sum for it; besides which, that was an estimate of the value I set upon it at Viroflay, not the value I should set upon it at Frankfort.
"I will say one thousand francs; that is, I will undertake it at a hundred, if you will get it put into a case of some sort."
The other officers now offered various objects, either for sale or transport--pictures, vases, clocks, and even pianos. Ralph haggled over the price of each article, in a way which would have done honor to his appearance. At last--having arranged all their matters--he said that he was going on to Bellevue; but would call and complete the purchases, and receive the goods entrusted to him, either that night or the next morning.
"If any of you gentleman would kindly give me your card, to give to the officer of the regiment at Bellevue, saying that you have found me fair in my dealing, I should feel very grateful," Ralph said, humbly.
The officer laughed, but one of them took out his card, and wrote upon it: "Dear Von Koch, this man is--for a Hebrew--tolerably fair in his ideas."
"That is for the major of the regiment, at Bellevue," he said; and Ralph bowed, as if he had received a recommendation of the warmest kind.
"I was beginning to be alarmed, Ralph," Percy said, when his brother again took his place in the wagon.
"I have been haggling over prices," Ralph said. "Fortunately, we are not pressed for time."
They had another stop, of some duration, at Chaville; and it was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon before they came down to the back of Bellevue. Here they were stopped and, upon Ralph producing his pass, an officer came up.
"You cannot go any farther," he said. "You are close to Bellevue, now; but if you were to take this wagon into the main road, you would draw Valerien's fire upon us, at once.
"You will find most of the officers there," pointing to a large house, near.
"I have this card, for Major Von Koch," Ralph said. "I am here to buy, or carry home on commission, goods of all kinds."
The officer went with Ralph; and the scene at Viroflay was repeated, but upon a much larger scale. Viroflay is a small village, containing only a few large villas; Bellevue is composed almost entirely of handsome residences, owned by Parisians. The quantity of articles "saved" was proportionately large.
After examining and bargaining for a large number of valuable articles of furniture, pictures and clocks; Ralph left, with some of the officers, to view other articles in the villas upon the side of Bellevue, looking down upon the river. Percy had taken the horses out of the wagon, and accompanied his brother, ostensibly to carry back any articles purchased.
At one of the villas Ralph expressed a great desire to go out into the garden, to look over Paris; and the officer with him--being in an excellent humor, at the disposal of some articles at much higher prices than he had expected to receive; and at having the proceeds, in German bank notes, in his pockets--went out himself, and pointed out all the various objects of interest.
The fog of a winter's evening was already shutting in the view, but the boys could see the principal buildings of Paris. The towers of Notre Dame, the domes of the Pantheon and Invalides, the heights of Montmartre and Vilette, and the forts of Issy and Vanves were distinctly visible. The boys' eyes turned, however, more to the river at their feet, and the intervening ground, than upon the objects--however interesting--of distant Paris.
"Do not show yourself," the officer said. "If we were caught sight of, from Issy or Point du Jour--or from that gunboat, below--we should have a rain of shells about us, in no time. You can look out from among the trees; but do not get beyond their shelter, or you will be seen, instantly."
The house in whose garden they were standing stood upon the brow of the hill. Behind was a little wood, and gardens sloping pretty-steeply down. Then along by the water was a street, with houses upon either side. The river was, here, divided by an island; the lower end of which, however, scarcely extended low enough to be opposite to the spot upon which the boys were standing.
"Bless me," Ralph said, "it must be very dangerous, living down there. Why, that gunboat could blow the place into the air."
"That she could," the officer said, "and consequently, none of our men live there. We have sentries along the river bank, and a few others scattered about; but none of the troops are quartered there, nor even in this line of villas where we now are. If we were to show a light at night, in any window here, we should have a shell in in a couple of minutes. We have no fear, whatever, of a sortie in this direction; and have plenty of force behind."
Ralph and Percy lingered, upon one excuse or another; asking questions as long as they could, and making the best use of their time, to gain a fair idea of the ground that they would have to cross. They had with them, in the wagon, a map of Bellevue and Meudon upon a large scale, with every house marked upon it.
"It is going to be a dark night," the officer said, as they hurried away, "and we shall have snow before midnight."
Another hour or two was spent in purchasing various articles, taken from the French villas. Darkness had come on, and Ralph told the officers that he should not return until the next morning to Versailles; and that if the articles to be entrusted to his care for delivery were put in rough cases--of which there were plenty, which had come full of stores--and brought by ten o'clock in the morning, carefully directed, it would be in sufficient time.
"Will you give us leave to sleep in one of the villas, upon the farther side of the road?" Ralph asked the officer in command. "My boy has never seen a shot fired, in earnest; and I should like him to be able to say he had watched the fire of the forts, round Paris."
"If you sleep there," the colonel said, "you must not light a fire, or show a light, or you would bring the fire of a hundred guns upon us."
"I will be very careful, sir," Ralph answered. "Will you kindly let an orderly go with us, to pass us through the sentries? For, as it's dark now, they would not let us pass."
The colonel gave the order, and an orderly went with them. They stopped at the wagon, and each took out a large bundle.
"We shall want our blankets, tonight," Ralph said. "It is bitterly cold.
"Would you like a glass of brandy, to help keep it out, my man?"
The soldier smiled an assent, drank off a glass of brandy, and then accompanied them to the villa. Short as was the distance, they were challenged twice, and the sign and counter-sign had to be exchanged. They reached the deserted villa, threw down the bundles in a corner; and then the orderly said good night, and left them to themselves.
|
{
"id": "22060"
}
|
16
|
: A Desperate Attempt.
|
"So far, so good, Percy!" Ralph said, when they heard the street door slam, as the orderly left. "Hitherto we have had the most extraordinary good fortune and, as it's going to snow--for I felt a few flakes, as we came along--I look upon it as good as done."
"It will take away from us risk of being hit, but I don't see that it will make much difference in our risk of being drowned," Percy said. "I own, Ralph, I am a great deal more afraid of that, than of the other."
"But it does, Percy. It makes all the difference in the world. We had agreed that we would put on life belts; but that we would blow the smallest quantity of air possible into them, so that they might give us some slight assistance, and yet not be too buoyant to prevent us from diving. Now we can blow them up with wind, so as to prevent the possibility of our being drowned. Once in the water, and we are safe from everything except a stray bullet. In a snowstorm, on such a dark night as this, they could not see our heads five yards off."
"But what is worse, Ralph, we shall not be able to see five yards, either; and should have no idea where we were swimming."
"I had not thought of that, Percy. Yes, that would be very serious," and Ralph thought, for some time. "It seems a risk, this, Percy; but I can see no plan, except to draw their fire."
"How do you mean?" Percy asked, puzzled.
"You see, Percy, our idea before was to get down to the shore, to put our dummy into the water, and to let it float down a hundred yards--the length of its string--and then to start ourselves, holding the other end of the string, in hopes that--if the sentries are really sharply on the lookout--they would see the dummy, instead of us, as it will be a much more conspicuous object; especially as we intended to do as much diving as we could, and our movements forward would jerk the dummy's string, and make him bob, like a man swimming. If they once caught sight of it, they would be too busy firing at it to look about for anyone else.
"Well now, I think that instead of giving up the dummy altogether--as we might have done, now that the snow has come on--we must let it float gently down, for seventy or eighty yards; and then throw a stone into the water by it, so as to draw the attention of the sentry. Or--if the sentries are pretty far apart--one of us might make a great splash in the water, when the dummy is floating; and then run back before the sentry gets up, and get into the water quietly, higher up. Their fire will act as a guide to us."
"We had better start soon, Ralph. It may take us an hour, or even two, to get down to the water; for we must go along like ghosts, so as not to alarm the sentries; and we shall have walls to get over, and all sorts of difficulties."
"All right, Percy. I do not see the use of waiting. We shall not get any warmer, by stopping here. It's like having a tooth out. One's got to do it, and the sooner it's done, the better.
"Now for our bundles."
They went downstairs into a cellar--where the light could not be seen from outside--struck a light, and lit a candle. The first thing taken out of the bundle was the dummy--a net, rather larger than a man's head, tightly filled with corks; with a cord, a hundred yards in length, attached. Next were two complete suits, made of white calico; with caps, with long flaps of the same material. Next were two large rolls of India rubber webbing, about six inches wide, which they had brought from Tours with them.
"I can't think that that will be any good, Ralph."
"It will, indeed, Percy. The water will, of course, soak through; but what gets in will remain in, and the heat of the body will warm it, a good deal. I can assure you, it will be a great deal warmer than having the icy water flowing past you."
Both boys now took off their coats and waistcoats, put on a warm flannel jersey over their flannel shirts, and then wound the bandages of India rubber round each other's bodies. They began under the arms; drawing the webbing tight, as they wound it round, so that its natural elasticity caused each turn to press tightly upon the turn above, which it overlapped. This bandage was continued down to the lower part of the body. Then they put on the life belts. Over them they put their suits of white calico, white shoes with India rubber soles, the white caps, and swimming gloves.
They then put the "dummy" in a pillow case, which they had bought for it at Versailles. Before putting on their caps, they fastened the quills with the dispatches in their hair. In a belt, underneath their jackets, each carried a heavy revolver.
"This India rubber stuff regularly squeezes me, Ralph."
"All the better, Percy. You will feel the benefit of it, when you are in the water, believe me."
The boys now knelt down together, and asked for protection through the peril which they were about to encounter. A few minutes later they rose, grasped each other's hand; and then--blowing out the light--groped their way upstairs, opened a window which led into the garden, and stepped out.
The wind was blowing strongly. Snowflakes were being whisked hither and thither, like spray from a wave. Had it not been for the gleam from the snow-covered ground, it would have been impossible to see ten paces, here. As it was, it was intensely dark.
"It's lucky that it's downhill, Percy, or we should never find our way to the water's edge. If we keep descending, we must be there, at last."
Before starting, the boys went a few paces from each other; and were pleased to find that their white costumes suited admirably as, between the driving snow and the white sheet upon the ground, they could not make each other out at more than eight or ten yards, even when they knew exactly where they stood. They now began to descend the hill, very carefully, step by step. The snow upon the ground made walking much more easy than it otherwise would have been. Their footsteps--muffled alike by the India-rubber soles, and the snow upon which they walked--were inaudible, even to themselves. They had several walls to climb, and the noiseless India-rubber soles were of good service, here. Several times they could hear the sentries, beating their feet upon the ground to warm them; but in no case were they near enough to see them.
At last, after an hour and a half--spent in passing the three hundred yards which separated them from the river--they reached, in safety, the wall of the road which runs along by the river. Here the sentries were pacing along at distances of thirty or forty yards apart. The white houses, upon the opposite side of the road, could be faintly seen; and the boys moved along until opposite an opening between them, by which they could get through to the river. Looking over the wall, they could watch the sentries and--choosing their time when one had just passed, so that his back would be turned towards them--he no sooner disappeared in the darkness than they dropped noiselessly into the road, ran across the street, climbed a low railing, and stood in a garden which reached down to the river.
They stood watching, for some time, to assure themselves that no sentry was placed in the garden; but at last they stole forwards and stood at the end of the garden, with the river at their feet. The snow--which was at their backs--was falling faster than ever. The river deepened rapidly from the wall; but the water was low enough for anyone to get along on the sloping side--faced with rough stone--between the foot of the wall and the water.
The boys got over the wall, took the dummy from the bag and, holding one end of the cord, put it quietly into the water; and allowed it to float down, about sixty yards.
"Now, Percy," Ralph said, "you get ready to slip into the water, as quietly as possible, the moment you hear a splash. I will leave this bag here, so as to know exactly where you have gone in and--as the rope is plenty long enough--you keep hold of it here, at sixty yards from the dummy; and I will fasten the slack end to the stone so that, when I go in, I have only to hold the rope in my hand, to be able to join you. I will take this heavy coping stone in my hand; will crawl along on this shelving bank, till I arrive at the dummy; and will then throw the stone in, and run back at full speed, and be in the water a few seconds after you are."
"All right, Ralph, I understand. Keep your pistol cocked in your hand, as you go."
Ralph crept quietly along, under the wall, until he saw the dummy floating at the edge of the water, a few feet below him. He rose on his feet, to throw in the stone; when he heard a deep exclamation behind him and, looking round, he saw a dark figure within two feet of him. Another moment, and the sentry would have brought his rifle to his shoulder--for he sprang back, giving a loud shout--but Ralph wheeled round instantaneously, threw up his revolver, and fired at the sentinel's body.
He saw him fall; turned round, hurled the heavy stone with a loud splash into the water, and then--crawling low under the wall--ran at full speed back again. As he did so, two sentries in the garden over his head fired, in the direction of the splash in the water; and shouts were heard all along the bank.
In another instant Ralph grasped the line, and slid down the snowy slopes into the water; entering so quietly that no sound, whatever, betrayed his entry. It was icy cold, and almost took away his breath. Twenty strokes, and he joined Percy.
"All right, old man, they can't see us now."
"You are not hit, are you, Ralph?" Percy gasped.
"No, it was my revolver. I had to shoot a sentry, to save my life. It's lucky we have got these life belts on, for I am sure we should never get across."
"There! There!" was shouted, in German. "I see his head bobbing up and down," and eight or ten rifle shots were fired, from the garden where the sentry had fallen, in the direction of the dummy.
The boys swam on desperately, then Ralph said: "You can slip the string now, Percy. The dummy has done its work. It must be quite out of sight from the bank.
"Do not you feel the benefit of the India rubber?"
"Yes," Percy said, "I am warm enough, in the body; but my legs are in agony, from the cold. These gloves are helping us on, though, at a great rate."
"Well, there is one blessing," Ralph said, "we can't miss the way, now."
As he spoke, a heavy fire of musketry opened from the French, upon the other side. Alarmed at the sudden fire on the part of the Germans, they fired at the flashes of their guns and, fresh reinforcements coming up on either side, a heavy exchange of musketry shots took place across the river; partially over the boys' heads, but principally a hundred yards lower down the stream, in the direction where the dummy was seen by the Germans.
The boys swam with long, steady, noiseless strokes.
"We must be halfway across," Ralph said.
"I am getting deadly cold, all over, Ralph. I can't sink, of course; but I shall freeze to death, before I reach the opposite bank."
"No, no, Percy," Ralph said, as cheerily as he could; though he felt, himself, that the intense cold was rapidly overcoming his strength. "Keep up your heart. Strike as hard as you can. The more you exert yourself, the better."
In another minute or two, Ralph found he was leaving Percy behind, and slackened his speed.
"Goodbye, Ralph. My legs are all cramped up, and my arms are numbed. I can't swim another stroke. It is all up with me," he said, faintly. "God bless you. Don't stop with me; you can do no good, and your only chance is to go on."
Ralph, however, put one hand upon Percy's life belt, and struck out for shore; but he felt that it was hopeless. Frightful pains were shooting through his limbs, and he breathed what he believed to be a last prayer; when a boom like thunder, a few yards off, galvanized him into life again--for he saw the gunboat, which they had seen in the morning, only a few yards distant. She had just fired a gun, loaded with grape, in the direction of the Germans who were firing. She was still at anchor, and the stream was drifting them down fast upon her.
"Help!" Ralph shouted. "Help! We are drowning, and have dispatches Throw a rope, quick!"
"Where are you?" answered a voice.
"Here, close to you, just abreast," Ralph shouted.
In another instant a rope struck his face. He grasped it, twisted it tightly round Percy's body and his own, tied a rough knot with his last strength, and then lost consciousness.
When he recovered his senses, his first sensation was that of intense pain--so intense that it extracted a groan from him.
"That's right, rub away; and pour some more brandy down his throat," a voice said.
Then he became conscious that he was being rubbed with hot flannels. He opened his eyes, and saw a gleaming of moving machinery, and the red glare of furnaces.
"Where am I?" he asked, at last.
"In the engine room of the gunboat Farcey," a voice said.
"I am suffering agony," Ralph murmured, between his teeth.
"I daresay," the officer who was standing by him answered. "You were pretty near frozen to death. Luckily your life belts kept you from taking in any water, but it was a near squeak. Another three minutes in the water, and the doctor says it would have been all up with you."
"Where is my brother?" Ralph asked suddenly; sitting up, with a full consciousness of all that had passed.
"He is coming round," the officer said. "He was farther gone than you were; and his heart's action was altogether suspended, from the cold. His limbs are twitching now, and the doctor says he will do.
"You call him your brother, but I suppose you mean your son?"
"Please lend me some clothes," Ralph said. "I can stand, now."
Some clothes had already been got in readiness, and warmed; and in a couple of minutes Ralph was kneeling by his brother's side. Percy was now coming to, and was suffering agonies similar to those which Ralph himself had experienced, from the recommencement of circulation in his limbs. He looked round, utterly bewildered; for he had become insensible before the Farcey's gun had given notice of her proximity. He smiled, however, when his eyes fell on Ralph's face.
"It is all right, Percy, thank God," Ralph said. "We are on board the gunboat Farcey and, in ten minutes, we shall be landed in the heart of Paris."
In another five minutes, Percy was sufficiently recovered to begin to dress. The commander of the Farcey now turned to Ralph.
"Your son has had a very narrow shave of it, sir."
"Son!" Ralph said, "He is my brother."
The officer looked surprised.
"How old do you take me to be?" Ralph asked.
"Forty-five or fifty," the officer said.
"I shall not be seventeen for some months," Ralph answered.
The officer looked at him with an air of intense astonishment, and there was a burst of laughter from the men standing round. The commandant frowned angrily at them.
"Quite so, my dear sir," he said, soothingly. "I was only joking with you. It is evident that you are not yet seventeen."
"You think I have lost my senses, with the shock," Ralph said, smiling. "I can assure you that that is my age. My beard and whiskers are so firmly fixed on, with cobbler's wax, that I shall have an awful trouble to get them off; and my hair the same. If you feel along here, from one ear to the other, you will feel a ridge. That is the cobbler's wax, that sticks all this mass of frizzled hair on.
"Did you not notice that both my brother's and my face and hands were much darker than the rest of our skin?"
"Yes, the doctor did notice that," the captain said--now beginning to think that Ralph was not insane, after all.
Passing his finger where Ralph directed him, he felt the ridge of the false hair.
"Who are you then, may I ask?" he said.
"My brother and myself are named Barclay," Ralph said. "We are lieutenants in the army, and are both decorated for service in the field. We left Tours four days ago, and are bearers of dispatches from Gambetta to General Trochu."
A cheer broke from all who were standing within hearing; and the boys' hands--for Percy came up at the moment--were warmly shaken by the officers of the boat, one after another. Congratulations of all sorts were heaped upon them, and those around were unable to make enough of them.
"No pigeon has come in, for ten days," the commander said. "You will indeed be welcome."
At this moment, a sailor came down to say that they were passing the Louvre and, in another two minutes, the gunboat lay alongside the wharf.
"You do not know, I suppose, where Trochu is to be found?" the commander of the Farcey asked.
"No, indeed," Ralph said.
"I will go with you, myself," the officer said. "If the general has gone to bed, we must knock him up. He won't mind, when he hears the reason."
It was but a short distance to walk, but the boys had great difficulty in getting there; for their limbs were stiff and aching, and they felt a burning sensation all over them, as if they had been dipped in boiling water. General Trochu had not yet gone to bed and--upon the message being delivered by the orderly, "The commander of the Farcey, with officers bearing dispatches, from Tours,"--he ordered them to be instantly admitted.
"These are the Lieutenants Barclay, general," the commander of the Farcey said. "A heavy firing broke out, suddenly, from the water side at Lower Meudon. It was answered from our side and--thinking that it might be someone trying to swim across--I fired a round of grape into the Germans, and ordered a sharp lookout to be kept. I had scarcely spoken the words before we were hailed for a rope; and in another minute these officers--both insensible from cold--were pulled on board. Thinking they might have dispatches, I at once started up the river; and when they were brought round, by the surgeon, they stated that they were the Lieutenants Barclay, bearers of dispatches from Tours."
"Gallantly done, gentlemen! Bravely done!" the general said warmly, shaking both boys by the hand.
The burning heat of Percy's hand struck him, at once.
"Where are your dispatches, gentlemen? You have preserved them, I hope?"
Ralph produced the two quills.
"They are duplicate, general," he said. "We each carried one, in case any accident might befall one of us."
"Thank you," the general said. "I need now detain you no longer. I have work here for all night, and you had better go instantly to bed. Your brother is in a high state of fever."
He touched a bell, and an officer in waiting came in.
"Captain Bar, will you kindly take these gentlemen to a hotel, at once. The horses are, as usual, in the carriage I suppose; and,"--he dropped his voice--"send a message from me to request Doctor Marcey to see them, at once. The younger one is in a state of high fever."
In another quarter of an hour the boys were in comfortable beds, in rooms adjoining each other. Ralph--who was heavy and stupid, with the effects of the cold--was asleep almost the instant his head touched the pillow. He was roused a short time afterwards by being shaken and, opening his eyes, he saw someone leaning over him.
"Drink this," the gentleman said, holding a glass to his lips.
Ralph mechanically did as he was told; and fell off again into a heavy sleep, from which he did not awake until late the next afternoon.
His first impulse was to look at his watch. It had stopped at eleven o'clock, the night before--the hour at which he had entered the Seine. Then he rang the bell.
"What o'clock is it?" he asked, when the servant entered.
"Just struck five, sir."
"What, five in the afternoon?" Ralph exclaimed.
"Yes, sir."
"I have slept," Ralph said, with a laugh. "However, I feel all right again, now.
"Is my brother up?"
"No, sir," the man said.
"Percy!" Ralph shouted, "It is five o'clock in the afternoon. Get up."
"The other gentleman is not in the next room, sir," the servant said.
"Is he not?" Ralph said, puzzled. "I was desperately sleepy last night, certainly; but not too sleepy, I should have thought, to have made a mistake about that. I feel sure he was in the next room."
"He was, sir," the servant said, "but Doctor Marcey, when he came to see you--just after you got into bed--ordered him to be carried at once into another room, in order that he might not disturb you. He said it was essential that you should have your sleep out, undisturbed."
"But why should my brother disturb me?" Ralph asked, anxiously. "Is he not well?"
"No, sir, he has got fever. He has been calling out, a great deal. He has got two sisters with him, and the doctor has been every hour."
By this time Ralph was out of bed.
"Here are some clothes, sir," the man said, handing them to him. "The landlord thought you would want some at once, when you woke; and ordered three or four suits for you to try."
Ralph seized the first that came to hand, and threw them on.
"All Paris was talking about your getting through the enemy, last night, sir. There have been hundreds of people here to call."
Ralph did not even hear what was said.
"Now," he said, "take me to him, at once."
The servant led Ralph along a passage and stopped at a door, at which he knocked. A Sister of Mercy opened the door.
"This is the other gentleman."
The sister opened the door for Ralph to enter.
"He is quiet now," she said, in a soft, compassionate tone.
Ralph went into the room. Percy lay in the bed, with his head surrounded with ice. His face was flushed, and his eyes wild. He was moving uneasily about, talking to himself.
"It is that schoolmaster who is at the bottom of it," he muttered. "He was a traitor, and I thought we hung him, but I suppose we didn't. Perhaps he got down, after we had gone off. If not, how could he have betrayed us again?
"I have heard of liquid fire, but that was liquid ice. It got into my veins, somehow, instead of blood. I tell you, Ralph, it's no good. I can't stand it any longer; but I will pay off that schoolmaster, first. Let me get at him," and he made an effort to rise.
The sister tried to restrain him, but so violent were his efforts to rise that Ralph--who was looking on, with tears streaming down his cheeks--was obliged to assist to hold him down. When he became quiet, the sister forced some medicine between his lips--Ralph holding up his head.
"Shall I speak to him?" Ralph asked. "He may know my voice."
"Better not, sir," the nurse said, "it would probably only set him off again."
"What does the doctor say about him?" Ralph asked.
"He says it is brain fever," the nurse said. "He only said it might be some days, before the crisis came; and that he could not give any decided opinion, at present. But he seemed to have hope."
"Thank God, at least, for that!" Ralph said, earnestly.
Percy, turning his head round again, caught sight of Ralph.
"Ah, there is that schoolmaster again! If no one else will hang him, I will do it, myself. Let me get at him!"
And he again made desperate efforts to get out of bed.
"You had better go, sir," one of the sisters said, urgently. "The sight of you makes him worse, and you can do him no good."
Seeing that it was so, Ralph reluctantly left the room; his only comfort being that Percy was as carefully tended, and looked after, as it was possible for him to be. He had scarcely returned to his room, when an officer was shown in.
"I daresay you hardly remember me," he said. "I came here with you, last night."
"I am very glad to see you again, and to thank you for the trouble you took," Ralph said. "I was too sleepy to do so, last night."
"Not at all," the officer answered. "However, I am here with a message from the general, now. He would have asked you to dine with him but, hearing of the state of your brother, he could not ask you to leave him for so long a time; but he would be glad if you would come to see him, for an hour, this evening. He wishes to know how you managed to pass through the German lines; and he also desires to be informed, as far as you can give such information, of the number and position of the enemy.
"What surprises us all, more than anything, is that the dispatches are dated the morning of the thirteenth instant; and you were picked up, by the Farcey, upon the evening of the sixteenth. It seems incredible that you should have done the distance, and managed to get through the German lines, in the time. Only one other messenger has got through; and his dispatches were more than ten days old, when they reached us, and had been forestalled by some pigeons. Your news is six days later than any we have received."
"We slept, on the night of the thirteenth, at Montargis," Ralph said; "on the fourteenth at Melun, on the fifteenth at Versailles; and last night--as you know--here."
"I must not get the information before the general," the officer said, with a laugh. "It is half-past six, now. The general dines at seven. At what time will you be with him? Shall we say nine?"
"I will be there at nine," Ralph said, "but the general will, I hope, excuse my coming either in uniform, or full dress of any kind. I have, of course, nothing with me."
"General Trochu will of course understand that," the officer said. "Goodbye."
Ralph now went back to Percy's room. The doctor had just come. He was accompanied by another medical man. Ralph stood by, in silent attention, while the doctor felt Percy's pulse, and asked a few questions of the nurse. They then gave some orders, and said that fresh medicine should be sent in, in a quarter of an hour; and that they would come in again, at ten o'clock, to see how he was going on.
"What do you think of him, sir?" Ralph asked, as the doctor came out.
"He has a sharp attack of brain fever," the doctor said, "but he is young, with an excellent constitution. I trust we shall pull him through. I cannot say anything for certain, at present--till the fever takes a turn, one way or the other--but I have strong hopes."
Ralph ordered some dinner to be sent up to his room, for he began to be keenly awake to the fact that he had eaten nothing, for more than twenty-four hours. After he had taken the meal, he sat in Percy's room, until it was time to go to General Trochu's; keeping himself, however, in a position so as to be hidden by the curtain--for the sight of him evidently excited the patient. Percy was, as far as his brother could see, in just the same state as before: sometimes talking to himself, in disconnected sentences; sometimes raving wildly, and imagining himself repeating the scenes through which he had passed, since he left home.
At nine o'clock, exactly, Ralph sent in his name to the governor; and was at once shown in. The general had already left the table, and was smoking in a small study. With him were Generals Ducrot and Vinoy. General Trochu rose, and shook him cordially by the hand; presented him to the other generals, and asked him to take a cigar, and sit down.
"Generals Ducrot and Vinoy are surprised, I see, at your appearance, Captain Barclay," General Trochu began.
"By the way," he interrupted himself, "you are in the Gazette, this morning, as captain."
Ralph bowed, and expressed his thanks.
"No thanks are due at all, Captain Barclay," the old veteran said. "You have well earned your promotion; and Gambetta--who speaks of you, I may say, in the highest terms--tells me that he promised you the step, if you got in. I need not say that, whether he had done so or not, I should have given it to you.
"But I was saying, I see Generals Vinoy and Ducrot are surprised--as I am, myself--at your appearance. Gambetta, in his letter, twice uses the expression young officers. Once he said, 'these young officers have greatly distinguished themselves, and have gained the cross of the legion of honor;' and again he says, 'these young officers have volunteered to carry dispatches.'
"Naturally, my friends were looking for a younger man; and having only seen you for an instant last night, and not having observed your features, specially, I confess that I was expecting a younger man.
"You see," he said, with a smile, "we can quite understand Gambetta's calling your brother a young officer, for he is a mere lad; but one would hardly have applied the same term to yourself."
Ralph had flushed crimson, at the commencement of this speech.
"I must apologize very greatly, general," he said, when the Governor of Paris stopped; "for the mistake is certainly due to my own forgetfulness."
His hearers looked surprised.
"I slept until five o'clock this afternoon," Ralph continued; "owing, I believe, to a powerful opiate that the doctor you kindly sent us gave me. Since I woke, my thoughts have been entirely given to my brother; and the thought of my singular appearance never entered my mind. I have become so accustomed--in the few days since I left Tours--to this beard, mustache, and hair, that I never thought of them, for a moment. Had I thought of it, I could not have presented myself before you, this evening; for I should not have presumed to do so, in my present state; and it will take me some hours of hard work, and not a little pain, before I get rid of them--for they are fastened on with shoemaker's wax and, I fear, will not come off, without taking a considerable portion of skin with them."
The three generals laughed heartily at Ralph's apology, and their own mistake; and General Trochu then asked him to give them a full account of what had happened to him, what he had seen, and what information he had gained since he left Tours. Ralph told the story unaffectedly, from beginning to end, and received warm commendation from his listeners.
"Your story began at Tours," General Trochu said; "where had you last been, before that?"
"We had only arrived, ten days before, from a German prison," Ralph answered.
The generals all laughed.
"You are adventurous fellows, you and your brother," General Vinoy said. "How did you get taken, and how did you get out?"
Ralph again told his story.
"You are cool hands, you Barclays," General Ducrot said. "How did you get commissions first? Were you at the Polytechnic, or Saint Cyr?"
"No, general," Ralph said, modestly, "we had no such advantages. We won our commissions--and the cross of the Legion--in the Vosges, as franc tireurs."
"In which corps?" General Trochu asked, a little sharply. "They have not done any very great things, the franc tireurs."
"We were in the franc tireurs of Dijon," Ralph said, a little proudly. "We several times beat superior forces. We blew up the bridge of the Vesouze; and should have blown up the tunnel of Saverne, had it not been for treachery."
"Yes, yes," General Trochu said; "I remember Gambetta has once or twice mentioned your corps, especially. You see, we don't hear much from outside.
"Let us hear of the affairs you have mentioned. Your account will give us a better idea of the state of things, in the Vosges, than fifty dispatches would do."
Thus asked, Ralph gave an account of the doings of the corps; from the day they arrived in the Vosges, to the day he had left them--reduced to a fourth of their original strength. The three generals sat and smoked their cigars while he spoke, asking questions occasionally.
"Very good," General Trochu said, when he finished; and the other generals cordially assented.
"But how come you to speak German so well?" General Trochu asked; "and how was it you understood the English in which the officer spoke, at Saverne?"
"We are English," Ralph said; and his hearers gave a simultaneous start of surprise. "That is to say, our nationality is English, though we are half French. Our father--an officer in the English army--was wounded, left the service, married a French lady, and settled in France for a time. We have been educated partly in England, Germany, and France; so that we speak the three languages nearly equally well."
"Well, Captain Barclay," General Trochu said, "I am almost sorry that you are not French; for you would be a credit to any country.
"And now, I think it is time to be going to bed," and he drew out his watch. "Bless me, it is one o'clock! I had no idea it was so late. Good night.
"I will not ask you to call again, for a day or two; as your brother will naturally occupy your attention, and care. I trust that I shall soon hear good news of him."
"Good night, Captain Barclay," the other generals said, cordially, each giving him their hands; and Ralph made his way across the dark streets--for there was no gas--back to his hotel.
He went at once up to Percy's room; and found that, if not decidedly better, he was at least no worse; and the Sisters of Charity, who were nursing him, said that the doctors had spoken hopefully at their last visit. Ralph had intended to sit up all night, but the nurses assured him that he could be of no use, whatever; and indeed, that he would be worse than useless, as his presence excited Percy. They themselves were keeping watch, by turns.
Accordingly Ralph--who still felt the effects of the cold immersion--went off to bed and--in spite of the late hour at which he had risen--was in a few minutes sound asleep.
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{
"id": "22060"
}
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17
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: A Balloon Voyage.
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For eight-and-forty hours, Percy's fever and delirium continued unabated. At the end of that time, he fell into a long sleep; and the doctor, as he felt his hand and heard his breathing, told his brother that he thought the crisis was over, and that he would awaken, conscious. His prognostication turned out well founded and, to Ralph's intense delight, Percy knew him when he opened his eyes. He was weak--weaker than Ralph could have supposed anyone could possibly have become, after only two days' illness. But he was fairly convalescent.
Ralph had scarcely left him, during these two days; and had only been out once from the hotel. He had sent for a newspaper; to read for himself, in the Gazette, the promotion which General Trochu had notified to him and, after doing so, he turned to another portion; and there, among the lists of decorations given, were the names of Percy and himself, as promoted to be commanders of the Legion for having, with extreme gallantry, conveyed dispatches from Tours to Paris, through the German lines.
It was after reading this newspaper that Ralph went out. His walk was not a long one. He went first to a tailor, and ordered two captain's uniforms; for Percy was so nearly his own size that--except that his shoulders were an inch less in width--Ralph's clothes fitted him exactly. He then went to the Palais Royal, where there are several shops which sell nothing but medals, and decorations; and bought two ribbons of the commander's rank, in the legion of honor.
One terrible morning Ralph spent in a hairdresser's hands and, at the cost of no little pain, got rid of all that mass of hair which had so transformed him. The stain was now nearly worn off the skin; and Ralph was quite surprised, when he again looked at himself in the glass.
"I was about beginning to forget," he said, with a laugh, "that I was a boy, after all."
The first day of Percy's convalescence, he dozed a good deal; but the next day he woke, much brighter and better.
"Look here, Percy," Ralph said, laying the ribbon before him; "that's better than medicine for you. There is the ribbon of a commander of the legion of honor. You can safely boast that you are the youngest who ever wore it; and earned it well, too, old man. Won't they be pleased, at home? And we are both gazetted as captains."
Percy smiled with pleasure. His attack had been a very sharp one; but so short an illness, however severe, is speedily got over. The doctor had, that morning, said that all he wanted now was building up; and that, in a very few days, he would be about. Indeed, Percy wanted to get up that day; insisting that he was quite strong. When he once stood up, however, he found he was much weaker than he had imagined; but sat up in an armchair, all the evening. The next day he remained up all day and, three days after, he felt strong enough to go to the governor with Ralph, to ask for their promised places in the next balloon.
It was now the twenty-third of November. A carriage was sent for and, after some difficulty, procured; for carriages were already becoming scarce, in Paris. They drove up to the entrance, and went in; but were told by an orderly--who could scarcely conceal his surprise at these lads, in the uniform of captains of the staff, and with decorations scarcely ever seen, except upon the breasts of superior officers--that the general was out. They turned and went out but, as they reached the steps, a number of officers rode up.
"There is General Trochu himself, with Vinoy and Ducrot," Ralph said.
The generals dismounted, and came up the steps. As they did so their eyes fell upon the boys, who both saluted. They paused, in surprise.
"What masquerade is this, young gentlemen?" General Trochu asked, sternly. "Allow me to ask how you venture to dress up as captains, on the staff; and still more how you dare to put on the ribbons of commanders of the legion of honor?
"It is no laughing matter," he said, angrily, as Ralph could not resist a smile. "It is a punishable offence; and your impudence in showing yourselves off, at my door, makes the matter the more unpardonable."
"I see, general, that you do not remember us."
"I do not, sir," General Trochu said, looking at him sternly. "To the best of my belief, I never set eyes upon you before."
The numerous staff of officers--who had accompanied the generals, and who were scattered thickly around them--gave an angry murmur; for scarce one among them wore the coveted decoration.
"I am Ralph Barclay, and this is my brother Percy," Ralph said, respectfully.
"Impossible!" the three generals exclaimed, simultaneously; while there was a general exclamation of surprise, from the officers round--for the courageous deed of the Barclays, in making their way through the enemy's lines, had been a general topic of conversation, and all Paris was familiar with their names.
"It is so, general," Ralph said, respectfully. "I explained to you, at the interview that I had the honor of having with you, in the presence of Generals Ducrot and Vinoy, that it was the false hair which made all the difference; and that I was but little older than my brother."
The generals no longer doubted. They all shook both boys by the hand.
"I am astounded," General Trochu said; "astounded that two such mere boys, as I now see you are, should have accomplished what you have done. However, courage is of no age; and I do not think that there are any here,"--and he turned to the officers round him--"who will not agree with me that these ribbons are worthily placed."
"No, indeed," was the general reply; and the officers all pressed round, to shake hands with the boys, as they accompanied the governor back into the house.
General Trochu went at once into his private study, and told the boys to sit down.
"Now, what can I do for you, boys?"
"Monsieur Gambetta promised us that he would write, to ask for us to have places in the first balloon which came out, after we arrived," Ralph said. "Owing to my brother's illness, I have not been able to ask, before; but I am now anxious to leave as soon as possible, especially as the doctor says that change is desirable for my brother, and that he ought to have at least a month's nursing, at home, before he gets on horseback again."
"A balloon will start tomorrow morning," General Trochu said, "but if you choose to stay here, I will promise you both places upon my own staff; or upon those of Generals Ducrot or Vinoy--either of whom would, I am sure, be very glad to receive you."
"You are very kind, indeed, sir--very kind; and we feel greatly honored by your offer," Ralph said, gratefully. "Had we any intention, whatever, of remaining in the army, we should accept it, with many thanks; but it is not so. We are English; and at the end of the war we leave France, and go back to live at home. We entered the ranks with no thought of winning promotion, or favor; but simply from a sense of duty to the country to which our mother belonged, and in which we were born.
"There will, I suppose, be a great battle fought near Orleans, shortly; and I should like to be present, if possible--and Percy wants rest. Therefore, general, while thanking you most warmly for your kindness, we would rather go out."
"Very well," the general said, "it shall be as you wish. There is certainly more chance of your seeing stirring service, in the field, than in here. I do not blame you for your choice. I will send a note at once to Monsieur Teclier--who has charge of the balloon--to say that you will accompany him.
"Goodbye, lads, goodbye; you are fine young fellows, and your father has every right to be proud of you. Tell him so, from me."
The boys rose, and bowed; but the general held out his hand, and shook theirs warmly.
Upon leaving the room, they found several of the officers of the staff waiting outside; who begged them to stay, and have a chat with them. Ralph at once accepted the invitation; upon the condition that Percy should have a sofa upon which to lie down, for his brother was looking pale, and faint. They were most warmly received, in a large drawing room, in which were over a dozen officers of different ranks. Some bottles of champagne were opened, cigars were lit and, while Percy lay quietly upon the sofa, Ralph chatted with the officers; relating, at their earnest request, several of their adventures in the Vosges, as well as the story of their entering into Paris.
His new friends warmly pressed them to stop and dine with them; but Ralph pleaded that the balloon was to start at five in the morning, and that he wished Percy to lie down, and get a good night's sleep before starting. The carriage had been discharged, hours since; but one of the officers ordered a carriage of General Trochu's to the door and, after a hearty leave taking, the boys returned to their hotel.
"What a curious scene it is, Percy," Ralph said. "Who would think that we were in a besieged city? Everything looks very much as usual: the shops are open; people walk about and chat, and smoke, and drink their coffee or absinthe, just as usual. The only difference is, that everyone is in some sort of uniform or other. One does not see a single able-bodied man altogether in civilian dress; and at night the streets are very dismal, owing to there being no gas."
"How much longer do they seem to expect to hold out, Ralph?"
"Another two months, anyhow; perhaps three, or even more. There seems to be a large stock of everything, and everyone is put on to a regular allowance--just enough to live upon, and no more."
"I seem to have everything I want, Ralph; lots of beef tea, and soup, and jelly, and so on."
"Yes, Percy; but you obtain your food from the hospital. The hotel could not furnish anything of the kind, I can tell you.
"Here we are. Now you lie down at once, and get to sleep. I will wake you in plenty of time."
At ten minutes before the appointed time, the boys arrived at the Northern Railway Station; which presented a very different appearance to that which it ordinarily wore. No whistle of locomotives, or rumble of heavy trains, disturbed the silence of the station. A smell of varnish pervaded the whole place; and several empty balloons hung from the roof, undergoing the process of drying. The official--who had received them at the entrance--conducted them outside the station; and there, in the light of some torches, a great black mass could be seen, swaying heavily to and fro. The aeronaut was standing beside it.
"Here are the gentlemen who accompany you," the officer said to him.
"How are you, gentlemen?" he said, cheerily. "We have a fine night, or rather morning; the wind is northerly. I suppose this is your first ascent?"
"Yes, indeed," Ralph said, "and I own I hope it will be the last. Have the dispatches arrived?"
"No; I have the mail bags, but not the dispatches Hush! There are a horse's hoofs."
A few minutes afterwards a railway official brought a note, which he delivered to Monsieur Teclier.
"Bah!" he said, in an annoyed tone, "why cannot they be punctual?"
"What is it, sir?" Ralph asked.
"A note from the general, to say that the dispatches will not be ready for an hour. That means an hour and a half; and by that time it will be light enough to be seen, and we shall have to run the gauntlet. However, I suppose it cannot be helped.
"The best thing will be to pass the time as cheerfully as we can; and that certainly will not be in waiting out here, in this bitter cold. I have, fortunately, a few bottles of excellent wine in the car; so I propose, gentlemen, that we go in to a fire, have a glass of wine, and smoke a cigar, tranquilly."
Monsieur Teclier gave a few directions concerning the balloon; and they then adjourned to a work shed near, where a good fire was blazing, for the use of the men employed in filling the balloon. Here the hour and a half of waiting passed pleasantly.
At a quarter to seven, the dispatches arrived. They were hastily placed in the car, in which everything else had already been packed. The Barclays took their place, the word was given, "Let go all!" and, in another instant, the earth seemed to sink away from under them, and they were rising over the tops of the houses.
The dawn had already broken, gray and uncertain. Light clouds were floating overhead. For two or three minutes, not a word was spoken. The scene was so wonderful--the effect so extraordinary, to the boys--that they were unable to utter a word. Every instant, the earth seemed to sink away from them; every instant, their view extended farther and farther; and the distant fields, villages, and hills seemed actually to spring into sight.
"It is wonderful!" Ralph said, at last.
"Magnificent!" Percy responded.
"I wonder whether they see us?" Ralph said.
"We shall soon know," Monsieur Teclier said. "We have crossed the river, and over the walls already. In another five minutes, we shall be over their lines."
There were good telescopes in the car, and the boys directed them upon the immense panorama below them.
"What fort is that, immediately beneath us?" Ralph asked.
"That is Vanves. The village you see there is Chatillon. Look out now, we may expect visitors, in a minute."
He had hardly spoken before they heard a faint sound, followed by others similar.
"That is musketry," Monsieur Teclier said. "Listen."
They did listen, and heard a peculiar whistling sound; which seemed below, around, and about them.
"That is a whistle of bullets; there is no mistaking them," Ralph said.
"We are too low," Monsieur Teclier said. "Throw out that bundle of newspapers; we will go up a little."
Ralph did so.
"What would be the consequence, if a bullet hit the balloon?"
"No consequence at all, except that a slight escape of gas would take place.
"There, we are going into the clouds now, and they will not trouble any more about us."
"I thought that we were going to have wind," Ralph said. "The barometer at the hotel had fallen a good deal; and the clouds, before we started, looked like it but, now we are once up here, we do not seem to move."
In another two minutes, they passed through the layer of clouds, and the sun shone brightly upon them. They looked down on a sea of white mist, without a break.
"There," Ralph continued, "we are entirely becalmed. These clouds below do not move, nor do we."
"You cannot tell that," Monsieur Teclier said. "We go in the same direction, and at the same speed, as the clouds. It is just as if you were in a boat, at night, upon a rapid stream. If you could see no banks, or other stationary objects, you might believe yourself to be standing still; while you were being drifted forward, at the rate of twenty miles an hour. We may be traveling, now, forty or fifty miles an hour; and as I agree with you, as to the look of the clouds before starting, I believe that we are doing so--or, at any rate, that we are traveling fast--but in what direction, or at what rate, I have no means, whatever, of knowing.
"Even if we found that we moved, relatively to the clouds below us, that would only show that this upper current was somewhat different from that below."
"But how are we to find out about it?" Percy asked.
"We must keep a sharp lookout for rifts in the clouds. If we could get a peep of the earth, only for a minute, it would be sufficient to tell us the direction and, to some extent, the speed at which we are going."
The boys, in vain, hung over the side. The sea of clouds beneath them changed, and swelled, and rolled its masses of vapor over each other; as if a contest of some gigantic reptiles were going on with them.
"There must be a great deal of wind, to account for these rapid changes of form," Percy said, after a long silence. "Suppose you see nothing of the earth? At what time will you begin to descend?"
"In five hours from the time of starting, at twenty-five miles an hour--supposing that the wind holds north--we should fall south of the Loire, somewhere between Orleans and Bourges. At eleven o'clock, then, I will let out gas; and go down below the clouds, to see whereabouts we are. If we cannot recognize the country, or see any river which may guide us, we shall at least see our direction and rate of movement; and can either throw out more newspapers, and keep on for awhile, or descend at once."
It was just ten o'clock, when Ralph gave a sudden cry.
"The sea!" he said; "the sea!"
"Impossible," Monsieur Teclier said, hanging over the side; "I can see nothing."
"Nor can I, now," Ralph said; "but I caught a glimpse, just now, and I will almost swear to its being the sea--though how we could get there, I don't know."
"If it is," the aeronaut said, "the wind must be blowing half a gale, up here; and must have changed entirely, either to the west or south. It is too serious to hesitate; we must find out if your eyes have not deceived you."
So saying, he pulled the valve.
"Keep a sharp lookout, and look at the compass."
"There, there!" the boys cried, as the clouds opened again, for an instant. "It is the sea, and we are going west."
"Then we are over the Atlantic," Monsieur Teclier said.
The gas was roaring from the valve above, and the balloon sank rapidly into the stratum of clouds. For a minute, all was silent; and then a cry broke from them all. They were a considerable distance from the coast, and were driving along with great rapidity. Immediately under the balloon was an island, of no great size and, beyond that, no land whatever was visible.
"We must descend on that island, or we are lost. It is our only chance."
The valve was still open; and its influence was easily seen, for the balloon sank rapidly down through the opening of the clouds.
"We shan't be down in time," the boys exclaimed, simultaneously.
It was but too evident. The balloon, when the first general view of the situation had been obtained, was fully a mile high; and was traveling seaward at the rate of thirty miles an hour. The island, at the point at which they were crossing, was about three miles wide; but they had passed fully half a mile over it, before they obtained a fair view. In five minutes, therefore, they would be beyond the land again; and they had to fall a mile, in that time.
"Cut the balloon to pieces," Monsieur Teclier said. "Tear it up. We must risk everything."
The boys seized the silk, tore, and hacked at it; as did the aeronaut. In two minutes, a vast quantity of gas had escaped from the rents, and the silk was doubled up near the top of the net.
Illustration: The Sea! The Sea!
"That will do," Monsieur Teclier said. "We shall be down in time, now."
The boys looked over the car and, accustomed as they had been to face danger, were appalled.
"It is all up with us, this time," Ralph said; "we shall he smashed, altogether."
"No," the aeronaut exclaimed, "the silk is acting as a parachute, now, and checking the descent. Now, help me to throw out all the bundles."
They did so, working silently and with difficulty; for the car was oscillating so greatly that they were obliged to hold on, by its side, not to be thrown out. The descent was less rapid than it had been, but was still sufficiently alarming.
"Is there a chance?" Ralph said.
"We shall get off with a shaking," Monsieur Teclier said. "The car is made of wicker work, and is as elastic as a ball. Drop the grapnel, now; in another minute, we shall be within holding distance."
As the balloon neared the ground, the oscillation became less violent, and the pace diminished.
"The grapnel is on the ground," Percy said, looking over.
"Hold tight, hold tight," Monsieur Teclier said, warningly. "We shall catch fast on to those trees."
There was a tearing and rending, a series of tremendous jerks, and then a bump against the ground; which threw them all into the bottom of the car, from which the next jerk threw them out on to the ground. Fortunately the ground was even, and the soil had lately been plowed; but the shock was so violent that it was some minutes before either of the boys recovered consciousness. When they did so, they found that two or three gentlemen were leaning over them; while several peasants were endeavoring, under the direction of Monsieur Teclier, to hold the balloon--which was thrashing the ground with great violence.
"Thank God, you are all alive," one of the gentlemen said.
A peasant now came running up, with some water. The gentleman who had spoken dashed a little in their faces.
"I do not think any of your limbs are broken," he said. "Do you feel any pain?"
"I feel sore and bruised, all over," Ralph said, getting up with some assistance; "but I don't think that anything serious is the matter.
"How are you, Percy?"
"I don't think I am hurt seriously, Ralph; but I would rather lie still, for the present."
Ralph explained to the gentleman--who again leaned over Percy, and felt his pulse--that his brother had been recently ill, and was still weak.
"Ah, that accounts for it," the gentleman said. "I do not think that he is seriously hurt. I am a doctor; and was luckily out riding with these gentlemen, when we happened to look up and saw your balloon falling, like a stone, from the clouds. We thought at first that you must be dashed to pieces; but when we saw that the speed was being a little checked, we had some hope, and galloped in the direction in which it was falling. We were within five hundred yards when you fell, but we hardly expected to see anyone alive.
"Do not try to move," he said to Percy. "We sent a man for a vehicle, and a few necessaries, before we set off ourselves."
"Where have we fallen?" Ralph asked. "We were astonished to find ourselves over the sea, for the wind was north when we started."
"You have fallen upon Belle Isle," the gentleman said, "so the wind must have changed materially, since you started."
Monsieur Teclier now came up.
"I must really congratulate you both," he said to Ralph, "upon your coolness and presence of mind, in a very frightful position. The oldest aeronaut could not have shown more nerve."
"You see," Ralph said, "we have been pretty often in danger, now; and although the sort of danger was new, the degree of danger was not."
The gentlemen smiled a little, as Ralph spoke. The Barclays had come out in plain clothes, bringing their uniform in the balloon for, in the event of the balloon having fallen among the Germans, it was of course essential that they should be able to get off, unobserved. They therefore looked mere lads; and their talk, of having passed through as great a danger as that which had just made the spectators of it feel faint and sick only to witness, appeared to be a mere bit of exaggerated braggadocio.
A light cart now arrived, in which some mattresses had been laid; some bandages, and other surgical necessaries had also been added, together with a bottle of brandy.
"Fortunately we do not want any of these, except the brandy," the surgeon said. "A little of that will do you all good.
"Now a few strips of plaster,"--this was to Monsieur Teclier, whose face was cut a good deal--"and then you will do, till you get to the town."
The three voyagers were now helped into the cart; for they were all very stiff and greatly shaken, and were glad to stretch themselves out on the mattresses, covered over with blankets, until they reached the little town. Here they were met by the whole population, cheering lustily. Another wagon had been sent off for the balloon; and a number of people now set out to search for the bags of dispatches, etc. which had been thrown out during the last part of the descent. The Sous Prefect at the island placed his house at once at their disposal. But they said that they would rather go to a hotel, first, and take a hot bath--which the doctor recommended them--but should be very happy to breakfast with him, after that. Before going to the hotel, however, Monsieur Teclier sent off a dispatch to Tours; saying that he had arrived at Belle Isle with news from Paris, at a quarter to seven; and that, at that time, everything was going on well.
He next inquired as to means of reaching the mainland. The wind was dead off shore, and a sailing vessel would have taken a long time to make the passage. However, there was a small steamer in harbor; and the Sous Prefect took upon himself to engage that the fires should be lighted, at once, and that they should cross in two or three hours.
After reaching the hotel they were examined carefully by the surgeon; who pronounced that no harm, whatever, had been done to them, and that they had escaped with a few contusions, and a good shaking.
The breakfast was quite an ovation. All the principal people of the place were assembled; and when Monsieur Teclier entered, followed by the young Barclays, the gentlemen clapped their hands and cheered, and the ladies waved their handkerchiefs. After breakfast, the Sous Prefect proposed an adjournment into the drawing room; and now the voyagers each became the center of a knot of questioners as to the voyage.
Monsieur Teclier--as was natural--conversed with the Sous Prefect and other leading men of the town, while their wives and daughters gathered round the lads. Ralph had given his name as Barclay, and had stated that Percy was his brother; but he had said nothing as to their being in the army, as he wished to avoid the oft-repeated tale which the declaration of his rank was sure to necessitate. He had even said a word to Monsieur Teclier, begging him to say the Messieurs Barclay, instead of Captains Barclay--unless, of course, he were actually questioned upon the matter. Percy was allowed to sit in an easy chair, unmolested--for he was quite done up--and Ralph talked for both, relating many details of their journey from Paris; and the ladies examined him most minutely as to his sensation, and especially whether he was not horribly frightened.
Among those standing in a group round the young Barclays was a lieutenant of Mobiles; who evidently by no means approved of the attention, and interest which they excited among the ladies; and who had made several sarcastic remarks, during the course of the narrative. Presently a servant came in and, walking up to Monsieur Teclier, said that two swords had been picked up; had they fallen from the balloon?
"Yes," Monsieur Teclier said, "they belong to those gentlemen."
The servant came up to Ralph, and told him that the swords had been picked up. Ralph at once drew out a five-franc piece, and asked the servant to give it to the man who had found them.
"Ah," said the officer of Mobiles, with a scarcely concealed sneer, "so you have come out from Paris to serve? I should have imagined that there were plenty of opportunities to distinguish yourselves, there. However, you must have had good interest, to get places in a balloon."
"We have fair interest," Ralph said calmly, "as apparently you have, yourself. Each of us have, you see, used our interest in the way most pleasing to us. We have used ours to enable us to go with the army in the field, instead of being forced to remain inactive in Paris. You, upon your part, have used yours to get away from the army in the field, and to remain inactive, here."
These words were spoken with such an air of boyish frankness, and an apparent innocence of any desire to say anything unpleasant, that everyone within hearing was ready to burst with laughter at Ralph's hit--which happened to be thoroughly well deserved.
The officer turned white; and would have burst out into a violent answer, had not a couple of friends at his elbow begged him to restrain himself. The boy evidently meant nothing; besides, he was only a boy, and what could be done with him? Besides which, again, one of them put in, though he was only a boy, he looked an awkward customer. This latter argument weighed more with the lieutenant than any other.
Ralph was not yet seventeen, and looked much younger than a French lad of the same age would do; but in point of size he was considerably taller than the officer of Mobiles, and his broad shoulders gave promise of unusual strength. There was, too, a look of fearlessness and decision about his face which marked him emphatically as an "awkward customer." Seeing this, the lieutenant burst into a constrained fit of laughter; and said that it was "very good--really very good, for a boy."
Everyone else was so occupied in the endeavor to stifle their laughter that the lieutenant again took up the part of questioner.
"I suppose, young gentleman, that you come from Saint Cyr or the Polytechnic; although I should hardly imagine that you have completed your studies, in either of them?"
"I have not the advantage of having been at either of the military academies," Ralph said quietly. "Have you?"
Again there was a laugh and, by this time, most of those in the room had gathered round.
"May I ask to which arm of the service you belong?" the officer asked, with difficulty keeping his temper.
"You may ask, certainly; and I have no objection to answer," Ralph said. "My brother and myself both belong to the general staff."
The officer looked surprised.
"Have you served already, sir, or has your service yet to commence?"
"I have seen some little service already," Ralph said.
"May I ask what general has had the benefit of your assistance?" the lieutenant said, with an affectation of politeness.
At this moment the Sous Prefect pushed forward.
"Silence, sir!" he said to the officer. "There has been too much of this. These gentlemen have performed a great service to France, and are my guests; and I look upon it as a personal attack upon myself."
"Excuse me, sir," Ralph said, rising from his seat for the first time. "I am grateful to you, for your interference in my behalf; but I can make no claim, upon the present occasion, to have rendered any service to France. I had nothing to do with the dispatches, nothing to do with the balloon. I came out as a passenger, upon my private desire and pleasure, at the risk of course of being killed. Undoubtedly I nearly was killed; and I look upon the entertainment that you have given us as a kind congratulation upon our not having broken our necks.
"Kindly, then, permit me to answer this officer for myself. I think I can hold my own."
The Sous Prefect shrugged his shoulders; to signify that, in that case, he washed his hands of the whole business.
"Now, sir," Ralph said, "I will answer the question. The general upon whose staff my brother and myself served was General Cambriels."
The officer shrugged his shoulders.
"Since that time," Ralph said, more sternly than he had yet spoken, "my brother and myself have had the offer of posts upon the staffs of General Trochu, General Ducrot, and General Vinoy."
"Oh, come now," the lieutenant said, with a laugh of derision, "that is a little too strong. Imagine a scramble upon the part of Trochu, Ducrot, and Vinoy for the services of these very young officers."
This time the speaker had the laugh with him, for no one could believe that Ralph could be speaking the truth. Ralph grew a little pale.
"Monsieur Teclier," he said, "do me the favor to introduce my brother and myself to this lieutenant of Mobiles, in due form."
The matter had now become so serious that there was a dead hush in the room, while Monsieur Teclier advanced. He had once or twice already made a motion of coming forward, to take Ralph's part; but a motion from the latter had arrested him. He was aware of the furore which the gallant and successful expedition of the Barclays had created, in Paris; and he had been greatly struck and pleased by the calmness of the boys in a great--and to them altogether new--peril. He now advanced slowly.
"May I ask your name, sir, and regiment?" he said to the officer.
"Lieutenant Desmaret, of the Mobiles of Vienne," the officer said, frowning.
"Lieutenant Desmaret of the Mobiles of Vienne, I beg to introduce you to--" "No, sir," the officer said, passionately, "you introduce them to me, not me to them. The inferior rank is introduced to the superior."
"I know perfectly well what I am doing, sir, and require no lesson from you," Monsieur Teclier said, quietly. "I repeat, I introduce you--Lieutenant Desmaret, of the Mobiles of Vienne--to Captain Ralph Barclay, and Captain Percy Barclay, staff officers, and commanders of the legion of honor."
There was a dead silence of surprise throughout the room.
"Is it possible?" the Sous Prefect said, coming forward again, "that these gentlemen are the Captains Barclay, of whom the Paris papers--which we received three days since--were full, as having passed through the German lines, and having swam the Seine at night, under fire? They had previously been decorated for great acts of bravery, in the Vosges; and were now made commanders of the Legion.
"Is it possible that you are those officers, gentlemen?"
"It is so, monsieur," Ralph said. "We had the good fortune to distinguish ourselves but, as we did not wish to make ourselves conspicuous by new uniforms, and new ribbons, we have put aside our uniforms until required for service; and asked Monsieur Teclier to be silent upon the subject. Of course, we could not guess that, upon our way, we should meet so rude and unmannerly a person as Monsieur the Lieutenant of the Mobiles of Vienne."
The lieutenant stamped his feet furiously.
"You shall answer to me, sir," he said, "for this insult."
"Stop, sir," Ralph said, in a steady voice--which silenced those who were about to interfere. "You have asked me questions, with rare freedom. I have answered them. I am now going to give you my opinion of you, and my advice to you, equally freely.
"If you mean, by what you have said, that you are going to challenge me to a duel, I tell you at once that I shall not accept it. I have, sir," and he raised his head proudly, "proved my courage; and France has recognized it, in the rank and honor she has given me. We English--for I am English--do not fight duels.
"But I will make an exception. When you, Monsieur Desmaret, come to me decorated as I am; or having, in any signal way, proved your courage and devotion to France, I will meet you. At present I see that you--an officer in the French army, well in health--are staying here in idleness, instead of being in the field. Go and fight the enemies of France, first, Monsieur Desmaret; and after that talk, if you like, about fighting her friends."
There was a loud exclamation of applause and satisfaction, at these words, from those who had been looking on at this unpleasant scene; and the Sous Prefect warmly shook Ralph by the hand.
"Well said, Captain Barclay; well said, indeed. I believe I may say that everyone here agrees with you, entirely. There are too many officers continually absent from the army upon 'private affairs;' and those of Monsieur Desmaret have taken longer to arrange than usual, for he has been staying here for five weeks now.
"However," he said, significantly, "he will hardly prolong his stay in the island.
"Enough upon that subject," he said, as Monsieur Desmaret left the room, pale and furious. "I am glad--I am proud, sir--to make the acquaintance of yourself and your brother; and I can really, at heart, feel grateful to that fellow, for having forced you to declare who you are. Had he not done so, you would have left without our knowing that we had you among us."
There was now quite an ovation to the boys. The ladies, especially, would hardly conceive that it was possible that these quiet-looking young fellows had performed feats of such daring. They now begged to hear the details of the adventures but, at this moment, word was brought that steam was up, and the vessel ready to start; and as Monsieur Teclier was most anxious to get on, and as Percy was quite done up, Ralph was glad to seize the excuse, and to make his apologies for leaving at once. The Sous Prefect, all the breakfast party, and a large proportion of the population of the little place accompanied them thence to the landing place; and then, amidst hearty cheering, the little steamer--carrying the voyagers, the dispatches, and the remains of the balloon--started for the mainland.
|
{
"id": "22060"
}
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18
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: A Day Of Victory.
|
After traveling all night, the Barclays arrived at Tours at ten o'clock, on the morning of the day after that upon which they had left Belle Isle. At the station they said adieu to Monsieur Teclier; who went at once to Gambetta, with the dispatches; while the Barclays turned away to Colonel Tempe's lodgings and, to their great surprise as well as delight, found him in.
The colonel gave quite a shout of joy, when he saw them.
"Ah, my brave boys, my brave boys, I am glad to see you," and he took them in his arms, and kissed them as heartily and as earnestly as if he had been their father.
"I am glad to see you," he repeated, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. "I was sure you would do it. I never really doubted--I told Gambetta it was as good as done--but I could not help being nervous, horribly nervous; and when the news came, five days ago, by the balloon which left three days after you got in, I almost lost my head. I laughed, I cheered, I shook everyone by the hand--ma foi, I don't know what I did, I was so pleased.
"Your Irishman was the funniest thing. He was not surprised, or pleased, or even interested. I explained to him over and over again, thinking he did not understand; but he only shook his head and said, in his strange English: "'Sure, colonel, I never doubted them for a moment. Aren't they clever enough to decaive the ould gintleman, himself? It was as sartin as peas is peas that they would slip in, somehow; and if they did get into a scrape, that they were the boys for getting themselves out of it. It's the coming out I am afraid of.'
"I looked surprised, naturally enough, and he went on: "'And doesn't your honor know that they are talking of coming out in a balloon? Only to think of it, colonel, flying through the clouds, shut up in a big ball of silk! It's just flying in the face of Providence. What's the use of scheming, or of courage? You can't decaive a cloud, though it's as aisy as dancing to take in a German. When you tell me, colonel, that they're safe out of the balloon; then I'll shout, as loud as you like.'
"Yesterday, when the telegram from Teclier came--saying that he had fallen in Belle Isle, had had a narrow escape of being driven into the sea, but had avoided that by running the risk of breaking his neck--and mentioned that you were with him; and had, like himself, escaped with a few bruises, Tim went nearly out of his mind with joy. He has been cleaning his sword and accouterments, this morning.
"I am off tomorrow, and you are only just come in time to see the fighting.
"But you are looking ill, Percy; far too ill for service, just at present."
"Yes, he has been very ill," Ralph said. "He had a touch of brain fever, the night we got into Paris; and was delirious for two days. He has picked up quickly, but that balloon descent was not the thing for an invalid. The doctor in Paris ordered a month, at least, of absolute rest; and has given him a sick certificate."
"He needs rest, certainly," Colonel Tempe said, "but he cannot go home, at present. The Prussians hold Dijon in considerable strength. There are far too many people in the town who have heard of your connection with the franc tireurs. Some spy or other would be certain to peach."
"Yes," Ralph assented, "we have been talking it over, and quite agree that Percy could not go back as--although he would willingly run the risk, himself--it would bring such serious consequences upon them at home, if he were found there, that he has determined to go down to Nice for a while, and rejoin as soon as he gains strength again."
"Yes," Colonel Tempe said, "but above all things, do not let him be in a hurry.
"You have gone through an immense deal, Percy; and have done a great deal more than your share for France, and have gained great honor and credit. Be content with that. You might ruin your constitution for life, by further exertions."
"But about yourself colonel, where are you going?"
"I am starting, tomorrow, to join General Chanzy's staff."
"I have not heard his name before," Ralph said.
"He commands the Sixteenth Corps. He has not had much opportunity yet, but he is a good soldier. If you like, Ralph, I will go with you at once, to Freysinet, and get you attached with me."
"Thank you very much, colonel. I should like it of all things."
"Come along, then; Freysinet is in his office."
Percy accompanied them, to obtain a signature to his leave of absence, and left next day for the south. An hour later, Colonel Tempe and Ralph were in the train, upon their way to Orleans--Tim, again in his hussar uniform, and half wild with delight--being, with Colonel Tempe's orderly, in charge of the horses.
Colonel Tempe, as Ralph was not mounted, had offered to lend him one of his own; but Ralph had refused it, unless the colonel would sell it, as he said he should be always afraid of getting the animal shot, unless it was his own. Seeing that Ralph was determined upon this score, the colonel had reluctantly agreed to take the sum he had paid for the horse. Ralph's only other purchase in Tours was a fur greatcoat.
"And now, colonel," Ralph said, when the train had started, "we have time to talk--tell me, what chances have we of success?"
"Between ourselves, Barclay," Colonel Tempe said, "I do not think that our prospects are brilliant. In my opinion, Aurelles de Paladine--or rather Gambetta, for it was he who ordered the advance--made an immense mistake in attacking Von der Tann when he did. Of course, he drove him back, and took Orleans; but what was the use of that? Absolutely nothing. He was not strong enough to push his advantage; but the movement served to draw the attention of the Germans to his force, and Prince Frederick Charles--who was marching south from Metz--has been hurried towards Orleans, and has now united his forces with those of Von der Tann and the Duke of Mecklenburg; so that, although we have received large reinforcements--for the whole of the army of the east is up, now--the Germans have been equally reinforced, and are quite as strong as we are.
"We ought never to have attacked, until we were ready to follow up our advantage at once. It was nothing short of madness; yet what can you expect, with a civilian acting as commander-in-chief? I believe that we shall make a tough fight of it, but I can hardly hope that our new levies can prove a match for the veterans of Frederick Charles."
"When do we begin, do you think?"
"In two or three days at latest. You have not seen a great battle yet, Barclay."
"No," Ralph said, "nor shall I see much of it, now; for the country is so perfectly flat that it will be impossible to get anything like a general view of it. Do you know, colonel, I feel a good deal more comfortable than I did during my last journey between Tours and Orleans; for although I thought that we should manage, somehow, to get through into Paris; still, I could not conceal from myself that it was a very serious undertaking.
"How bitterly cold it is."
"It is, indeed," Colonel Tempe assented. "Being upon the staff we shall, no doubt, manage to get a roof of some sort over our heads; but for the sentries it must be terrible. The tents d'abri--if the men can scrape away the snow, and get an armful of straw to lie on--are snug enough; the men lie close together, and share their blankets."
Half an hour after arriving at Orleans, Colonel Tempe and Ralph were riding out upon the north road; followed by Tim Doyle, and the colonel's orderly. The frost was keen, but the afternoon was bright and clear; and as they cantered along the road--beaten flat and hard, with the enormous traffic--their spirits rose, and Ralph regretted that Percy was not there to share in his enjoyments.
Colonel Tempe shook his head when the wish was mentioned.
"No, no, Barclay, it is far better as it is. You are young enough, in all conscience, for this iron work of war; your brother has done far more than a man's share already, and will find it difficult enough to go back as a schoolboy. He has escaped thus far, almost by a miracle; but he was looking shaken, and worn. I am glad that he is not here."
Three hours' riding took them to the little village near which General Chanzy was quartered. The Sixteenth Corps lay to the left of the French army, facing the Germans; who held the line of villages of Guillonville, Terminiers, and Conier. It was already dark when they arrived. The general's quarters were in a chateau, a quarter of a mile distant from the village. When they reached it, they were at once shown in; and found General Chanzy leaning over a map, which he was trying to examine by the light of a solitary candle.
"How are you, colonel?" he asked, shaking hands with him heartily--for they were old friends. "I am very glad you have come. There is plenty to do, and few to do it; at least, very few indeed who know anything about their work.
"Who have you here?"
"Allow me to introduce Captain Barclay, general. Freysinet has attached him to your staff. He served with me in the Vosges, distinguished himself greatly, and won his lieutenancy and the Cross. Since then he has been into Paris. No doubt you saw the account of his swimming the Seine, with his brother."
"Of course, of course," General Chanzy said, warmly. "I am very glad to have you with me, Captain Barclay. You will not be long before you are at work, for the affair is just beginning. I have just got news that there has been some sharp fighting, today, at Beaurre la Rolande."
"With what results, sir?" Colonel Tempe asked.
"We gained a great deal of ground, in the morning," General Chanzy said; "but they brought up reinforcements, and no material advantage is claimed.
"And now," the general went on, "as to quarters, you must shift for yourselves. Beds are out of the question; but you will find some empty rooms upstairs and, fortunately, there is a little straw in the stable. The outhouses are extensive, and you will be able to get your horses under shelter. I should advise you to see about them, at once. In an hour we shall have something to eat. I cannot call it dining.
"Captain Barclay, will you kindly see to these matters? I shall be glad to go through this map, at once, with Colonel Tempe."
Ralph at once obeyed the order, much pleased with his new commander. General Chanzy was a man to inspire confidence in all those who served under his orders. He was a young man, for a general; but was very bald, and had a quiet and thoughtful air which made him look older than he was. He was a man of few words; and had a sharp, steady look which seemed to master, at once, the important points of anything that was said to him. When he smiled, the whole of his face seemed to light up.
"Just the man to serve under," Ralph thought to himself. "Cool, self possessed, and with an eye that will see a weak point in a moment.
"Is my orderly still at the door?" he asked a soldier in the passage.
"Yes, sir; two orderlies, with the four horses."
"Can you get me a light of any sort?" Ralph asked. "I want to go round to the stables, and get the horses somewhere in shelter."
"I will get you a lantern, sir," the man said. "But I fear that you will find the place all crowded; but of course, you can turn some of them out."
The orderly accompanied Ralph, with a lantern, across the yard; Tim and Colonel Tempe's orderly following. Round the yard were many cavalry horses, tied to pegs; driven in close by the wall of the stables, so as to give them some little shelter from the intense cold. The poor animals stood, side touching side, for warmth.
The orderly opened the door of one of the stables; and Ralph entered, and looked round by the light of the lantern. The horses were ranged together in the stalls, as closely as they could stand; while the rest of the area was completely covered with cavalry soldiers, some sitting up smoking and talking, others already wrapped in their cloaks and stretched at full length.
A sergeant, seeing the marks of Ralph's rank, at once rose to his feet and saluted.
"I have two horses here, sergeant; my own, and one of Colonel Tempe's. General Chanzy told me I should find room here, but it does not look like it."
"I will turn two of these horses out, sir," the sergeant said.
"Is there no other place?" Ralph asked.
"They are all as full as this, sir."
"There is a little shed, down at the end of the garden," one of the men said. "I noticed it this afternoon. The door was locked. I looked in, and it seemed a cow shed. I don't know whether anyone is there. I will go down with you, sir, and show you the way, if you like."
The shed was soon found, and the soldier forced the door open with his sword bayonet. The place had, as he supposed, been a cow shed; but the walls and roof were in good order, and the ground hard.
"This will do first rate, your honor," Tim said. "There is room for all four horses, if they squeeze a bit; and for Jacques here, and myself. I suppose, your honor, there will be no harm in knocking up some of this woodwork, to make a bit of a fire? It's too dark to look for sticks, tonight; and they would be so damp, from the snow, that the smoke would choke the bastes entirely--to say nothing of us."
"Well, under the circumstances, Tim, I agree with you; but don't do more damage than you can help, and only make enough fire to make the water hot for coffee, and so on. You will be warm enough, here, with the four horses. You must go and see if you can get them some forage."
"But how about your honor's and the colonel's dinner?" Tim asked. "I haven't drawn rations; but I have got plenty of bread and meat, in the haversack. I got them at Tours, for I thought there wouldn't be much to be had here."
"Thank you for thinking of it, Tim, but we dine with the general. When you have got the horses comfortable, and lit your fire, one of you bring up our cloaks to the house. Keep the horses' saddles on, with loosened girths. We may want them suddenly, at any moment of the night."
The next morning, General Chanzy said to Ralph: "I should recommend you, Captain Barclay, to spend an hour studying this map; and getting up, from these lists, the exact position of our forces. When you think you have mastered them, ride through the whole of the positions occupied by the corps and, without exposing yourself, gain as good an idea as you can of the country beyond. Tomorrow you may have to ride straight to certain points, with orders; and it may save important time if you are thoroughly acquainted with the ground, and position."
After a couple of hours' study of the staff map, so as to know every little by-lane and hamlet, for ten miles on either side, Ralph mounted his horse and went for a long ride. When he returned, Colonel Tempe told him that General Chanzy was gone over to General D'Aurelle's quarters, to arrange the details; and that the attack was to take place the next day.
At five o'clock the general returned; and Colonel Tempe and the chief of his staff were occupied with him, for two hours, in drawing up the specific orders for each corps. Colonel Tempe had not been out, all day; and he therefore offered his horse to Ralph, in order that Ralph's own might be fresh for the next day.
Four staff officers set off in various directions with the dispatches; and Ralph congratulated himself upon having been upon the ground he was now traversing once before that day as, even with that previous acquaintance, it was hard work to find the way through the darkness, from the snow altering the general appearance and apparent distance of each object. Thanks, however, to his ride of the morning, he reached the various corps to which he was dispatched without any serious mistakes in his way; and got back to headquarters by eleven o'clock.
Tim was waiting up for him.
"Sure, your honor, and it's a mighty cold night. I've got a pot of coffee on the boil in the stables."
"Thank you, Tim. I will just go in and make my report to the general, and then go off to bed. Bring the coffee into my room. We shall be up early, for we fight tomorrow."
"Do we, now?" Tim said, admiringly. "And it's about time; for we should be all frozen into skeletons, if we were to wait here doing nothing much longer. Bad luck to the weather, says I." At ten o'clock the next morning the French troops were in motion, the objects of their attack being the villages of Guillonville, Terminiers, and Conier. The country was extremely flat and, for an hour, they saw no bodies of the enemy. A few videttes, only, were seen. These galloped off hastily, the moment they caught sight of the heavy masses of the French debouching from the wood. Ralph was riding, with the rest of the staff, behind the general.
"That is Terminiers," Colonel Tempe said, pointing to a house or two at a distance, on the plain.
As he spoke, a puff of smoke came from the houses.
"There is the first shell," was the general exclamation.
In another instant the missile burst near some infantry, at two hundred yards to the right.
"Take orders to that battery, there, to take position on that little eminence to the left there, Captain Barclay. Tell them to keep the guns a little back among the trees, and to open sharply upon Terminiers."
It was just twelve o'clock now and, in five minutes, there was a roar of cannon along the whole length of both lines. For half an hour the combat continued a mere artillery duel. The shells fell in all directions; cutting the dry branches from the trees, tearing up the ground, and leaving deep black gashes in the white snow; crashing through a wall or, occasionally, exploding among the troops.
"Their fire is slackening a little," General Chanzy said. "It is time to be pushing forward.
"Lieutenant Porcet, take my orders to the colonel of that regiment of Mobiles to advance at once, covered by skirmishers.
"Captain Barclay, order that Line regiment to support.
"Captain Maillot, order the artillery to concentrate their fire upon the village, and to advance by batteries."
The orders were carried out, and the Mobiles advanced to within five hundred yards of the village. The musketry fire was now tremendous, and the Mobiles wavered. The Germans were entrenched in the gardens and walled enclosures of the village. Every wall, every house was loopholed; and rough barricades had been erected, to fill up the breaks in the walls.
General Chanzy was sitting on horseback, a short distance in the rear of the fighting. Mounted officers rode up and left again, every moment, with news of the battle going on near the other villages.
"Ride up and order the Mobiles to lie down, Captain Barclay; then tell the colonel of the Line to bring his troops up in line with them. Let them lie down, also.
"Tempe, have the two reserve batteries of artillery brought up, at full speed, to silence that battery in the wood to the left of the village. Its fire crosses the ground we have to pass over."
Ten minutes more of continuous cannonading, and then it was apparent that the Prussian fire was weakening.
"Now, Barclay, tell them to charge, at the double."
Ralph set spurs to his horse but, just as he reached the troops, a shell exploded just under his horse. Ralph heard a crash; felt a shock, and a whirling through the air; and then fell heavily upon the ground. Believing he was dangerously wounded, he made no effort to get to his feet; but sat up and shouted to the colonel of the Mobiles, who were not thirty yards from him: "The Mobiles and Line are to charge, at the double, and to carry the village with the bayonet."
The Mobiles had flinched a little before, as they had advanced with the deadly fire of shot and shell; but they did not flinch now, and leaping upon their feet, with a cry of "Vive la France!" the Mobiles and Line soldiers literally made a race of it for the village.
Ralph, after having given his message, lay back again, with a sort of bewildered sensation. A minute afterwards he heard a rapid galloping; and Colonel Tempe rode up, followed by Tim Doyle.
"Are you badly hurt, my dear boy?" the former exclaimed, as he leaped from his horse. "The general himself asked me to come, and see after you."
"I don't quite know, colonel," Ralph answered. "I feel, at present, as if my head was knocked in, and my legs shot off."
"You had a tremendous shake," said Colonel Tempe--who was, with Tim, by this time kneeling beside him--"and your horse is blown almost to pieces; but I don't think, as far as I can see, at present, that you are hit anywhere. Here, take a sip of brandy. It will bring you round; you are stunned a little, you know.
"There, you are better now," he said; as Ralph, having drunk a little brandy, sat up and looked round.
"I am all right, I think, colonel; don't stay any longer. Tim will wait here. I don't think I was stunned, else I could not have given the order. No, I imagine I had a near escape of breaking my neck.
"Please, don't wait. I shall be all right again, in five minutes. I will take Tim's horse, and join you again. Tim will pick up a musket--there are plenty about--and do a little fighting on his own account."
Colonel Tempe jumped on his horse, and rode off. In a minute or two, Ralph was able to mount Tim's horse, and ride slowly up to the village, where a heavy musketry fire was still going on; but as no shell or shot were now coming in the direction in which Ralph was, it was evident that the French had taken the position, and had opened fire upon the retreating Germans. The fight still raged, both to the right and left; but in another quarter of an hour it slackened also, here, and the three villages were all in the hands of the French.
In a quarter of an hour, Ralph felt quite himself again and, seeing one of his fellow staff officers gallop up, he asked him where he could find the general.
"He is at Guillonville. But he will be here, in a few minutes. The advance is to continue. We are to carry the villages of Monneville, Villepani, and Faverolles."
In half an hour, the troops were again moved forward; but this time the resistance was more obstinate than before, the Prussians having received reinforcements. Hour after hour the fight continued. The short winter day faded, and the gathering darkness was favorable to the assailants and, at half-past five, they carried the villages by assault.
The scene was a wild one. It was perfectly dark, save from the incessant flashes of rifle and cannon. In the streets of the village men fought, hand to hand. Some of the Germans, taking refuge in the houses, refused to surrender. Others threw down their arms, and cried for quarter. Shouts, screams, curses, cheers, the explosion of firearms and the clash of steel mingled, in one wild and confusing din. When it ceased, the village remained in the hands of the French; and the Prussians retreated, sullenly, into the darkness.
There was no rest for the staff, for hours--they were galloping about, carrying orders--but at last Ralph returned to Villepani, at which village General Chanzy had his headquarters. At the door of the cottage which was pointed out, as that in which the general was, Tim was waiting.
"Faith, your honor, if this is war, I've had enough of it."
"What is it, Tim?"
"What is it, your honor! Here have we been fighting all day, and not a blessed thing to eat or to drink. No one knows what became of the wagons; and here we are, without as much as a biscuit to ate--and in such weather as this, too; and another battle in the morning."
"Ay, Tim, it's bad enough, but think of the thousands of poor fellows lying wounded, and freezing to death, on the snow."
"I do think of them, Mister Ralph; and I've been at work, ever since we got in here, carrying the poor creatures in from the gardens and fields. There is not a house here that's not full, from the top to the bottom.
"Have you lost the wallet off my saddle, your honor?"
"No, Tim; why should I do that?"
"I don't know why you should, sir, but I have been making up my mind that you would, all along; either that you would have had it shot off, or that you'd throw it away to aise the horse. Now, we shall do."
"Why, what's in the wallet, Tim?"
"Just a big chunk of bread, your honor It was left on the table when you had breakfast, this morning; and I said to myself, it may be useful before night, and so just slipped it into the wallet."
In another minute the bread was taken out, and cut into two portions.
"I would not eat it all tonight, Tim, if I were you," Ralph said. "It is not by any means too large for supper, but a mouthful in the morning will be a great comfort. I suppose there is no chance of getting anything for the horse?"
"Trust me, your honor One of the first things I did, when the firing was over, was to pop into a stable and to get a big armful of hay; and take it out and hide it away, under a hedge. It was lucky I did; for the minute afterwards we could not have got a handful, if we had offered a Napoleon for it."
"Where are you going to sleep, Tim?"
"Under that same hedge, Mister Ralph. The horse always lies down; and he's so tired he won't break the rule, tonight; so I'll give him half the hay for his supper and, when he's laid down, I'll put the rest between him and the hedge, and roll myself up in my cloak and--what with the cloak, and the horse, and the hedge, and the hay, not to mention the supper--I shall be as warm as a lord; and it's a comfort to think that there will be something to eat, both for the baste and myself, in the morning."
"Well, good night then, Tim."
"Good night, your honor."
If Tim Doyle slept, there were not many of his comrades that did, on that night. The cold was fierce, in the extreme; and those who could obtain wood of any kind made fires, and crouched over them. Others lay on the ground, and huddled together for warmth. Others dragged their feet wearily backwards and forwards. Many and deep were the curses poured out upon the intendance--or commissariat--whose utter incompetence, throughout the war, was one of the great reasons of the continuous bad fortune of the French.
When Ralph entered the room, he was saluted by a variety of voices. The only light was a dim lantern. The room was half full of officers; some dozing in corners, others sitting round the table, smoking.
"Where is the general?"
"He has got a room, about half the size of this, for the use of himself, Tempe, and the chief of the staff. They are writing; and will go on writing all night, I expect. These are the only two rooms not full of wounded in the whole village.
"You had a narrow escape, today. We have had our share of casualties. Poor Maillet and Porcet are both killed, and we have three wounded. Were you hurt at all?"
"No," Ralph said; "but I was tremendously shaken, and feel stiff all over. I will lie down by the wall, here, and get a few hours' sleep."
And so ended the 1st of December.
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{
"id": "22060"
}
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19
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: Down At Last.
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At half-past eight o'clock the next morning horsemen came dashing in, with the news that the Germans were advancing in force. Stiff--many half frozen, and half starved--it was an absolute relief, to the men, to have some break to the monotony of cold and hunger. They were already assembled under arms and, in a few minutes, the artillery upon both sides was at work.
"I fear you will see that we shall be beaten, today," Colonel Tempe said to Ralph as they mounted. "The men are worn out with hunger; disgusted at the wretched mismanagement, which sends them into a battle without having had food for twenty-four hours, and with no prospect whatever of it for another twenty-four. Besides, we ought to have been reinforced.
"Our line is too long, Ralph. There is neither direction nor management."
For a time the French held their position well, against the tremendous artillery fire which was maintained upon them. Gradually, however, the Germans pushed their heavy masses of troops forwards; and the French reserves had already been brought up.
Several of the mobile regiments showed signs of wavering. General Chanzy rode backwards and forwards along the front of the position; exposing himself recklessly, in order to give courage and confidence to his men. Cigar after cigar he smoked, as tranquilly as if sitting in an armchair, a hundred miles away from the din of battle. At last, after exchanging a few words with the generals of brigade, he called Ralph--who happened to be the only aide-de-camp unemployed--up to him.
"Captain Barclay," he said, "ride at once to General Sonis. Tell him that my division--not having received the promised reinforcements--must fall back. He has already sent, to say he is hard pressed. Ask him to hold his ground, if possible, for another half hour; by which time I shall have fallen back towards the position I left yesterday morning--but will draw rather to my right, so as to keep our connections nearer, and to afford him help, if necessary."
Without a word Ralph turned his horse, and galloped off at full speed. A quarter of an hour's riding, and he rode up to General Sonis; who was just calling upon several regiments, among whom were the Papal Zouaves, to make a charge.
This fine body of men--the Papal Zouaves--acquired, and justly acquired, more glory than any other French corps throughout the war. They behaved, upon every occasion, magnificently. In the first fight at Orleans, upon this 2nd of December, and afterwards at the battle of Le Mans, the Zouaves of Charette fought with the courage of lions. A great many of them were men of good family. All were inspired by the ardor and spirit of their chief. Their uniform was similar in cut to that of the French Zouaves; but was of a quiet gray color, trimmed with a little red braid.
Ralph rode up, and delivered his message.
"I am going to carry that position, sir," the general said; "and in that case I shall not have to fall back at all, and General Chanzy can close up on me--throwing back his left, so as not to be outflanked. If you wait a few minutes, you will see the result of this charge.
"Now, gentlemen."
So saying he rode, with his staff, in front of the line.
"Forward, men!" he shouted, drawing his sword.
Ralph had naturally fallen in with the staff, and was now able to see and admire the daring of the proposed movement which, if successful, would have changed the fortunes of the day. Upon an eminence, some three-quarters of a mile distant, were several batteries of artillery; supported by a large body of infantry, who extended to within about half the distance between the French line and their own reserves. The fire was terrific--so terrific that several of the French regiments refused to advance. Others started; but withered away so fast, under the deadly fire, that only two corps--besides the Zouaves--persevered to the end.
The Zouaves advanced at a double, but with as much coolness as if on parade. They did not fire a shot, but made straight at the Prussian infantry. As they approached the enemy's line, General Sonis and his staff fell in between the Zouaves, and a regiment of Mobiles next to them, in order not to interfere with the fire.
"For God and France!" Charette shouted, as he led the charge; and the whole regiment responded, as one man, "For God and France!"
So fierce was this onslaught that the Prussian infantry refused to face it, and fell back upon their supports. Still the Zouaves rushed on, and again the Prussians fell back; but the assault was growing more and more hopeless. The Zouaves were unsupported, save by a few hundred men. The other regiments were far in the rear. The shot and shell were mowing lanes through them. An army was in front.
At last, they halted. Colonel Charette marched on in front, waving his sword. General Sonis, with his staff, again rode forward. It was heroic, but it was heroic madness.
Again the Zouaves advanced. Again a storm of shell poured upon them, and then a regiment of German cavalry swept down. There was a crash. Charette and his officers disappeared, beneath the hoofs of the cavalry. General Sonis and his staff went down like straw before them; but the Zouaves stood firm, fired a volley into them; and then--having lost eight hundred men, in that desperate attempt to retrieve the fortunes of the day--the remainder retreated, sullenly, with their faces to the foe.
Ralph Barclay, when the cavalry swept upon them, had shot the first two of his foes with his revolver; and had then been cut down by a tall German dragoon, just at the moment that his horse fell dead, shot through the head. Ralph had a momentary vision of gleaming hoofs above him; and then he remembered nothing more, until he came to himself, hours afterwards.
His first sensation was that of intense cold. He endeavored to rise, but was powerless to move hand or foot. He lay quiet for a few minutes; and then made another effort, but with a similar want of success. This time, however, he felt that his limbs would have moved, had they not been fastened down by some weight.
He now concentrated all his strength upon one arm. It yielded suddenly and, when it was free, he was able to turn partly round, so as to feel what it was that had confined it. He found that his own blood, and that of the horse, had frozen his arm fast to the ground. It required a considerable effort before he could get altogether free, for he was stiff with the cold. Putting his sword up to his head, he found that he had been saved by the very means which were now giving him so much pain. The intense cold had frozen the blood, as it flowed; and stanched it more effectively than any surgeon could have done.
Ralph--after rubbing his hands and arms, to restore circulation--now endeavored, by the remains of twilight, to see where he was, and how he had been saved. His horse lay next to him, and almost covering him. The poor animal had fallen on to its back; or had rolled over, afterwards and, in the latter case, it was fortunate indeed, for Ralph, that it had not taken another half turn. Had it done so, it would have crushed him to death. As it was, it had reached to within an inch or two of him; partly concealing him from sight, protecting him from the cold, and also greatly diminishing his chance of being trampled upon by cavalry passing over.
A short distance off, Ralph could see parties with lanterns; and one of them seemed approaching. Far in his rear, he could hear an occasional shot; and it rushed across his mind, at once, that the French had been defeated, and were falling back upon Orleans. These lights, therefore, must be in the hands of Germans.
The thought that a German prison awaited him roused Ralph from his inactivity. It flashed across his mind that, as he had escaped before, they would take care and give him but little chance of escaping again and--although stiff, and bruised from head to foot; half frozen, and faint from loss of blood--the hope of liberty roused him to new exertion. With some effort, he got at the holster of his pistol; in which was a flask of strong brandy and water which, though icy cold, had yet a sensibly warming influence. The lights were still at some distance off; and Ralph, after considerable trouble, and after cutting the straps which fastened it to the saddle, succeeded in getting at his fur overcoat. This he put on, picked up the cap of one of the German troopers who had fallen near, and then walked slowly away, over the deserted battle ground.
Ten minutes later, he heard a horse's hoofs upon the hard ground. He cocked the pistol--which had remained fastened to his belt, when he fell--pulled forward the German soldier's cap, and walked quietly on.
"Who goes there?" shouted a voice, and two German officers rode up.
It was far too dark, now, to distinguish faces.
"Karl Zimmerman, of the Seventh Dragoons," Ralph said, in German, saluting.
"What are you doing here?"
"I am servant to Lieutenant Falchen, who fell today; and I had been to look for his body. It was somewhere about here, when we charged the gray Zouaves."
"But your regiment is miles off," one of the officers said. "I saw them an hour ago."
"I don't know where they are, sir," Ralph said, "for I had my head laid open, with a sword bayonet, just as I was cutting down the man I had seen shoot my master. I was carried to the rear, but the surgeon had gone on; and my wound stopped of itself and, when I reached the hospital, the doctors were so busy that I asked leave to go, and see if I could find my master."
"Where are the ambulances now?" one of the officers asked, as they turned to ride off.
"Over in that direction. Look, sir, there are some of the searchers, with lanterns. They will direct you, at once."
"Thanks," the officer said, riding off; "good luck in your search."
Ralph had noticed a cottage, standing by itself at the edge of a wood, at some little distance from the bivouac of the night of the 30th of November; and had stopped for a moment, and asked a few questions of the woman who lived there. She had appeared a kind-hearted woman, full of hatred for the invader; and had two sons in the Mobiles, who had marched north when Paris was first threatened, and who were now besieged there. For this cottage Ralph determined to make, in order--if the owners would receive him--to take shelter in the house; otherwise, to find a refuge in the wood, itself, where he doubted not that they would assist him to lie hid for a few days. He had no great fear of a very active search being made for fugitives, at present, as the Prussians had only driven back two divisions of the French army; and had, Ralph believed, plenty of work on their hands, for some time.
It was fortunate for Ralph that he had studied the ground so carefully; for he soon came upon the road, and the stars--which were shining brightly--gave him his direction and bearings. The battle had extended over the whole of this ground. Many times Ralph could hear groans; and saw, in places, dark forms thickly scattered over the ground--showing where a stand had been made, or where a regiment had lain exposed, for hours, to an artillery fire.
The distance was considerable to the place Ralph had marked out for himself. Eight miles, at least, he thought; for it was away behind what had, two days before, been Chanzy's left. It was, in Ralph's state of feebleness, a very long journey. Over and over again, he had to sit down and rest. He did not feel the cold, now; the fur coat, and the exertion of walking, kept his body in a glow. He took great pains, however, not to exert himself, so as to make himself too hot; as he feared that his wound might break out, if he did so. He was fully twelve hours upon the road; and daylight was just breaking in the east when--exhausted by hunger, fatigue, and loss of blood--he crawled up to the door, and knocked.
There was a movement inside, but it was not until he had knocked twice that a voice within asked: "Who is there?"
"A wounded officer," Ralph said.
There was a whispered talk, inside.
"Let me in, my friends," he said, "for the remembrance of your boys in Paris. There is no danger to you in doing so as, if the Germans come, you have only to say you have a wounded officer. I can pay you well."
"We don't care for pay," the woman of the house said; opening the door, with a candle in her hand--and then falling back, with a cry of horror, at the object before her: a man, tottering with fatigue, and with his face a perfect mask of stiffened blood.
"You do not remember me," Ralph said. "I am the captain of the staff who chatted to you, two days ago, about your boys in Paris."
"Poor boy!" the woman said, compassionately. "Come in.
"Monsieur will pardon me," she went on, apologetically, "for speaking so, but I called you the boy captain, when I was telling my good man what a bright-- "But there, what you want now is rest, and food. The question is where to put you. We may be searched, at any time; though it's not likely that we shall be, for a few days. The battle has gone away in the direction of Orleans, and we have not seen half a dozen men since I saw you, two days ago.
"The first thing is to give you something warm. You are half frozen. Sit down for a few minutes. I will soon make a blaze."
Ralph sank down--utterly exhausted and worn out--in the settle by the fireplace; and fell into a half doze, while the woman lit a bright fire on the hearth. In a few minutes she had drawn some liquor from the pot-au-feu--the soup pot--which stands by the fireside of every French peasant, however poor; and into which all the odds and ends of the household are thrown. This liquor she put into a smaller pot; broke some bread into it, added an onion--which she chopped up while it was warming--together with a little pepper and salt and, in ten minutes from the time of Ralph's entry, she placed a bowl of this mixture, smoking hot, before him.
At first, he seemed too exhausted to eat; but gradually his appetite returned, and he finished off the hot broth.
"What shall I do to your wound, sir?" the woman said. "It is a terrible sight, at present."
"It is the cold which saved my life, I fancy," Ralph said, "by stopping the bleeding; but now it wants bathing in warm water, for some time, and then bandaging.
"But where are you going to put me?"
"In the boys' room, upstairs, sir. It is just as they left it."
"I have no doubt it is very comfortable," Ralph said, "but all this country is certain to be scoured, by the enemy's cavalry. I do not want to be taken prisoner; and rather than that I would go and live out in the woods, and only crawl here, once a day, for some food."
The husband had now come downstairs and, as he aided his wife to first bathe and then bandage the wound, they talked over the matter; and agreed that Ralph could be hid in a loft over a shed, a hundred yards from the house, and very much concealed in the woods, without much fear of discovery. The farmer at once started to make the place as comfortable as he could; and the wife followed with a couple of blankets, a quarter of an hour later.
Ralph, by this time, could scarcely crawl along. The fever consequent upon the wound, the fatigue, and the cold made his head throb so terribly that he could scarcely hold it up and, had it not been for the assistance of the farmer's wife, he could not have crawled across the short distance to the shed. The loft was low and small and, when the wooden shutter of the window--or rather opening, for it was unglazed--was closed, it was lighted only by the light which came in at the crevices. The shed was altogether of wood; so that the shutter--which happened to be at its back--would scarcely have been noticed while, from the shed being high and the loft very low, anyone inside would scarcely have suspected the existence of any loft, at all. It was reached by a ladder and trap door.
The farmer assisted Ralph up the ladder. The shutter was open, and Ralph saw that the farmer had made a bed of straw, upon which his wife was spreading one of the blankets. Ralph now took off his uniform, and lay down; and was covered first by the other blanket, and then with his own fur-lined coat. The farmer's wife had thoughtfully brought a pillow with her; and Ralph in a few minutes was lying in what--had it not been for the pain of his wound--would have been intense comfort, after the cold and fatigue. His hostess went away, and returned with a large jug of water and a glass, which she put down within reach of his arm.
"There is nothing else you want?" she asked.
"Nothing, thank you, except to sleep," Ralph said.
"I shall shut this shutter," the farmer said. "Enough light will come through the cracks to see well, when your eyes get accustomed to the darkness. I shall shut the trap close down after me, as I go, and lift down the ladder. It is very light, and my wife can easily put it into its place again. We will come and see you again, in the afternoon. Goodbye."
"Goodbye," Ralph answered, faintly; and before the sound of their footsteps had died away, he fell into a sort of feverish doze.
For a time he turned uneasily, muttered incoherent words, and moved his hands restlessly. Soon, however, the effects of the cloth soaked in icy-cold water, which the farmer's wife had placed on the bandages over the wound, began to subdue the feverish heat; and in half an hour he was sleeping soundly, and quietly. He woke at last, with a flash of light in his face and, opening his eyes, saw the good woman again bending over him.
"I am glad," were her first words. "I thought, for a moment, you were dead."
"No, no," Ralph said, with a faint smile; "a long way from that, yet. My sleep has done me a world of good. What o'clock is it?"
"Nine o'clock," his hostess said. "I could not come before, for I have had several parties going past, and the house was searched once. I kept on wondering whether you wanted me, until I nearly worked myself into a fever."
"Thank you," Ralph said. "I have been all the better for being allowed to sleep on. I have had nearly thirteen hours of it. I feel queer, about the head; but otherwise I feel all right.
"I am terribly thirsty."
"I have got nothing but water to offer you," the woman said. "The Germans drank the last drop of our wine up, months ago. But I had a few apples; and I have roasted them, and put them in this jug of water. It will give it a taste, and is good for fever.
"In this jug is some herb tea, which you must drink when you feel feverish.
"And now, do you feel as if you could eat some broth?"
"That I do," Ralph said.
His hostess put her arm under him, and raised him up into a sitting posture; in which she retained him by kneeling down beside him, and holding him up as if he had been a child. Then she gave him a basin of bread broth, and a drink of water; shook up his pillow, arranged the things over him; and put a fresh cloth, dipped in water, on his head.
"Here is a box of matches," she said, "and here is the water and herb tea, in reach of your arm. You're not cold, are you?"
"No, thank you," Ralph said, "and in spite of the sleep I have had, I feel as if I could go off again till morning, comfortably."
"Be patient, if I am late," the woman said. "I will come as soon as I can. If I am late, you will know that there are Germans about."
Ralph's idea of his capacity for sleep turned out correct. It was still dark when he woke but, striking a match, he found that it was nearly seven o'clock. He at once blew out the match, felt for the apple water, took a drink, and then nestled down deep into the fur coat.
"It will be getting light in another hour," he said to himself. "It's awfully cold, too; but I am better off, here, than I should be in the field. I hope she will be here soon; I want to know if she has any news. Well, there is only an hour to lay awake," and, almost as he murmured the words, Ralph dropped off again, and slept until ten o'clock.
This time, he woke with the slight creaking which the trap door made.
"How are you today, Monsieur le Capitaine?" his hostess said.
"I am getting on capitally, thanks to your care," Ralph said. "And what have you there?"
"Your breakfast and some plaster. My husband started, yesterday evening, to walk to the doctor, who lives twelve miles off. He told him all about you; but the doctor would not come, himself. However, he sent word that the wound was to be washed well, twice a day, with warm water; and that a little lint is to be laid in it each time, after the bathing and, when the inflammation ceases to look angry, I am to draw the edges together as closely as I can, and strap them together with these strips of plaster."
"It is very kind of your husband," Ralph said, "very kind. Did the doctor say how long I should be, before I could be about again?"
"No," the woman said. "Jacques asked him, but he said that he could not say without seeing the wound, and examining you. Jacques described its position: coming down from the back of the head, taking off just a little bit of the top of the ear, and then ending on the cheekbone. He said that Monsieur le Capitaine must have a head as thick as a wall, or it would have killed him."
Ralph smiled, and his hostess set to work to carry out her instructions.
"Shall I take away your uniform and hide it away so that, in case the enemy search and find you, they will have no proof against you?"
"No, no," Ralph said; "the uniform shows I am not a franc tireur; and so will prevent my being hung, and you having your house burnt over your head. Besides which, I should be entitled to be treated as an officer. My uniform is the best protection for us all.
"Have you any news of what is going on?"
"We heard firing yesterday," the woman said, "and today we can hear a constant booming, from the direction of Orleans."
Ralph listened, but the bandage prevented his hearing anything.
"You are very kind," he said, "but you can hardly think how I want to be off. However, I fear that I am here for a week, at the very least. Just think what I am missing."
"It seems to me," the woman said, "you are missing a great many chances of being killed; which I should consider to be a very fortunate miss, indeed. I should not like Jacques to have that gash on the head; but I would a great deal rather that he was lying here wounded, just as you are, than to know that he was in the middle of all that fighting at Orleans.
"Be patient, my friend. We will do our best for you. If you have no fever, tomorrow, Jacques will try and buy some meat and some wine for you, at one of the villages; and then you will soon get quite strong."
When Ralph had eaten his breakfast, he again laid down; and his kind hostess left him, as her husband was obliged to be out and at work, and it was necessary that she should be at home, to answer any straggling troops of the enemy who might pass.
"I wish I had Tim with me," Ralph said, to himself. "Tim would amuse me, and make me laugh. It would be desperately cold for him. I am all right, under my blanket and this warm coat. Well, I suppose I must try to sleep as many hours away as I can."
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{
"id": "22060"
}
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20
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: Crossing The Lines.
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Ralph was destined to a longer stay upon his hay bed in the loft than he had anticipated. The next day, instead of being better he was a good deal worse. Inflammation had again set in, and he was feverish and incoherent in his talk. He was conscious of this, himself, by seeing the dismay in the face of the nurse, when he had been rambling on to her for some time, in English.
At last, with an effort, he commanded his attention, and said to her: "How far is it from here to Orleans?"
"Seventeen miles," she said.
"Look here," he said, "you are very kind, and I know that you do not want to be paid for your kindness; but I am well off, and I know you have lost your horse and cow, and so you must let me pay you for what you do for me.
"I am afraid I am going to have fever. I want your husband to go into Orleans. The Prussians went in yesterday, you say; and so your husband will not have to cross any outposts to get there. There is an English ambulance there. I will write a line in pencil; and I am sure they will give him some fever medicine, and anything else I may require. Please feel in the breast pocket of my coat; you will find a pocket book, with a pencil in it."
The woman did as he told her; and Ralph, with a great effort, wrote: "I am an Englishman, though a captain in the French service. I am wounded with a saber, in the head; and am sheltered in a loft. Inflammation has set in and, I fear, fever. I am obliged, indeed, to make a great effort to master it sufficiently to write this. Please send some fever medicine, by the bearer, and some arrowroot. A lemon or two would be a great blessing.
"Ralph Barclay."
He then tore out the leaf, folded, and directed it to the head of the English ambulance, Orleans.
"How is he to know the English ambulance?"
"It has a red cross on a white ground, as all the others have; and an English flag--that is, a flag with red and white stripes going from corner to corner, and crossing each other in the middle. But anyone will tell him."
"I am sure he will set out at once," the woman said, and left the loft.
In ten minutes she returned.
"He has started," she said, "but not to Orleans. My husband, directly I gave him the message, said that he had heard that there was an English ambulance at Terminiers, attending to the wounded picked up on the battlefield. It is only five miles from here."
"Thank God for that," Ralph said.
Three hours later the farmer returned, with a bottle of medicine, some arrowroot, lemons, a bottle of wine, some Liebig's essence of meat--for making broth--and a message that the English surgeon would ride over, as soon as he could get away. The farmer had given him detailed instructions for finding the house; but was afraid of stopping to act as his guide as, had he been seen walking by the side of the surgeon's horse, the suspicions of any German they might encounter would be at once excited.
The surgeon arrived an hour later, and was at once taken to Ralph's bedside. Ralph, however, could not speak to, or even recognize the presence of his countryman; for he was in a high state of fever. The surgeon examined his wound carefully.
"I think he will get over it," he said, to the farmer's wife. "It is a nasty cut; but there is nothing dangerous in the wound, itself. It is the general shock to the system, together with the hardships and suffering he had gone through. He is a mere boy--not above seventeen or eighteen. He says in his note he is a captain, but it can hardly be so."
"He is a captain, sir. There is his uniform hanging up."
"Yes," the surgeon said, "that is the uniform of a captain in the staff, and he has got the commander's button of the legion of honor. I wonder who he can be.
"Ralph Barclay," he said thoughtfully, looking at the pencil note Ralph had sent him. "Ah, now I remember the name. I thought it was familiar to me. This is the young Englishman who made his way through the lines into Paris, with dispatches He is a fine young fellow. We must do what we can for him."
"Could you take him into your hospital, sir?" the woman asked.
"He will be better where he is, if you will continue to nurse him."
"Yes, I will do that; but I thought he would be so much better looked after, in the hospital."
"No," the surgeon said, "that is just what he would not be. Every room is literally crowded with wounded; and wounds do infinitely better in fresh, pure air, like this, than in a room with a close atmosphere, and other bad wounds.
"The fever medicine I sent over will last him for some days. I have brought over a tin of little biscuits. Give him the fever medicine, every two hours, until there is a change; and whenever you can get him to take it, give him a little broth made of a spoonful of the essence of meat in a liter of boiling water or, for a change, some arrowroot. I will show you how to make it, when we get back to the house.
"Can you manage to stay with him? He will want a good deal of looking after, for the next two days."
"Yes, sir, I was talking to Jacques about it, today. He will go over to the next village--it is only a mile away--and will fetch my sister, who lives there, to keep house for a bit."
"That is capital," the surgeon said. "And now, watch attentively how I put this bandage on; and do it the same way, once a day. When you have put the bandage on, you must put wet cloths to his head, as long as he remains delirious. I am awfully busy; but I will ride over again, in three or four days, to see how he is getting on.
"By the way, it may be an advantage to you if I give you a paper, signed by me, to say that you are taking care of a wounded French officer at my request as--although you wished to send him to the ambulance--I refused because, in the first place, he could not bear moving; and in the second, the ambulance was as full as it could possibly hold. That will clear you, in case any German parties come along and find him."
It was a week before Ralph opened his eyes with any consciousness of what he saw. He looked round, with a vague wonderment as to where he was. In a minute or two, a look of recognition came into his face. Looking round, he saw that there were changes. A small piece had been sawn out of the shutter, so as to let in air and light while it remained closed. A table and a chair were beside his bed. In a corner of the loft was a small flat stove, with a few embers glowing upon it, and a saucepan standing upon them. Upon the opposite side of the loft to that where he was lying was a heap of hay, similar to his own; with a figure, rolled up in a blanket, lying on it.
For some time, Ralph thought all this over in the vague, wondering way peculiar to people recovering from a long illness. Most, he puzzled over the occupant of the other bed; and at last concluded that it was some fugitive, like himself. For some time he lay and watched the figure until, presently, it moved, threw off the blanket and rose and, to his surprise, he saw that it was his nurse.
"Thanks to all the saints!" she exclaimed, when she saw him looking at her. "You are better, at last. I think that I was asleep, too. But you were sleeping so quiet, that I thought I would take a nap; for I was so sleepy."
"How long have I been here?" Ralph asked.
"Just a week, from the time the fever took you. The English doctor came over and saw you, and sent lots of things for you, and said you were not to be left; so I had the bed made up here, and my sister came over to take care of Jacques. And now, you must not talk any more. Drink this broth, and then go off to sleep again."
Ralph complied. He was too tired and weak to ask any more questions, and it was not until next day that he heard of the obstinate battles which General Chanzy had fought--on the 7th, 8th, and 10th--near Beauguency.
"Thank goodness," Ralph said, "we can't have been very badly beaten, if we were able to fight three drawn battles within about twenty miles of a first defeat."
For the next two days, Ralph improved in health. Then he had a relapse, and was very ill, for some days. Then he began, steadily but slowly, to gain strength. It was three weeks after his arrival at the cottage before he could walk, another week before he had recovered his strength sufficiently to think of moving.
One of his first anxieties--after recovering consciousness after his first, and longest, attack of fever--had been upon the subject of the terrible anxiety which they must be feeling, at home, respecting him. They would have heard, from Colonel Tempe, that he was missing and, as he would have been seen to fall, it was probable that he was reported as dead. Ralph's only consolation was that, as the Germans were at Dijon, the communication would be very slow, and uncertain; and although it was now ten days since the engagement, it was possible--if he could but get a letter sent, at once--that they would get it nearly, if not quite as quickly as the one from Colonel Tempe; especially if as was very probable the colonel would be a great deal too engaged, during the week's tremendous fighting which succeeded the day upon which Ralph was wounded, for him to be able to write letters.
The first time that he saw the English surgeon, he mentioned this anxiety, and the doctor at once offered to take charge of a letter; and to forward it with his own, in the military post bag, to the headquarters of the ambulance at Versailles, together with a note to the head of the ambulance there, begging him to get it sent on in the first bag for Dijon. In this way, it would arrive at its destination within four or five days, at most, of its leaving Orleans.
It was on the 2nd of January--exactly a month from the date of the fight in which he was wounded--that, after very many thanks to his kind host and hostess, and after forcing a handsome present upon them, Ralph started--in a peasant's dress which had been bought for him--for Orleans. He had still plenty of money with him; for he had drawn the reward, of fifty thousand francs, in Paris. The greater portion of this money he had paid into the hands of a banker, at Tours, but Percy and he had kept out a hundred pounds each; knowing by experience how useful it is, in case of being taken prisoner, to have plenty of money. Ralph's wound was still bound up with plaster, and to conceal it a rabbit-skin cap with flaps had been bought so that, by letting down the flaps and tying them under the chin, the greater part of the cheeks were covered.
The farmer had made inquiries among his neighbors and, finding one who was going into Orleans, with a horse and cart, he had asked him to give Ralph a lift to that place. The start had been effected early, and it was three o'clock when they drove into Orleans. Here Ralph shook hands with his driver--who wished him a safe journey home--and strolled leisurely down the streets.
Orleans presented a miserable aspect. The inhabitants kept themselves shut up in their houses, as much as possible. The bishop was kept a prisoner, by the Prussians, in his own palace; troops were quartered in every house; the inhabitants were, for the most part, in a state of poverty; and the shops would have been all shut, had not the Prussians ordered them to be kept open. The streets were thronged with German troops, and long trains of carts were on their way through, with provisions for the army. These carts were requisitioned from the peasantry, and were frequently taken immense distances from home; the owner--or driver, if the owner was rich enough to pay one--being obliged to accompany them.
Many were the sad scenes witnessed in these convoys. The grief of a father dragged away, not knowing what would become of his wife and children, during his absence. The anguish of a laborer at seeing his horse fall dead with fatigue, knowing well that he had no means of taking his cart home again; and that he had nothing to do but to return to his home, and tell his wife that the horse and cart--which constituted his sole wealth--were gone.
Ralph waited until, late in the afternoon, he saw a long train halt by one of the bridges. It was evidently intending to cross, the next morning, and go down south. In a short time the horses were taken out, and fastened by halters to the carts; two or three soldiers took up their posts as sentries, and the drivers were suffered to leave--the Germans knowing that there was no chance of their deserting, and leaving their horses and carts.
The poor fellows dispersed through the town. Those who had any money bought food. Those who had not, begged; for the Germans allowed them no rations, and left them to shift for themselves--or starve--as they liked. Ralph joined in conversation with a group of these, who were relating their hardships to two or three sympathetic listeners. An old man, especially, was almost heartbroken. His wife was dying, and he had been forced from her bedside.
"What could I do?" he asked, pitifully. "I was a carrier. My horse and cart were all I had in the world. If I had not gone with them they were lost for ever. What was I to do?"
No one could answer him but, when the party had broken up, Ralph went up to him.
"How much are your horse and cart worth?" he asked.
"The horse is worth five hundred francs," he said. "The cart is an old one--two hundred and fifty would pay for it. It is not much, you see, but it is all I have."
"Look here, old man," Ralph said, "I am not what I look. I am a French officer, and I want to get down near the Prussian outposts, but without passes I could not get on. Besides I have been wounded, and am too weak to walk far. I will give you the seven hundred and fifty francs which are the value of your horse and cart, and will take your place as driver; so that you can start back, at once, to your wife. Do you agree?"
The old man was so affected with joy that he burst into tears.
"God bless you, sir," he said. "You have saved my life, and my poor wife's life, too."
"Very well, it is a bargain, then," Ralph said. "Here is half the money. You shall have the rest tomorrow.
"Now you must go with me tomorrow morning, at the hour for starting; and tell the officer in charge that I am a nephew of yours--living here, but out of work, at present--and that you have arranged with me to drive the cart, as long as it's wanted, and then to take it home again."
After a few more words, the peasant took him back and showed him his cart; in order that he might know where to find him, in the morning.
"We start at daybreak," he said, "so you had better be here by half-past six."
"Where do you sleep?" Ralph asked.
"I? Oh, I don't sleep much. I lie down for a bit, underneath the carts; and then walk about to warm myself."
"Take this warm fur coat of mine," Ralph said. "It will keep you warm tonight, anyhow. I shan't want it; I shall get a bed somewhere."
The coat was the one Ralph had worn on his night walk, after being wounded. He had had all the braid, and the fur of the collar and cuffs taken off; and had had it purposely dirtied, so that it was no longer a garment which could attract attention, on the back of a man with a cart.
After some difficulty, Ralph got a bed; and was at the agreed place at the appointed time. The old man went up to the Prussian sergeant in command, and told the tale Ralph had dictated to him. The sergeant agreed to the arrangement, with a brief nod. The old man handed Ralph his whip, and returned him the fur coat; which Ralph was glad enough to put on, for the morning was bitterly cold, and Ralph--enfeebled by his illness--felt it keenly. In another five minutes, the carts were in motion across the bridge, and then away due south.
For half an hour Ralph walked by the side of his cart and--being, by that time, thoroughly warm--he jumped up in the cart and rode, during the rest of the day; getting down and walking--for a short time only--when he found his feet getting numbed with the cold.
In the afternoon they arrived at La Ferte, some fifteen miles from Orleans. There they remained for the night. There were not very many troops here, and Ralph could have obtained a bed by paying well for it; but he feared to attract attention by the possession of unusual funds and, therefore, slept in a hay loft; afraid, in spite of his fur coat, to sleep in the open air.
The next morning the train was divided, twenty of the carts going down towards Romorantin; while the rest--now fifteen in number--kept on towards Salbris. Ralph's cart formed part of this latter division. The night after they left La Ferte, they halted at La Motte Beuvron, where there was a strong force of Germans. The following day only four carts continued their route to Salbris, Ralph happening again to be among them. He had regretted two days before that he had not formed part of the division for Romorantin, as from that place he would have been less than twenty miles from Tours, which the Prussians had not yet entered; but as he had the good fortune to go on to Salbris, he did not mind--as Salbris, like Romorantin, was one of the most advanced stations.
They arrived late in the afternoon, and the carts were at once unloaded. The sergeant in charge told them to wait, while he got their papers for them; and in ten minutes he returned.
"You will have tomorrow to rest your horses, and the next day a train will start for the north. Your work is over now, as there is nothing to go back. Here are the passes for you, saying that you have carried goods down here for the army; and are therefore to return back, without your carts being further requisitioned."
Ralph put up his horse and cart for an hour in the village, while he went to search for some farm house upon which no Prussian soldiers were quartered. He was unable, for some time, to find one; but at last, over a mile from the town, he found a small place which had escaped the attention of the Prussian quartermaster, and where there was a small, unoccupied stable. Ralph soon struck a bargain with its owner; returned to Salbris, mounted his cart, drove out; and was soon settled in the little farm house.
He anticipated no great difficulty in passing out through the outposts; as there was no French force of any importance, near, and the German troops interfered but little with the movements of the country people. The affair, however, turned out more easy than he had anticipated for, towards morning, he was awoke by the distant sound of bugles.
"Something is up," he said to himself; "either a French attack, a general advance, or a recall. If it should be the latter, I am in luck."
It turned out to be as Ralph hoped. The peasant in whose house he was stopping went into Salbris, early; and came back with the news that there was no longer a German there. Orders had come for them to fall back, towards Orleans.
"I am not at all surprised," Ralph said, when he heard it, "for Orleans was emptying fast of troops. This sudden march of Bourbaki for the east, and the necessity to reinforce Frederick Charles, near Vendome must try even Prussian resources to the utmost."
Half an hour later, Ralph was jogging along on his way to Vierzon. There he found that the railway was open to Bourges, from which town he should have no difficulty in getting on to Dijon. He soon found a purchaser for his horse and cart, at ten pounds, and the next morning started on his way home.
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{
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: Home.
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It was a long journey from Vierzon to Dijon. At Bourges Ralph had taken advantage of a delay of some hours--necessitated by the fact that no train was going--to get some suitable clothes, instead of the peasant's suit in which he had traversed the lines. He had, of course, brought his papers with him; so that he had no difficulty, whatever, in getting on by the train. But the train itself made but slow work of it. Bourbaki had passed west only the week before, with all his army, upon his march to the relief of Belfort; and the railway was completely choked. However, Ralph was not inclined to grumble at the cause of his delay; for it was only upon Bourbaki's approach that the Germans had evacuated Dijon--which was now held by Garibaldi's irregulars, and a considerable force of Mobiles.
So great were the delays that it was evening when the train reached Dijon. Ralph had scarcely stepped out on to the platform when Percy bounded upon him, and threw his arms round his neck.
"Dear, dear old Ralph! Thank God you are back again."
"My dear Percy, where did you spring from?"
"I have been home five days. I was still down at Marseilles, when I heard that Dijon was open again; and I came straight up.
"And how are you, Ralph?"
"Oh, I am getting all right again. How are they all, at home?"
"Well--quite well--but dreadfully anxious about you."
By this time the boys were out of the station, and were walking homeward.
"But you have not told me how you happened to be at the station."
"Well, I was waiting there, just on the chance of seeing you. Mamma was so dreadfully anxious about you that I wanted to do something. At any rate, I could not sit quiet at home. There are never more than two trains with passengers in a day, sometimes only one; so I have been staying down in the town, most of the days since I came home--having paid one of the railway people to send me word, directly the train was telegraphed as starting from Dole."
"How long is it since my letter arrived?"
"Nearly three weeks, Ralph; fortunately it came four or five days before a letter from Tempe, saying that he feared you were killed. Not having heard again, they were terribly anxious."
"I had no means of writing," Ralph said. "The English ambulance--through whom my letter was sent--moved down to Vendome, the very day after I wrote; and I had no other way of sending my letter."
"I said it was something of that sort. I pointed out to them that it was evident, by what you said, that the fever had passed off, and that you only wanted strength; but that being in hiding, of course, you could not write. I gave you three weeks to get strong enough to start, and four or five days to manage to get through the lines; so that by my calculation you were just due, when you arrived.
"It has pulled you down, Ralph, very much. I wish I had been there to nurse you."
"Thank you, Percy. Fortunately I did fall into very good hands, and was well looked after. I hope papa has not been over anxious about me?"
"I think he has been nervous, Ralph; but he did not show it, but talked cheerfully to keep up mamma and Milly."
"And are you quite strong again, Percy?"
"Yes, I think I am nearly as strong as ever, Ralph.
"There, we are just at the house, now. You had better wait outside; while I go in and let them know, gradually, that you are home. I came in like a fool, suddenly, and mamma fainted--she says for the first time in her life--and Milly went into hysterics, and cried and laughed so wildly that you might have heard her in Dijon. She frightened me nearly out of my senses."
Ralph remained, accordingly, outside the door; while Percy went in alone. The others had finished tea.
"You are a little late, Percy," Mrs. Barclay said. "We gave you twenty minutes' law. It is not the least matter, your being late; but I do not think it is wise to be out, these bitter nights, until you are quite strong."
"I am quite strong, mamma, as strong as ever," Percy laughed; but his laugh was, in spite of himself, a little unnatural.
His father looked sharply up.
Percy sat down, and drank a little of the tea his mother handed to him.
"I waited for the train to come in," he said, "and--of course it may not be so--but I heard of someone who, by the description, seemed to be Ralph."
"What was it, Percy, what was it?" Milly cried; while her mother gazed at him with a pale face, and appealing eyes.
"Don't agitate yourself, mamma dear--you see, it may not be true, after all--but among the people in the train was one who had come straight from Bourges. I spoke to him, and he said that he had heard--by a friend who had come straight from Vierzon--that a young officer had just arrived there, in disguise; who had been wounded, and in hiding, ever since the capture of Orleans. You know, mamma, it is just the time I calculated he would be coming; and from the fact of his being a young staff officer, and in disguise, I have very little doubt it is Ralph."
Captain Barclay rose from his seat and--standing for a moment behind his wife's chair--looked at Percy, and then at the door, inquiringly. Percy nodded.
Captain Barclay leaned over, and kissed his wife "Thank God, dear, for all His mercies! Another day or two, and we shall be having him home."
"Thank God, indeed!" Mrs. Barclay said; "but though I hope--though I try to think it was him--perhaps it was not, perhaps--" "No, mamma," Percy said, "from some particulars he gave, and from what he said, I feel almost sure--I may say I am quite sure--it is Ralph. I would not say so, you know, unless I felt very certain."
Mrs. Barclay felt that he would not, and fell into her husband's arms, crying softly with happiness.
Milly was no longer in the room. She had caught the glance between her father and Percy, and had rightly interpreted it. She had risen to her feet, but a warning gesture from Captain Barclay had checked the cry of gladness on her lips; and she had stolen quietly from the room, closed the door noiselessly, had flown to the front door and out into the road beyond, and was now crying happily in Ralph's arms.
"And when do you think he can get here, Richard?" Mrs. Barclay asked her husband.
"Soon, dear--quite soon," he answered. "He may come tomorrow. He would be certain to come almost as quickly as the news."
"Oh, how happy I am!" Mrs. Barclay said. "Thank God for His mercies! To think that, tomorrow, I may have both my boys back again."
"Will there be another train in, tonight, Percy?" Captain Barclay asked.
"Quite possibly," Percy said; "indeed, indeed,"--and he hesitated--"you see, I walked up fast; it is just possible that he may have arrived by this train."
Mrs. Barclay understood now.
"He is come," she exclaimed, looking up. "I know it, now."
Captain Barclay took her up in his arms.
"You can bear it, can't you, Melanie? Yes, dear, he has come."
Percy saw that it was safe now. He went to the door, and opened it. Ralph was standing outside, in readiness; and in another moment his mother was in his arms.
Later in the evening, Captain Barclay said to Ralph: "I suppose tomorrow you will obtain a medical certificate, and write to General Chanzy: saying that you are alive, but unable to rejoin?"
"Yes," Ralph answered, "I suppose that will be the best plan. I must have a month's rest."
"That means, my dear boy, that you will not have to go out any more. Another month will see the end of the struggle--or at any rate, if the end has not absolutely arrived, it will be unmistakable.
"The game is, I am convinced, altogether lost. A fortnight ago, I had still hope. Chanzy and Bourbaki had each an army, nearly or quite equal to that of Prince Frederick Charles. He could not attack one in force, without leaving the road to Paris open to the other.
"Bourbaki has come upon this mad expedition to the east; and you will see Prince Frederick Charles will throw his whole strength upon Chanzy, crush him, and then attend to Bourbaki. Bourbaki may relieve Belfort, but in that corner of France what is he to do? Prussian reinforcements are coming down to Werder, every day. Troops are marching on this town from Paris and, if Bourbaki is not wonderfully quick, we shall have another Sedan here.
"After the defeat of these, the last two armies of France, it would be madness to continue the war. Paris must surrender, for there would be no further possibility of relief; and there would be no advantage, whatever, in enduring further sufferings.
"No, my boys, I said 'Go' when I thought that there was a possibility of saving France. You have done your duty--more than your duty. It would be worse than folly--it would be wickedness--to voluntarily put your lives into danger, when success has ceased to be possible. I should be the last man to hinder you from what was your duty. I said 'Go' before, when few fathers would have said so. I would say 'Go' again, now, if your duty called you; but as you can both obtain sick leave, for another six weeks, I say take that leave. Do not do more than your duty, for heroism is now of no use to France."
"I agree with you altogether, papa," Ralph said. "I have seen, and had, quite enough fighting for my lifetime. Of course, if the war goes on Percy and I, as officers, must return to our duty, but I am willing to obtain all the sick leave I can get; for although I still believe in the individual bravery of the French soldiers, I am quite convinced that it is altogether out of the question that--with their want of organization, want of generals, want of officers, want of discipline, want of everything--they can drive out the magnificent armies of Germany.
"Has Percy got his leave extended?"
"Yes," Percy said; "I am fairly well, but I am still shaky. I have not quite got over that swim; and the surgeon said, without my applying for it, that I must have prolonged rest so, at the end of the month, he extended it for two months longer.
"I thoroughly agree with you both. We have had quite enough of it. We shall always have the satisfaction that we did our duty to France, and our rank; and these ribbons,"--and he touched the rosette of the legion of honor, in his buttonhole--"will prove that we have distinguished ourselves. We have had great good fortune, hitherto; it might turn, next time."
And so it was settled that the boys should remain at home, for the next two months; by which time they agreed, with their father, the resistance would be fairly worn out. Ralph wrote to General Chanzy, relating the whole circumstances of his absence. General Chanzy wrote in reply--in spite of the demands upon his time--saying how pleased he was that Ralph had escaped, as he had quite given him up. He ended his note by saying that he had already mentioned his name, in dispatches, and should now make a fresh report.
Colonel Tempe--or rather General Tempe, for he now commanded a brigade--wrote also to congratulate him. One portion of his letter contained bad news; for he mentioned that Tim had lost an arm, at the battle of the 8th December, but that he was now doing well.
Those were exciting days at Dijon. The news of the victory at Villersexel, followed by the fighting which ended in the capture of Montbeliard; and then the obstinate contests near Belfort, when Bourbaki in vain endeavored to drive back the Germans, and to relieve the besieged town--all this kept the excitement up, at fever heat.
It was not fated that the war should end without the boys seeing service once more for, upon the 21st, heavy firing was heard upon the northwest of Dijon. The Barclays' house was on the southwest of the town. Upon the northwest the ground rises in two steep hills--or rather one steep hill, with two summits about a mile apart. One of these summits is called Talant, the other Fontaine les Dijon. Behind the latter, and upon even higher ground--at a distance of two and three miles, respectively--lay the villages of Daix and Hauteville.
It was about ten o'clock in the morning that the boys heard the faint boom of a cannon.
"Listen, papa," Percy shouted; "there are cannon. The Prussians are attacking the heights, on the other side."
Captain Barclay came out into the garden, and listened for a while with them. The enemy had taken up positions upon some of the numerous heights surrounding, and were playing upon the batteries at Talant, Fontaine les Dijon, Daix, and Hauteville. The French replied vigorously; and it was evident that they were stronger, in artillery, than were the enemy.
"I fancy," Captain Barclay said, "that it is no attack. It is merely, I think, a fire opened to occupy our attention; in order that a body of troops may pass along to the northward of Dijon, to fall upon Bourbaki's rear. However, my place is with my company of national guards. There is no fear of an attack, at present; but they will get under arms no doubt."
"We will go down into the town with you, papa."
The firing continued until five o'clock, when it gradually died away, the Germans retiring. An hour later, the greater portion of the troops marched back to the town. The enemy, they reported, were not over 15,000 strong while, in all, the Garibaldians and mobilized national guards in the town were 30,000 to 40,000 strong. The French were also much stronger in artillery.
Captain Barclay returned home with the boys. They sat up late, talking over the affair, and it was nearly midnight when they went up to their rooms. Suddenly, they were startled by a fresh outburst of fire upon the heights. In a minute or two, all the household were in the garden.
"It is a night attack," Captain Barclay said; "and judging by the sound, they are in earnest. I can hear musketry, as well as artillery."
As they listened, it came nearer.
"They have taken Daix and Hauteville," Ralph said. "What shall we do, papa? We can't stay here, quiet. It is our plain duty to go down, and report ourselves to General Pelissier."
"I think you ought to do so," Captain Barclay answered, gravely.
The boys went off to put on their uniforms--for Ralph had replaced the one he had left behind, in the cottage near Orleans.
"I do not think you need be uneasy, Melanie," Captain Barclay said to his wife. "It is our duty to go; but I hardly think that they can have been reinforced in sufficient strength to attack the town."
The boys were soon down.
"Goodbye, mamma; goodbye, Milly. Don't be alarmed about us. We have no horses, and there can be no risk of our being sent on any perilous service, tonight."
Two silent kisses, and then father and sons hurried away towards the town.
"They have taken Fontaine les Dijon," Ralph said. "We shall soon see if they are in earnest."
Dijon they found in utter confusion. Mounted orderlies galloped about. The troops were all under arms. Engineers were at work, crenelating the walls and houses upon the side threatened with attack. General Garibaldi was sitting in his carriage, in readiness to move in any direction, instantly. General Pelissier--who commanded the mobilized guards--was in his office, and staff officers came in and out with reports, every five minutes.
The boys entered, and briefly reported themselves for service. They had already reported their presence in the place, upon their arrival.
"Thank you, gentlemen," he said. "I do not think that you can be of any use, just at present; but if the Germans press the attack, I shall be greatly obliged. In that case, please dismount two of the orderlies, and take their horses."
The night passed off, however, quietly. The Germans, satisfied with the advantage, remained in the positions they had taken; and the French prepared to drive them back again, in the morning.
At daybreak, the troops began to pour out from the town; and the cannonade commenced with greater fury on both sides. Two of the orderlies, in obedience to General Pelissier's orders, gave up their horses to the Barclays; who rode out with the general's staff. The Prussians had evidently been reinforced, in the night; but the French nevertheless gained ground, gradually. After several hours' heavy cannonading, the Mobilises were ordered to take the position of Fontaine les Dijon, with the bayonet. Three Zouaves--who happened to be present--took their places at the head of the column and, at the double, they went up the hill amidst a storm of shot and shell. The Germans did not await the assault, but fell back upon Daix.
The spirit of the Mobilises was now up and, still led by the three Zouaves, they dashed forward. The resistance here was obstinate; but the Germans were driven back, with great loss. The pursuers gave them no rest; but went forward at the double, and drove them out of Hauteville at the bayonet's point, thus winning back all the positions lost in the night. The Barclays had little to do during the affair as, after the orders had once been given, the spirit of the troops carried them on over everything. The loss upon both sides was considerable, and one of General Werder's sons was among the prisoners taken by the French.
The fight over, the boys returned home for a few hours. Their father had come in half an hour before them.
The next morning they returned, at daybreak, to Dijon. The Prussians had received considerable reinforcements, in the night; and had executed a long detour, advancing this time by the Langres Road, nearly due north of the city. They left the road and took up their position upon a plateau, near the village of Pouilly, about three miles from Dijon. The French positions were about a mile nearer to the town, extending from the foot of Fontaine les Dijon through the villages of Saint Marten, and Fontaine.
From the morning, until three in the day, a heavy artillery fire was kept up, on both sides. At that hour, the Prussians gave signs of an intention to advance. Their artillery took up fresh positions, their fire increased in rapidity, and it was evident that the crisis of the day was at hand. Up to this time, the boys had had but little to do. Sitting on their horses, or leaning against them, they had chatted with the officers of the general staff. At this period, however, General Garibaldi drew up; and there was a brief consultation between him and General Pelissier. A few hasty orders were given and, in an instant, the whole of the staff were dashing away to different parts of the ground.
"Charge in line!" was the order and, forming shoulder to shoulder, the Garibaldians and Mobiles moved forward in a grand line, a mile and a half long; uttering loud and inspiriting cheers. The boys had been sent to the regiments next to each other and, their message delivered, they joined each other and rode on with the advancing line.
"This is grand, Ralph," Percy said, enthusiastically. "We have seen a good many defeats. We are going to wind up with a victory, at last."
For a while the Germans stood their ground, pouring a shower of shot and shell into the advancing French; but the dash and go of the latter--excited by their successes of the two preceding days--were irresistible. The Germans wavered and fell back as the French advanced and, from that moment, the fate of the day was decided. Isolated German regiments fought desperately, but in vain. The French pushed them back, from position to position, until nightfall covered the retreat.
The German loss was very heavy; and the French, in addition to a considerable number of prisoners, had the satisfaction of taking a German color--the only one captured throughout the war.
This was the last fight in which the Barclays took part during the war. The boys escaped unhurt; as did their father, who had joined one of the regiments of Mobiles, and had advanced with them.
The events followed fast, day after day. In rapid succession, they heard of the defeat of Chanzy at Le Mans, the retreat of Bourbaki; the terrible sufferings of the troops, as they fell back upon the Swiss frontier, for refuge. Simultaneously with the news of this retreat came the intelligence of the surrender of Paris, and of the armistice and, grieving over France's misfortune, they were yet heartily rejoiced that the hopeless contest was over.
No sooner were the preliminaries of peace signed than Captain Barclay carried out his intention of leaving for England. Monsieur Duburg had already agreed to purchase the cottage, and adjoining grounds; which he intends for Louis, when he marries. The Barclays were sorry to leave their uncle and cousins, but there was no great grief with reference to the separation from Madame Duburg.
General Tempe they parted from with regret. That officer's fighting days were over, for he lost a leg in the battle before Le Mans.
Ralph obtained the step as major, in consequence of General Chanzy's report in his favor, but he never put on the uniform of the rank; nor is it likely that he ever will do so, although he hopes, some day, to attain the grade in the British service. He is at present studying hard for an examination in the artillery which, if practical knowledge goes for anything, he is pretty certain to get.
Percy has had enough of fighting, and his present idea is that he shall go to the Bar; but he has plenty of time before him, yet. Both never boast of their achievements--indeed, are straightforward, unaffected English lads, still--and it is only to intimate friends that they ever speak of their adventures in the war.
The Barclays live now a short distance out of London; and the pony chaise in which Captain Barclay drives his wife and Milly can be seen, any day, on the Richmond road. If you stop and watch it turn into the little drive, up to the house, you will observe that a one-armed man--who has previously been busy in the garden--throws down his spade, and takes the ponies off to the stables and, should he not happen to be at the front of the house, as the ponies draw up, you will hear Milly summon him with a loud call of "Tim!"
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I have told my wife quite plainly that in my opinion I am as little fitted by nature for the task she has laid upon my shoulders as any man alive. I have spent a great part of my life in action; and though the later part of it has been quieter and more peaceful than the earlier, and though I have enjoyed opportunities of study which I never had before, I am still anything but a bookish man, and I am not at all confident about such essential matters as grammar and spelling. The history I am called upon to tell is one which, if it were put into the hands of a professed man of letters, might be made unusually interesting. I am sure of that, for in a life of strange adventure I have encountered nothing so strange. But, for my own part, the utmost I can do is to tell the thing as it happened as nearly as I can, and if I cannot command those graces of style which would come naturally to a practised pen, I can only ask that the reader will dispense with them.
The natural beginning of the story is that I fell in love with the lady who has now for eight-and-thirty blessed and happy years been my wife. It may be that I may not again find opportunity to say one thing that should be said. That lady is a pearl among women; and I am prouder of having fallen in love with her at first sight, as I did, than I should be if I had taken a city or won a pitched battle. I have sought opportunities of doing these things far and near, but they have been denied to me. I trust that I have always been on the right side. I know that, except in one case, I have always been on the weaker side; but until my marriage I was what is generally called a soldier of fortune. I am known to this day as Captain Fyffe, though I never held her most sacred Majesty's commission. That I should be delighted to fight in my country's cause goes, I hope, without saying; but I never had the opportunity, and my sword, until the date of my marriage, was always at the service of oppressed nationalities. This, however, is not my story, and I must do my best to hold to that. Should I take to blotting and erasing, there is no knowing when my task would be over. I will be as little garrulous as I can.
It was in the height of the London season of 1847, and I had just got back from the Argentine Republic. I had been fighting for General Rosas, but the man's greed and his reckless ambition had gradually drawn me away from him, and at last, after an open quarrel, I broke my sword across my knee before him, threw the fragments at his feet, and left the camp. I did it at the risk of my life; and if Rosas had cared to lift a hand, his men would have shot me or hanged me from the nearest tree with all the pleasure in the world. An event which has nothing whatever to do with this story had got into the newspapers, and for a time I was made a lion of. I found it agreeable enough to begin with, but I was beginning to get tired of it, when the event of which I have already spoken happened. My poor friend, the Honorable George Brunow, had taken me, at the Duchess's invitation, to Belcaster House, and it was there I met my fate. There was a great crush on the stairs, and the rooms were crowded. I never once succeeded in getting as much as a glimpse of our hostess during the whole time of my stay at the house, but before half an hour had gone by I was content to miss that honor. Brunow and I, tight wedged in the crowd, were laughing and talking on the staircase, when I caught sight of a lady a step or two above me. She was signalling with her fan to a friend behind me, and I thought then, and I think still, that her smiling face was the most beautiful thing I had ever beheld. Her hair, which is pure silver now, and no less lovely, was as dark as night, but her face was full of pure color, the brow pale, the cheeks rosy, and the red of the lips unusually bright and full for an Englishwoman, as I at first thought her to be. Her beautiful figure was set off to great advantage by a simple gown of white Indian muslin-the white was of a crearaish tone, I remember, and a string of large pearls was her only ornament. My heart gave a sudden odd leap when I saw her, and I had the feeling I have known more than once when I have been ordered on a dangerous service. But the sensation did not pass away, as it does under danger when the feeling comes that action is necessary. I continued to flutter like a school-girl; and when by accident her eyes met mine, a moment later, I felt that I blushed like fire. I could read a sort of recognition in her glance, and for a moment it seemed as if she would float down the stairs, in spite of the intervening crush, and speak to me. But instead of that she sighted Brunow at my side and beckoned him.
* _Note by Violet Fyffe_. --My husband had saved the life of his general a day earlier, in circumstances of extraordinary heroism. I do not expect to find any record of that sort of act in any pages written by his hand.
“Can you contrive to come to me, Mr. Brunow?” she asked, in a voice as lovely as her own eyes. They were the first words I heard her speak, and I seem to hear them again as I write them down, just as I can see her exquisite face and noble figure instinct with youth, though when I raise my eyes I can see my old wife-God bless her! -walking a little feebly in the garden, with a walking-stick of mine to help her steps.
Brunow made his way to her, and they talked for a minute. I couldn't help listening to her voice, and I heard my own name.
“You know the gentleman who stood beside you?” she asked. And Brunow answering that he and I were old friends, she said, “It is Captain Fyffe, I think.”
“No other, Miss Rossano,” said Brunow.
“Bring him here and introduce me to him,” she said. “I have a great desire to know Captain Fyffe.”
At this I hardly knew whether I stood on my head or my heels; but Brunow calling me by name, and the crush thinning just then for a moment, I made my way easily to the step below the one she stood on, and Brunow introduced us to each other. Now I had lived very much away from women all my life. I lost my mother early, and of sisters and cousins and such-like feminine furniture I had none, so that I had never had practice among them; and I speak quite honestly in saying that I would sooner have stormed a breach than have faced this young lady. Not that even my intolerable shyness and the sense of my own clumsiness before her could make it altogether disagreeable to be there, but because there was such a riot in my head-and in my heart, too--and I was mortally afraid of blurting out something which should tell her how I felt. And if you will look at it rightly, a gentleman--and when I say a gentleman I mean nothing more or less than a man of good birth and right feeling--has no right to think, even in his own heart, too admiringly of a young lady at their first meeting. At the very moment when I saw my wife I thought her, I knew her, indeed, to be the most faultlessly beautiful woman I had ever seen, and I was as certain as I am now that her soul was as flawless as her face. My heart was right, but I was too precipitate in my feelings, and if I had dared I would have knelt before her. All this, I dare say, is romantic and old-fashioned to the verge of absurdity; but it is so true that all the other truths I have known, excepting those I have no right to speak of here, seem to fall into insignificance beside it. I fell in love with my wife there and then; and without even knowing it I was vowed to her service as truly as I have been in the forty-two years that have gone by since then. I thank Heaven for it humbly, for there is nothing which can so help a man in his struggles against what is base and unworthy in himself as his love for a good woman. If that has grown to be an old-fashioned doctrine in these days I am sorry for the world. It is true, it has been true, and will be true again.
“I have heard of you often, Captain Fyffe,” said the charming voice, “and I am delighted to meet you. Your old comrade, Jack Rollinson, is a cousin of mine.”
I blushed again at this; but I could have heard nothing that would have pleased me more, for, early as it was, I would have given anything to stand well in this lady's eyes, and Rollinson and I were fast friends. I had the good-fortune to save his life in a row at Santa Fé, and from that hour poor Jack sang my praises in and out of season. I knew that if Miss Rossano had gained any opinion of me from Jack Rollinson it would not be a bad one. Indeed, my only fear was that Jack had probably praised me so far beyond my merits that nobody who had seen the portrait would have the slightest chance of recognizing the original. But when I had once heard my old comrade's name I was able to identify this charming young lady. Rollinson had more than once spoken of his beautiful cousin, Violet Rossano, and I knew a little of her history. I learned more of it that night, and myself became concerned in it in a very surprising manner.
Miss Rossano and I talked of Jack and of our common adventures, and to my delight, and the great easing of my embarrassment, she treated me almost like an old friend. She was swept off by the crowd at last; but in going she bade me call upon her at her aunt's house-Lady Rollinson's-where I might have news of my friend; and it need scarce be said that I promised eagerly to accept her invitation.
When I saw that I had seen the last of her for that evening I had no desire to stay in the crush which filled the rooms; and finding Brunow in the same mind as myself, I went away with him. Brunow lived off Regent Street, in a garret handsomely furnished and tenantable, but stuffy and confined to my notions, used as I had been to the open-air life of a soldier on active service. We threw the windows wide open, and sat down beside them with a tumbler of cool liquor apiece, Brunow with his cigar, and I with my pipe-which I was glad to get back to after a regimen of those beastly South American cigarettes--and we made ourselves comfortable. My mind was so full of my beautiful new acquaintance that I must needs approach her in my talk, and I used Jack Rollinson as a sort of stalking-horse. Brunow, as I found out later on, was in love with her-after his fashion--which, as I shall have to show you, was not very profound or manly; but, at any rate, he was glad of a chance to talk about her, and I was glad to listen.
“That beautiful girl you met to-night,” he told me, “has a strange history. She is one-and-twenty years of age, and her father is still living, but she and he never saw each other in their lives.”
I said something to the effect that this was strange, and I asked the reason of it.
“I dare say,” Brunow answered, “that I am the only man in England who knows the truth about the matter. The world has given the Conte di Rossano up for dead years and years ago. His daughter has no idea that he is alive. Yet I saw him no more than six weeks ago.”
“And you have not told her?” I asked.
“Why should I pain her for nothing?” he demanded in his turn. “She never saw him. She never even knew enough of him to grieve for him. He is not so much as a memory in her mind. And since they can never come together, it is better for her to go on believing that he died while she was in her babyhood.”
“What is to prevent their coming together?” I asked.
“He is a prisoner,” said Brunow, gravely. “Mind you, Fyffe, I tell you this in the strictest confidence, and I know you well enough to trust you.”
I knew Brunow well enough to know that if there were any truth in the story, it would be told in the strictest confidence until it was property as common as the news of the town crier. I knew him well enough to know also that if it were not true, but merely one of his countless romances, it would be forgotten in the morning in the growth of some new invention as romantic and as baseless as itself. In any case, I gave him the assurance he asked for, and he went on with his story.
“More than two-and-twenty years ago Miss Ros-sano's grandfather, General Sir Arthur Rawlings, and his wife made a trip through Italy. They took with them their daughter Violet, and in Rome they met the Conte di Rossano, who by all accounts was then a young, rich, handsome fellow, and the hope of the National party. The National party in Italy has always had a hope of some sort, and their hope is always just about as hopeful as a sane man's despair.”
“I am not so sure of that,” I cried. “I shall live to see the Italians a free people yet!”
“You are one of the enthusiasts,” said Brunow, laughing. “And I suppose that if you got an opportunity you'd lend the cause a hand.” I said “Assuredly,” and Brunow laughed again. “Well, to keep to the story,” he went on, “the count saw Miss Rawlings, and fell head over ears in love with her at first sight. He was young, he was handsome; he had spent years in England, and spoke the language like a native. He made love like Romeo, but the young lady at first would not listen to him. He followed the party to England, stuck to his cause like a man, and finally won it. The only objection anybody had to urge against him was that he was hand in glove with the conspirators against Austrian rule. The Austrian's were just as much a fixture in Italy as they are at this day; the Italians were just as hotly bent as they are now on getting rid of them, and Sir Arthur, who was an old diplomat, was afraid of the prospective son-in-law's political ideas. He tried at first to make marriage a question of surrender of the cause, but the count was ultra-romantic, ultra-patriotic, ultra-Italian all over in point of fact. Not even for love's sake would he throw over his country, and, oddly enough, it was this bit of romanticism which clinched the lady's affection.”
“And why oddly?” I asked him.
“My dear fellow,” said Brunow, “why should I characterize or analyze a woman's whims. The story is the main point. Miss Rawlings married the count. Within three months of their marriage the count went back to Italy to assist in the stirring up of some confounded Italian hot-pot or other, and was never heard of again. Seven or eight months after, the girl you met to-night was born. Her mother died a few months later. The count's estates were confiscated by the Austrian government, and the little orphan was bred by her grandparents. They are dead now, and Miss Rossano is chaperoned by her aunt, Lady Rollinson, and lives with her. When she is two-and-twenty she will come in for her dead mother's money, some forty or maybe fifty thousand pounds. In the meantime she inherits some two thousand a year from her grandfather. There are better things in the marriage market, but--” There he stopped and sipped at his tumbler, and I sat thinking for a while. Barring that one little point in the story at which Brunow introduced himself, I was disposed to give the history entire credence. But that Brunow should have seen the mournful hero of the tale within the last six weeks was altogether too like Brunow to be believed without some confirmation. One rarely tells even the most practised romancer outright and in so many words that he is not telling the truth, but I fenced for a time.
“And the count's alive, you say?”
“Alive? I saw him barely six weeks ago. I'll tell you all about it.” He leaned forward in his chair, and I would have sworn that he was inventing as he went on. “I was at a little place called Itzia, in the Tyrol, when by pure chance I stumbled on a fellow I had known in Paris and Vienna--a fellow named Reschia, Lieutenant Reschia. He was on General Radetsky's staff when I knew him first--an empty-headed fellow rather; but a man's glad to meet anybody in a place like Itzia; and when he asked me to dine with him at the fortress, I was jolly glad to go. 'We've got an old file here,' he told me, 'the Italians would give anything to get hold of if they only knew where he was. I believe they'd tear the place down with their nails to get at him.' It was after dinner, and he was ridiculously confidential. He pledged me to secrecy of course, and of course I told him that I should respect any confidence he reposed in me. Of course I did, out there; and equally, of course, I'm not bound here. It came out they'd got the Conte di Rossano there, and when I heard the name I jumped. Reschia didn't take notice of my surprise, and after a time I said I should like to see the fellow. He pointed him out to me next day, taking exercise in the court-yard.”
“The count,” I said, still less than doubtful of the truth of Brunow's story--“the count must have been a man of unusual importance to the political party to be remembered with such a passionate devotion after so many years.”
“God bless your soul,” cried Brunow, “it was devotion! Those Austrian fellows are as cunning as the devil. The Italians have been made to believe these twenty years that the count was playing fast and loose with both parties. His jailers made out that he had been a paid spy in their service, and pretended that he had been killed by one of the Nationalist party, whom they hanged.”
“Of course you made no effort to release him?”
“How the deuce could I? Release him! If you knew the fortress at Itzia you'd think twice before trying that. Besides--hang it all, man! --I was Reschia's guest; and he told me the story under the seal of confession.”
I spoke unguardedly, but I was not allowed to go far.
“If your story is true, Brunow--” “What do you mean by that?” he asked, with sudden anger. Everybody knew how utterly irresponsible he was, but nothing made him so angry as to be doubted. “The story's true; and if proof were wanted, here is proof enough.”
He rose with unusual vivacity, and, throwing open an escritoire, took from it a disorderly little pile of papers. He searched this through, muttering in a wounded tone meanwhile. “True? If the story's true? I'll show you whether it's true or not! No! By George, it isn't here! Now where on earth can I have put that paper?”
Just as I was laughing inwardly to think how well he thought it worth while to pretend, he slapped his forehead with a sudden air of recollection, turned again to the escritoire, drew from it a crumpled dirty scrap of paper, and striding over to me thrust it into my hand. “Read that,” he said.
“These lines,” I read, “are written by the Conte di Rossano, for more than twenty years a prisoner in the fortress of Itzia. They are carried at grave danger to himself by an attendant whose pity has been moved by the contemplation of a life of great misery. Should they reach the hands of the English stranger for whom they are intended, he is besought, for the love of God, to convey them to the Contessa di Rossano, daughter of Sir Arthur Rawlings, of Barston Manor, Warwickshire, who must long have mourned the writer as dead.”
“That was slipped into my hand as I was leaving the village,” said Brunow. “If the countess had been living--unless she had been married again--I should have thought it my duty to let her know the truth. But Miss Rossano knows nothing--guesses nothing. Why should I wound her with a piece of news like this?”
We did not talk much more that night, but I had plenty to think about as I walked home to my hotel.
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{
"id": "22205"
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If I had never seen that pencilled scrap of paper, I should have had no belief in Brunow's story. But though he was a romancer to his finger tips, and as irresponsible as a baby, I had never known him to take the least trouble to bolster up any of his inventions, or to show the least shame when he was discovered in a lie. I am told that people who suffer from kleptomania cannot be taught to be ashamed of stealing, though even a dog has grace enough to be abashed if you catch him in an act of dishonesty. I have met in my lifetime two or three men like Brunow, who lie without temptation, and who do not feel disgraced when detected.
For once I could not help believing him, and his story stuck in my mind in a very disagreeable way, for Miss Rossano fairly haunted me, and anything which was associated with her had an importance in my eyes. It was a hard thing to think that such a living tragedy should be so close to a creature so young and bright and happy. I praised Brunow in my own mind for his sensible resolution to keep the secret of her father's existence from her, but I was constantly thinking whether there might not be some possibility of setting the prisoner free. If I had been a rich man I could see quite enough chance of adventure to tempt me to the enterprise. I hated the Austrian rule with all my heart and soul, as at that time the Austrian rule deserved that every freeborn Englishman should hate it. The thought of Italian independence set my blood on fire, and I would as soon have fought for that cause as for any in the world.
I don't care to talk much about my own character, but I have often laughed to hear myself spoken of as a man whose life has been guided by romantic considerations. If I know anything about myself at all it is that I am severely practical. I could not even think of so far-away an enterprise as the attempted rescue of the count, a thing which, at the time, I was altogether unlikely and unable to attempt, without taking account of all the pros and cons, so, far as I could see them. In my own mind I laid special stress on the friendly attendant mentioned in the count's brief and pathetic letter. I felt sure that if I only had money enough to make that fellow feel safe about his future, I could have got the prisoner away. For in my own practical, hard-headed way I had got at the maps of the country and had studied the roads and had read up every line I could find.
If I try to explain what kept me a whole four weeks from accepting Miss Rossano's invitation to call upon her at the house of her aunt, Lady Rollinson, I am not at all sure that I shall succeed; I can say quite truly that there was not a waking hour in all that time in which she did not occupy my mind. Every morning I resolved that I would make the promised call, and every day dwindled into midnight without my having done it. I need not say that I was by this time aware of the condition of my heart. I ridiculed myself without avail, and tried to despise myself as a feather-headed fellow who had become a woman's captive at a glance. It was certainly not her wealth and my poverty which kept me away from her, for I never gave that matter a single thought--nor should I at any time in my life have regarded money as an inducement to marriage, or the want of it as a bar. It was no exalted idea of her birth as compared with mine, for I am one of the Fyffes of Dumbartonshire, and there is as good blood in my veins as flows from the heart of any Italian that ever wore a head. The plain fact, so far as I can make myself plain, is that I had already determined to win Miss Rossano for myself if I could, and that I felt that she deserved to be approached with delicacy and reserve. I knew all the while that I might be wasting chances, and I endured a good deal of trouble on that account. But four whole weeks went by before I ventured to obey her invitation to call, and by that time I was sore afraid that she had forgotten all about me.
It was Lady Rollinson herself who received me; a fat and comfortable lady of something more than fifty, as I should judge, though it is a perilous thing for a man to be meddling with guesses at a lady's age. She looked as if she could enjoy a good dinner, and as if she liked to have things soft and cosey about her; but in spite of that, she wore a countenance of pronounced kindliness, and received me, so to speak, with open arms. Her son, Jack, had inspired her with all manner of absurd beliefs about me, and she praised me to my face about my courage until I felt inclined to prove it by running away from an old woman. I assured her of what was actually the fact, that Jack's rescue was a very ordinary business, and accompanied by very little danger to myself; but this set her praising my modesty (which has never been my strong point), and I thought it best to turn the conversation. I ventured to hope that Miss Rossano was well.
“I am very sorry to tell you,” said Lady Rollinson, “that Miss Rossano is very unwell indeed. She has been greatly upset this morning. We have had the strangest news, and I don't know whether we ought to believe it or not. I don't think I have ever been so flustered in my life; and as for Violet, poor dear, it's no wonder that she's disturbed by it, for she's one of the tenderest-hearted girls in the world, and the idea that she has been happy all the time is quite enough to kill anybody, I am sure.”
Lady Rollinson rambled in this wise, and if I had had nothing to go on beforehand I should not have been able to make head or tail of her discourse; but Brunow's story flashed into my mind in a second, and I was sure that in some fashion it had reached Miss Rossano's ears. She gave me no time to offer a question, even if I had been disposed to do it, but started off again at once, and put all chance of doubt to rest.
“Poor Violet doesn't remember her father, for he has been supposed to be dead this twenty years; but he was the Conte di Rossano, a very handsome and charming young Italian gentleman, and I remember his courting Violet's mother as if it were only yesterday. The poor dear girl has the right to call herself the Contessa di Rossano; but that would be little use to her, for the Austrian government confiscated all her father's estates, and she never saw a penny from them, and I don't suppose she ever will. But her father went to Italy before she was born, and now it turns out that in place of being killed there, as every one thought at the time, he was taken prisoner by the Austrians. He's alive still, it seems, and a hopeless prisoner. Poor Violet only learned the truth last night, and she has done nothing but cry ever since.”
I said I had heard the story from Brunow, but that I understood he had bound himself to strict secrecy about it.
“He might as well have held his tongue,” cried her ladyship, “for all the good talking can do. But I've known George Brunow all his life, Captain Fyffe, and of course the idea of his keeping a secret is absurd. Mr. Brunow would talk a dog's hind-leg off, and you can't believe a quarter of the things he says. Only in this case he got a letter from the count, and some busybody persuaded him to surrender it, and brought it to poor Violet, and she has compared the handwriting with some letters of her father's which came to her from her poor dear mother, and she's quite convinced that it's the same, though twenty years is a long time, and a man's writing changes very often in less than that.”
I heard a rustle in the room, and, turning, I saw Miss Rossano standing within a yard or two of us. How much of our conversation she had heard I could not tell, but I was certain from her look that she knew its purport.
“Good-morning, Captain Fyffe,” she said, holding out her hand. I rose and took it in my own, and found that it burned like fire. Her eyelids were red and heavy, but her cheeks were almost colorless. She told me long afterwards that the pity she saw in my looks almost broke her down, and, indeed, I remember well how I felt when I saw her beautiful mouth trembling with the pain and sorrow which lay at her heart. She kept her self-possession, however, but by a sort of feminine instinct, I suppose, she sat down with her face away from the light, and when she spoke again no one who had not known the condition of affairs would have guessed, from the firm and even tones of her voice, that she suffered as she did. I think very highly of courage, whether in a man or in a woman, and I have no words to say how I admired her self-control.
“My aunt has been telling you of my dreadful news,” she began, and I answered with a mere nod. Her next words almost took my breath away. “I am glad that you have called, and if you had not done so, I should have taken the liberty to send for you. You are a man of courage and experience, Captain Fyffe, and I wish to ask your advice and help.”
I answered that I should be glad to render any service in my power, but I was afraid to show how eager I was to be of use to her, and I thought that my answer sounded grudging and reluctant.
“Thank you,” she said, simply. I could see her great eyes shining from the dusk in which she sat, and they seemed never to leave my face for a moment. “I heard you say just now that Mr. Brunow had told you the story. Did he show you this?”
She drew a scrap of paper from the bosom of her dress, and I took it from her hand. I told her I had seen it before, and returned it to her.
“Without this,” she went on, “I should have had no faith in Mr. Brunow's statement; but I have compared it with old letters of my father's, and I have no doubt that it was written by his hand. Now, Captain Fyffe”--she did her hardest to be business-like and commonplace in manner through all this interview, and my honor and esteem rose higher every moment--“now, Captain Fyffe, I want to ask you if in your judgment there is anything which can be done. I come to you--I tell you frankly--because you have already done my family one incalculable service. It is a poor way of offering thanks to burden you with a new trouble.”
“If I have done anything to save you from grief or trouble, Miss Rossano,” I replied, “I can ask for no better reward than to be allowed to repeat my service.”
If she had been anybody but the woman she was she might have accepted my words, which I knew were spoken with coldness and restraint, as a mere surface compliment of no value. But I never knew her yet mistaken' in respect of that one virtue of sincerity. It is especially her own, and it is the touchstone by which a true heart tests all others.
“Thank you,” she answered, simply.
I told her it was four weeks that day since I had first heard of the matter, and that I had since given it a good deal of practical consideration. I drew for her a rough map of the country, showing the roads, marking the places where guards were posted, and so on, and I gave her what information I had been able to acquire about the rates of possible travel. From Itzia I calculated we could, if well mounted, cross the frontier in about nine hours. There were no telegraph wires in that region in those days, and I pointed out that with a start of a single hour escape was probable. I laid stress on the value of the sympathetic attendant, and she hung with clasped hands and suspended breath on every word I spoke.
“You have thought of all this already?” she asked, when I had said all I then had to say.
“I have thought of little else,” I answered. “But now I must tell you that all this will cost money.”
“We can see to that,” said Lady Rollinson, who was almost as interested as her niece. She showed it another way; for while Miss Rossano had listened without a word, the old lady had been full of starts and ejaculations.
“I must be able to tell the man on whose aid I shall have to rely that the relatives of the count are wealthy, and that they will reward him handsomely. I may even have to promise him an independence for life.”
“You may promise him anything it is in my power to give him,” cried Miss Rossano. “If I could secure my father's liberty I would surrender every penny I have in the world.”
“The man is a common soldier,” I responded. “He has his rations and his clothes, and a few copper coins a day to find him a little beer and tobacco. To such a man a pension of a pound a week would look like Paradise. Much depends on his condition. If he is a single man, I may secure him. If he is married and has a family, I shall find greater difficulties in the way. The great thing is not to hope too much. I will try, if you will allow me, and I will leave no stone unturned.”
“Captain Fyffe, how shall I thank you?” cried Miss Rossano.
“I shall be repaid, madame,” I answered, “if I succeed.” She did not understand me then, but I told her afterwards what my meaning had been. I told her that I should have earned the right, if I brought her father back with me, to tell her I had earned the right to say that I knew no such pride as to live or die in her service. And that was simply true, though I had as yet met her but twice. I think that love at first sight must be a commoner thing than many people imagine. If it was so real with a sober-sided, hard-headed fellow like myself, who had spent all the years of his manhood in rough-and-tumble warfare, what must it be with romantic and high-strung people who are more naturally prone to it.
“You will run great risks, Captain Fyffe,” said her ladyship.
“It has been the habit of my life,” I answered, “to run as few risks as possible.”
“I hardly know if we have the right to ask you to undertake such a hair-brained enterprise,” she said again.
“I have not waited to be asked, Lady Rollinson. I am a volunteer.”
“Give us at least a hint of what you propose to do,” urged her ladyship. “Let us be sure that you do not intend to run into danger.”
“It would be futile to plan until I am on the spot,” I answered; “and as for danger--I shall meet nothing I can avoid.”
“I shall trust Captain Fyffe entirely,” said Miss Rossano. “As for money, Captain Fyffe,” she added, turning to me, “you must not be cramped in that respect. Will you call and see my bankers to-morrow?”
“I should prefer,” I answered, “to start to-night. I have ample funds for my immediate purposes, and I shall make my way, in the first place, to Vienna. Tell me your banker's name, and I will find out his agents there. And now good-bye, Miss Rossano. I cannot promise success, but I will do what I can.”
She answered that she was sure of that; and when she had given me the name of her bankers and I had made a note of it, we shook hands and parted. For my own part I was glad that Lady Rollinson's presence made our parting commonplace.
I hailed the first hackney carriage I met and drove to my rooms. There I found my passport, and went with it to the Foreign Office, where, through the good offices of an old schoolfellow, I had it _vised_ without loss of time, and then home again to pack. Travelling was slower then than it is to-day, but we thought it mighty rapid, and scarcely to be improved upon, it differed so from the post-chaise and stage-coach crawl of a few years before. There was no direct correspondence between Hamburgh and Vienna, but the journey was shorter by a day than it had been when I had last made it. I reached the Austrian capital after an entirely adventureless journey, and felt that my enterprise was begun.
I called at the Embassy, and had my papers finally put in order. I called on the Viennese agents of Miss Rossano's bankers, and found that no less a sum than one thousand pounds had been placed to my credit. Not only was this liberal provision made for contingencies, but I received a letter from Miss Rossano telling me that anything within her means was fully at my disposal. I thought it not unlikely that with so persuasive a sum behind me I might be able to win over the kindly jailer to our side. My thoughts were very often with this man, and I spent a good deal of useless time in speculating about him. Was he married or single? That was a point on which much depended, and I was half inclined to pray that he might prove to be a bachelor. Marital responsibilities were all against my hopes. Marital confidences might well upset the best-laid plans I could devise.
I was thinking thus as I paced the Ring Strasse on the third day after my arrival in Vienna. I lingered in the capital against the grain, for I was eager to be at work, but it was part of a policy which I had already settled. Itzia was not the sort of place for which one would make a straight road, unless one had special business there, and it was the merest seeming of having any special business there which I was profoundly anxious to avoid. So I lingered in Vienna, and on this third day, pacing the chief street, I felt a sudden hand clapped upon my shoulder, and, turning, faced Brunow.
“Here you are,” he cried, still keeping his hand upon my shoulder as I turned. “I have been to the bank and to your hotel. I have been hunting you, in point of fact, all day, and here at last I come upon you by chance.”
“What brings you in Vienna?” I asked him. I did my best to be cordial, but I was sorry for his intrusion, and would willingly have known him to be a thousand miles away.
He glanced swiftly and warily about him, and, seeing nobody within ear-shot, answered in an easy tone: “I have come to assist in your enterprise, Fyffe, and I mean to see you through it.”
“I think,” I told him, “that I prefer to go through my enterprise alone.”
“My dear fellow,” said Brunow, “I couldn't dream of allowing you to run any risk alone in such a cause. And besides that, I have a little selfish reason of my own. In addition, you don't speak the language, and will be in a thousand corners. I was bred here, and speak the language like a native. I have already the _entree_ to the place you desire to get into, and I can introduce you. My sympathetic friend--” He broke off suddenly because a foot-passenger drew near. “It is, as you say, a beastly journey, but, as you say again, it's done with, and when you know Vienna as well as I do, you will say it pays for the trouble ten times over. Vienna, my dear fellow, is the jolliest and the handsomest city in the world.” The passenger went by, and he resumed at the dropped word. “My sympathetic friend will recognize me, and at my return will be immediately on the _qui vive_. Negotiations will be as good as opened the very minute of my arrival. You'll want an interpreter, and here am I sworn to the cause, and secret as the tomb. In effect, I'm going, and I don't see how the deuce you expected to get on without me.”
“I suppose,” I asked him, “you know what to expect if we fail and are caught?”
He took me by the arm and walked with me along the road, sinking his voice to a confidential murmur.
“You're a son of Mars, Fyffe, and you ought to be able to understand my feelings. You've met Miss Rossano, and I dare say you can understand the possibility of a man actually losing his head over a creature so charming and so well provided for.” I could have struck him for the cynicism of his final words, but I restrained myself. “Now I don't mind telling you, Fyffe, that I've a little bit of a tendresse in that direction, and, between ourselves, I'm not at all sure that it isn't returned. Miss Rossano is convinced that this is a service of especial and particular danger. So it might be for a headstrong old warrior like yourself if you were in it alone; but as I shall manage it there won't be a hint of danger, and we shall get the credit without the risk. And so, my dear Fyffe, I'm with you. My motives I believe are as purely selfish as I should always wish them to be. Yours of course are as purely unselfish as you would always desire.”
Of course I knew already the man's complete want of responsibility. Here almost in his first breath he couldn't dream of allowing me to run the risk alone, and here in almost his last breath there was to be no risk at all. I dreaded his companionship; and when I had taken time to think the matter over I told him so quite plainly.
“My dear Fyffe,” he answered, “you don't know me. You haven't seen me under circumstances demanding discretion. You tell me I'm a feather-head, and I've not the slightest doubt in the world that if you asked any of our common acquaintances you'd find the epithet endorsed. It's my way, my boy, but it's only a little outside trick of mine, and it has nothing to do with the real man inside. And besides that, Fyffe, you know you can't prevent my going, and so--why argue about it?”
“There is risk in this business,” I said, “and grave risk. Let us have no further folly on that theme. I could prevent you from going, and I would if it were not for the fact that I think it more dangerous to leave you behind than to take you with me. You would be hinting this to this man, and that to the other, and I should have a noose about my neck through that slack tongue of yours before I had been away a fortnight. You shall go, but I warn you of the risk beforehand.”
“There's no risk at all,” he said, pettishly. “I've told you so already.”
“Pardon me,” I answered. “I am going to show you the risk. If this enterprise should fail by any folly of yours, if I am sacrificed by any indiscretion or stupidity on your part, I will shoot you. I am going out with my life in my hand, and I mean to take care of it. You can be useful to me, and I will use you. But please understand the conditions, for so truly as you and I stand here, I mean to keep them.”
I knew enough of Brunow to be sure that he would treat this plain statement as if it were a jest, and I knew that he read me well enough to be sure that it was nothing of the sort. The threat made him safe. In an hour he was talking as if he had forgotten all about it, but I knew better.
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We travelled at apparent random for nearly three weeks, and when at last we reached Itzia, no man could possibly have guessed that we had set out with that little place as our serious destination. It was Brunow who suggested this lingering method of approach, and it was he also who gave a semblance of nature to our proceedings by pausing here and there to set up his camp-stool and easel in some picturesque defile, or in the streets of some quaint village. Twice this innocent blind brought us into collision with the military police, who were in a condition of perpetual disquiet, and suspected everybody. Our papers, however, were in perfect order, and Brunow in particular was so well provided with credentials that we were easily set going again, and so by a circuitous road we approached Itzia, and finally pounced down upon it from the hills.
I found it a village of not more than four or five hundred inhabitants, set in the midst of a green plateau surrounded by gaunt hills, and watered by a fair, broad stream. The fortress in which the Conte di Rossano was confined stood on the lowest slope of the nearest hill, and frowned down upon the village with a threatening aspect, dwarfed as it was almost into nothing by the surrounding majesties of nature. It was a building of modern date--not more than fifty years of age I should be inclined to say--and it boasted nothing in the way of architectural beauty. It was built of an ugly dark stone, was strongly fortified, and was flanked by outlying batteries which surrounded the mouth of the defile which led from Zetta on the frontier. The artillery of to-day would reduce the fortress of Itzia to a rubbish heap in less than an hour; but it was a strong place for the date of its erection, and even now the difficulty of bringing siege guns along the broken and difficult mountain pathways makes it worth calculating as a point of resistance against invasion.
I saw it first at the close of a dull day when a storm was brewing. The sky was overcast, and the clouds were mustering fast from the south in black battalions. Every now and then a hoarse echoing rumble of sound went wandering about in the hollows of the hills with a deep cavernous tone, which sounded astonishingly threatening and foreboding. I suppose that everybody knows more or less the feeling which associates itself with the first view of any memorable place, and fixes itself as it were upon his recollection of it. After all these years I can hardly think of the fortress at Itzia without some return of the depression and half-dismay which fell upon me when I first looked at it, with the black clouds gathering thickly over it, the mountain on which it stood looking as if it would topple over and bury fortress and valley, and one spear-like gleam of bleak sunshine lighting up a few of its windows and a few square yards of its western wall. Of course I had never been guilty of such a madness as to think of approaching the place by anything but wile and stratagem; and its bulk and blackness and the thickness of its walls had nothing in the world to do with the success or failure of my enterprise, and yet I could not resist a feeling of discouragement which almost amounted to a sense of superstition.
We had engaged a guide from some little village, the name of which I forget, at which we had rested on the previous night; and the castle was the first object to which he had called our attention.
“There!” he cried, pausing at a sudden bend in the road, and turning half round upon us with his right hand pointing forward. “There is the fortress of Itzia. The end of your journey, gentlemen.”
I spoke the language very feebly, but I happened to understand every word he said, and his speech gave me a nervous chill. It was not altogether unlikely that the end of our journey lay in that forbidding heap of dark stone, and the thought was not an agreeable one. Brunow caught the fancy too, and turning on me with a smile which I thought not quite natural, said: “_A bad omen! _” We trudged along pretty wearily, for we had made on foot a good five-and-twenty miles that day, and the country had been extremely difficult. The mountain road had scarcely been worthy to be called a road at all, and in the course of it we had had a score or so of break-back climbs. Brunow had held out with an unexpected stoutness, but I think another mile of such a road would have left him helpless; and though I was more innured to personal fatigue than he, I gave half a grunt and half a groan of comfort at the thought of stretching my legs in an arm-chair at the village inn. We were both as hungry as we had a right to be, and finding our feet set upon turf instead of insecure stones with points all over them, we mustered our forces for a brief run downhill. The guide, who had done the journey with a stolid indifference, set up a whoop and raced after us speedily, getting the better of us, and so we entered the village racing like a trio of school-boys, Brunow and I shouting to each other and laughing. Some of the villagers came to their doors and looked with an ox-like kind of wonder after us, but just then the first open growl of the tempest sounded, the premature blackness of the evening was split wide open by a sudden flash, and the rain began to fall as it can only fall in mountain countries and in the tropics, I suppose the inhabitants simply thought we were flying from the storm, and, anyway, at the first sign of it they slammed and fastened their doors, and we raced on, drenched almost to the skin in the first minute.
Brunow knew the inn, of course, and was recognized immediately on his arrival. The fat hostess, stolid as she looked, seemed glad to see him; and her pretty daughter, who looked in the characteristic costume of the country as if she had just stepped off the stage or was just ready to step on to it, received him with demure smiles and blushes. He was quite a lion among the ladies, was Brunow, and I had no doubt he had been doing some little execution here. In a minute or two, at the landlady's bidding, we had stripped off our soaked coats and were sitting by a wood-fire, each in a brief Tyrolean jacket, with lace and silver buttons all about it--the property, as we found out afterwards, of our host and his son, who were out just then shooting on the hills, and likely, as we learned, to be away all night.
We had an excellent meal: fish from the river, fowl from the poultry-yard--we heard the clucking of the doomed hen, and the indignant remonstrances of her companions--a capital omelette, and country cheese and butter. With these comfortable things we had a bottle of honest wine of unknown vintage, but palatable and generous; and when the meal was over we sat and smoked in a kind of animal ease begotten of the past labor and present comfort. The storm lashed the panes, and though the time of year was but late August, and the hour not beyond six of the afternoon, it was so dark we could scarce see across the road. Yet every flash of lightning that hung with its blue, quivering light in the skies for two or three seconds at a time showed the fortress to either of us who chose to look out of window; and tired and bodily contented as I was, I never saw its gloomy form thus gloomily illuminated; but my first feeling on beholding it came back to me, and with it the guide's phrase: “The end of your journey, gentlemen!” The Austrian government would have seen to that if any merest guess of our purpose had occurred to the stupidest of its officials. I speak of Austria as she was, not as she is. She has learned something in the universal struggle for freedom which has shaken Europe since I first opened my eyes upon the world. But in those days--I speak it calmly, and with something, at least I hope, of the judgment which should belong to old age--Austria was a power to be loathed and warred against by all good men, a stronghold of tyranny and cruelty, a dark land within whose darkness dark deeds were done, a country where the oppressed found no helper. I am heaping up words in vain, which is a thing outside my habits. Every student of history knows what Austria was at that time, and there are thousands still living who are old enough to remember.
We went to bed early that night in spite of thunder and lightning, rain and wind, and slept as we deserved to do after the heavy marching of the day. When I got up in the morning the mountains were smiling in a sun-bath, the river wound shining through fields of delightful green, and the fortress, ugly as it was in itself, took from its surroundings, and helped to give them back again a picturesque and pleasing look. The feeling I had first had in respect to it never came back again in its first force; and when I looked at it with the refreshment of rest in my own heart, and the brightness of the clean-washed earth and heaven about it and above it, I could afford to smile at the womanish foreboding and chill of the night before.
Brunow was still sleeping, and I was loath to disturb him; so dressing myself carelessly but without noise, I went down-stairs, and there munched a fragment of black bread and drank a draught of milk. Then having tried in vain to say that I wanted a towel, I contrived to express myself to the landlord's pretty daughter by signs. I pointed out-of-doors, made a pantomime of undressing, diving, and swimming, and then a further pantomime of rubbing myself down. At this she understood, supplied me with what I wanted, and led me to the door, whence she pointed to the left, and then seemed by a sweeping motion of the hand to indicate a turning to the right. I took the way thus signalled, and in a very little time found myself in a sequestered spot by the water-side, which looked as if it might have been made for my purpose. A great boulder as big as a moderate-sized house protected the place from view on the village side, and the place was bowered in trees. A short, soft grass made a delightful footing, and on the opposite side of the river a fallen tree had been trimmed into convenient shape for diving from. A narrow track worn through the grass showed that this place was frequently approached. I was seated and in the act of unlacing my heavy mountain boots, when I heard a cheery and melodious voice singing; and, looking up, I saw at a little distance through the trees a young Austrian officer in undress, strolling at an easy pace towards me. He, too, had evidently come out for a morning dip, for he was swinging a towel in his right hand, and was lounging straight towards the river.
As he came nearer I saw that he was handsome in an effeminate sort of way, with a slight lady-like sort of figure, a blond mustache, so light in color as to be almost invisible at a distance, and fine girlish eyes of a light blue. As he saw me in turn he gave me a good-morning in a cheery tone, and I returned his salutation. He noticed my accent at once and said, “Ah! An Englishman?” I answered, “Yes;” and having disembarrassed myself of the heavy boots, stood up to throw off my jacket. “And a soldier?” he said. Then speaking in English this time, but with a very laughable and halting accent--an accent, I should be inclined to say, almost as laughable and halting as mine sounded to him. “I mak yeeoo velkom at my place.”
At this I asked him if the place were private and I an intruder, but this little bit of English, took him altogether out of his depth.
“I speak English abominably,” he said in fluent and accurate French; “properly speaking, I do not know it at all. May I ask if you speak French?”
French and Spanish are the only two foreign languages of which I know anything, but I speak them both with ease, though I dare say with little elegance. I repeated my question, and he, with great good-humor, responded that he had no claim upon the place, and was delighted to find a companion of similar tastes; I went on undressing without more ado, and in a minute more was ploughing about in the water, the first nip of which had an icy and almost maddening delight in it. I found out later on that the stream came almost straight from the mountain-tops of ice and snow.
“You would not have bathed here five or six hours ago,” said my companion, as he swam beside me. “The storm lasted but two hours, yet the river was raging here until long after midnight. It falls, however, as soon as it rises, and now, except for the wet banks, you would hardly guess that it had been in flood.”
I had reason to remember what he said not very much later on, at a moment perhaps as anxious as any I have ever had to face in my life. But that will come in its place, and I only notice it here because it was one of those odd things in life that we all notice at one time or another, that at our first accidental meeting the man whose business it was to guard the prisoner I had come to rescue should give me a bit of comforting knowledge in this way. For my companion turned out to be none other than that Lieutenant Breschia of whom Brunow had spoken. When my swim was finished he gathered up his clothes in a neat bundle, and holding them in the air in one hand, paddled himself easily across with the other, and dressed beside me.
“It is ambition of mine,” he said, in a laughing, boyish way, which made his manner very charming and natural, “to learn your English tongue. But I am stupid with it, and whenever I meet an Englishman I waste my chances and converse with him in one of the tongues I know already. You are great masters of language, you Englishmen.”
I told him that we bore a very indifferent reputation in that respect, and that next to the French, who in that one regard are the most intractable people in the world, we were probably less acquainted with foreign languages than any people in Europe. He looked surprised.
“I think, sir, you rate yourselves too low. May I offer you a cigar? I can assure you of its quality, for I import my own. It is true that I have not met many Englishmen in my time, but I have met none who have not been admirable linguists. A friend of mine, an Englishman, who was in this neighborhood but a few weeks ago, is one of the finest I have known. He may perhaps be known to you. Have you ever met, may I ask, the honorable Brunow?”
This gave me a little inward start, and I had begun to guess already at the identity of my companion. I bit the end from the cigar I had accepted from him a moment before, and asked, “The Honorable George Brunow?”
“That is he,” cried the young fellow, delightedly. “You know him?”
“He is my companion,” I replied. “I left him asleep at the auberge less than an hour ago.”
“You are the friend of my friend Brunow!” he exclaimed. “Sir, I am delighted to meet you. And Brunow is here again? What news! And do you stay long? Oh, once again life will be bearable. In this dull hole, sir, I pledge you my most sacred word of honor, a man has but one contemplation; his thoughts are all towards suicide. Figure for yourself the life we lead here: the commandant a bachelor of sixty, and “--he lowered his voice and bent laughingly to my ear--“a bore the most intense, the most rigid, the most unbending, conceivable by the mind of man. But pardon me--that is my name. You have not travelled in this direction with Brunow without hearing it?”
“No, indeed,” I answered. “Brunow has spoken of you hundreds of times. I have no card, but my name is Fyffe. Brunow shall give us a formal introduction by-and-by.”
I did my best to carry off the situation, but I doubt if I achieved any very great measure of success. I can say honestly that if there is one thing in this world I abhor with all my heart and soul it is treachery. And there was no escape from the fact that I was here for the express purpose of playing the traitor with this amiable and friendly young fellow, and there is no escape from the fact that I was bound to go on playing the traitor with him, to receive his friendly advances, to accept his welcome, and all the while to plot and plan to work away from him the prisoner it was his duty to guard, and for whose safe-keeping his reputation at least, and perhaps his life, was responsible. This reflection kept me awkward and constrained, but luckily for me he took no notice of my clumsiness, but rattled on as if he took an actual delight in the sound of his own voice.
“Brunow,” he declared, “is the most delightful man I have ever known. The common complaint I hear against your delightful countrymen, Monsieur Fiff, is that they are devoid of _esprit of verve_--that they are too alive to their responsibilities, that they live in a cave of depression of spirits. As I say, I have not known many; but I have not found them so, and Brunow least of all. Brunow in his gayety, in his wit, is French of the French. An astonishing man. Though, even here--in that infernal fortress yonder where I suffer incredibly from _le spleen_--I laugh when I am by myself, and when the face and voice of Brunow present themselves to my memory. What conversation, eh? What inventions! What a noble _farceur! _ Let us go and see him.”
He set off at an impetuous pace, which he moderated almost immediately; and gayly chattering all the way, led me--feeling like a villain at every step, yet not in the least relaxing from my purpose--to the hostel, where we found Brunow chaffing the landlady, who was already busy in the preparation of our breakfast. The impetuous Lieutenant Breschia fell upon his neck and kissed him on both cheeks, and Brunow returned the salute with heartiness. I may as well let the fact out at once and have the declaration over: I was beginning to have a serious dislike for Brunow, though I strove to subdue it, trying to reflect how much our rivalry, of which he knew nothing, might possibly warp my judgment of him. At that minute I felt a downright twinge of hatred and contempt for him; and his kisses made him seem like a sort of Judas in my eyes. I did not pause to reflect that the kiss meant no more to him than a shake of the hand means to a man who has been bred in England, and it is a form of salute which--though I have been familiar with the sight of it for years together--I cordially hate. Those beastly South American Spaniards, among whom I fought, were always at it, with their beards scented with garlic and tobacco! It was a form of salute I had hard work to avoid at times; but I should always have been ready to astonish the man who had succeeded in getting at me in that fashion. I loathed Brunow for his acceptance and return of that caress; and yet the man-was doing no more than his breeding demanded of him; and if he had recoiled from his friend he would have insulted him. I loathed myself because this duplicity was necessary to our plan, but I never proposed to myself for a moment to go back from the plan itself. I stood pledged to Miss Rossano to rescue her father from that horrible long-drawn imprisonment if the courage, or the wit, of man could compass it; and I meant, with all my heart and soul, to keep my word. In spite of that I had no stomach for the means it was necessary to employ; and at last it came to this: in place of hating and despising myself for using the means, I took to hating and despising the Austrians for making the means necessary.
In less than a minute Brunow was justifying his friend's opinion of him by an extravagantly farcical story of our adventures by the way, and the young Austrian was laughing at him as if he would burst his stays. I knew, of course, that he wore those feminine additions to the toilet, because within the last hour I had seen him take them off and put them on again; and the effeminacy of that trick, which was of course merely national and professional, and not in the least to be charged against him personally, added to the disgust I felt at him and at Brunow, and at the whole Austrian nation, and at myself, and at our joint treachery--Brunow's and mine.
So I carried my own moodiness out into the village street, and suddenly remembering that I was smoking a cigar the harmless, merry-hearted youngster had given me, I hurled it away and walked hotly along the road in a state of mind altogether unenviable. I brought myself to reason in a quarter of an hour, and got back to the inn in time for breakfast; but I know that I made poor company, and sat there glum and silent while my two companions shouted with boisterous laughter, and drank more wine than was good for them at so early an hour in the morning.
At last Brunow shook hands with the lieutenant, and embraced him into the bargain, and kissed him, and was kissed on both cheeks again, the young officer having to go back to his duty. I escaped the kisses and was let off with a hand-shake, with which also I would gladly have dispensed if I could.
Then Brunow and I were left alone; but he was so full of his conspirator's caution--developed in a minute when there was no need for it, and likely as soon to be forgotten when it was wanted--that though not a soul in the house could understand a word of English, he would not speak to me until he had led me into a deep pine wood at the back of the house, and on the first slope of the mountain, and even there he went peering about and beating the bushes and undergrowth with a stick, as if he had been a stage-spy, until I lost temper with him, and shouted to him to begin. He came and sat mysteriously at my side.
“You see,” he said, “how I stand with Breschia. I can have the run of the fortress at any time, and so, if you play your cards properly, can you.”
“Was there any need,” I asked, ill-humoredly, “to bring me here to say that?” I admit that I was in a quite unreasonable temper, and that an angel would have been tempted to quarrel with me. I called Bru-now “a melodramatic ass” I remember very well, and I told him that if we fell into a habit of getting in the corners to conspire we should only draw suspicion upon ourselves. I spoke with a roughness altogether unnecessary, but then it must be remembered that Brunow, whom I was fast learning to dislike and despise, bade so far to be of more service than myself, and it is always bitter to be beaten by an inferior. I stung him, and he replied angrily, and the result of it was that we separated for the day. I went uphill, and by-and-by lost myself and came quite unexpectedly upon a highway, from which I could look down upon the fortress. Being assured by this that I could not easily lose myself again, I walked for a considerable distance, until from the top of a hill I could look down the straight road into a broad and fertile plain, with a city far and far away shining on the limit of it.
“This,” I said, “is the road we shall have to travel if ever we get the Conte di Rossano out of prison.”
And following the mental road pointed out by this finger-post of thought, I sat down and allowed my fancy to carry me into all manner of worthless and impracticable plans of rescue in which I could dispense with Brunow's aid. I was engaged in this unprofitable exercise, when I suddenly discerned a carriage near the hill-top. It came on with difficulty, and the two horses that drew it were dead blown when they reached the level, and stood trembling with their late exertion. A strikingly handsome woman put her head round the front of the carriage as if to look at the road before her. Catching sight of me she smiled and addressed me in the language of the country. I responded in French, and in that tongue she asked me how far it still was to Itzia. I told her as nearly as I could guess; she thanked me, and then leaned back in her carriage, waiting until the horses should have rested. In due time she drove on, with a little inclination of the head so regal and condescending that she might have been a princess at the least. When she was two or three hundred yards away I arose and followed. The carriage went out of sight in a little while, and I thought no more about it or its occupant until I saw the vehicle itself standing empty at the door of the inn.
The lady was seated in her rich dress in the common room, and she and Brunow were talking like old friends. Brunow's anger was no more lasting than a child's, and by this time he had quite recovered his good-humor.
“Oh, here you are, old fellow,” he cried, genially. “Baroness, permit me to introduce to you Captain Fyffe. Fyffe, this is the Baroness Bonnar.”
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When I saw the lady face to face I perceived that she was older than I had fancied her to be, and I saw that she adopted certain devices to hide the ravages of time which had, as they always have, the effect of emphasizing them. I wonder if women will ever learn the perfect folly and uselessness of that sort of trickery.
The Baroness Bonnar was very gracious in her manners, but she seemed to me much less like a real great lady than like an actress who played at being a great lady. I am not very penetrating in that respect, and, as I have said already, I knew next to nothing of women and their ways, and so I was not disposed to trust my own judgment, but put it on one side with a certain contempt and impatience of myself. As a matter of fact, as I found out not so long afterwards, the Baroness Bonnar was no more a baroness than I was a baron, but simply and merely an adventuress who had spent some time on the Vienna stage, where she had secured no great success. She was now one of that almost innumerable band of spies who lived at that time in the service of the Austrian government. She was not a very clever woman, I am inclined to think, but she had been clever enough to induce a high official to fall in love with her, and by keeping this high official hanging off and on she had contrived to obtain promotion in her abominable calling far beyond her intellectual deserts. Brunow, it seemed, had known her for a year or two, but I learned afterwards that he had made no guess as to her real business in life.
The foolish fellow was so delighted at the unexpected opportunity for a flirtation that the whole purpose of our journey seemed to be forgotten by him. The baroness, with her maid and her coachman--. who were both on the same pay with herself (without her having the least guess of it), and reported all her doings to her superiors--stayed only one night in Itzia, and then went on to a village some dozen miles away, where she put up with some friends of hers who had a country-house there. Then nothing would please Brunow but that he must hire a horse and ride off to this country-house, and spend hours in the society of the sham baroness, while our scheme for the release of Miss Rossano's father hung in the wind, without making even a sign of progress.
The young lieutenant was almost my only companion, and once or twice he dined with me at the inn, and twice I had breakfast with him in the fortress; but these interviews with him brought me no nearer to my purpose. A third invitation brought something in its train, however, and, to tell the truth, I asked nothing much better than to have Brunow out of my scheme. The matter came about in this wise: Breschia and I were seated in his private room, when a non-commissioned officer entered with his report for the day, and stood, forage-cap in hand, at attention while his superior read it over. Some conversation ensued between them, which my ignorance of the language prevented me from following; but I understood the phrase with which Breschia brought it to a close.
“Send him here,” he said. “Send him at once.”
The non-commissioned officer saluted and retired, and Breschia turned laughingly on me.
“We have here an original who is always getting into trouble. A good fellow, and an honest servant, but so incorrigibly kind-hearted that he is always breaking our rules. I shall have to be serious with him in spite of myself.”
He poured out a cup of black coffee as he spoke, and set it with a bottle of maraschino and an open box of cigars at my elbow. I had scarcely selected and lit ray cigar, when there came a tap at the door; and at the lieutenant's call to enter a man in uniform came in, and, having closed the door behind him, stood rigidly at attention. Breschia addressed him in a tone of anger, which sounded real enough, and the man stood like a statue to receive his reproof. There was nothing in the least degree remarkable about the fellow, who was just a mere simple, common soldier. He was attired in a sort of fatigue costume, and looked and smelled as if he had just been sent away from stable duty. His short cropped hair was of a fiery auburn, and his rough features, with a prodigious mustache and the most ponderous over-beetling eyebrows I had ever seen, gave him a look rather of ferocity than of good-nature. But when in answer to the lieutenant's rating he began to excuse himself, it was evident even to an ear so untrained and ignorant as mine that he spoke in a language which was not his own. He spoke haltingly and stammeringly; and at last, despairing of making himself understood, he made a little motion of his hands without moving them from his sides, and so stood as if to receive sentence. Again Breschia spoke to him, and again the man responded. The lieutenant broke into a fit of laughter, and the man stood there immovable, with his little fingers at the seams of his canvas trousers, and his rugged visage frowning straight before him.
“Go!” said the lieutenant, speaking, to my surprise, in his own halting English. “You are too much a silly fellow. Go; and do it not again.... Eh? Will you?”
“Well, sir,” the man answered, speaking, to my astonishment, in good native-sounding English, “I'm sorry to displease, and I try to do my duty--” “Hold your tongue,” cried Breschia, and the man obeyed at once. “Behold a man,” cried the lieutenant, turning upon me and speaking in his customary French, “who has been in the English army, and who is as incapable of an idea of discipline as if he were a popular prima donna.”
“Oh,” said I, turning round on the man and addressing him in English, “you have been in the army at home, I hear?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered, saluting me as he had done the lieutenant on his entrance. “Two-and-twenty years, sir.”
“You don't mind my talking to the fellow?” I asked the lieutenant, reverting to French again.
“Pas du tout,” said the lieutenant. “Vous le trouverez bien bête, je vous promis.”
“How long have you been in the Austrian service?”
“Not in the service at all, sir. General's groom, sir.”
“You're in fatigue dress?”
“Yes, sir. Old custom, sir. Like the feel of it, sir.”
“Been here long?”
“Ten years, sir.”
“Why, how's this? You don't look a day over forty.”
“Forty-two, sir. Joined the band at home as a boy. Sixteenth Lancers, sir.”
“What's your name?”
“Hinge, sir. Robert Hinge, sir. Son of Bob Hinge, sir. Tattenham Fancy. Champion of the light-weights years back, sir.”
“Oh! What have you been getting into trouble about?”
“Beg your pardon, sir. Mustn't talk about that, sir. Discipline, sir. Can see as you're an officer. That ought to be enough, sir.”
“Quite enough. Drink my health, _if_ there's anything fit to drink it in. You don't object, Breschia?”
“Not at all,” the lieutenant answered. “You have done with him? Very good. Go. And let me hear of you no more, or I shall report you. To your general. Do you hear?”
The man saluted and went out.
“He is so good, and so stupid--that individual there,” said Breschia, gladly plunging back into a more familiar language than English, though I could see he was proud of having acquitted himself so well in that tongue. “He is so stupid and so good, but I do nothing but laugh at him. But Rodetzsky is a martinet, and if he were here just now the man would be in trouble.”
“What has he been doing?” I asked.
“He has been smuggling tobacco to the prisoners,” Breschia answered, and all of a sudden I found my heart beating like a hammer. Was this the man, I wondered, who had shown compassion to Miss Ros-sano's hapless father? And was he therefore the man of all others whom I needed to lay hands on? If that were so it seemed nothing less than a providence that the man should be English, for my ignorance of all the patois dialects of the country, and even of its main language, made the speech of the Austrian soldiers a sealed book to me.
Did it ever happen to you that you have met a person whom you have never heard of and never thought of before--a person who was destined to affect your fate in some way--and that from the first moment of your encounter you seemed fated to renew acquaintance with him? It has happened more than once to me, and it happened so in this case. That very afternoon, when I returned from a lonely tramp upon the hills, I found the man Hinge in the kitchen of the inn. He bore a note from Breschia to Brunow, and was awaiting the return of that gentleman, who was once again away in pursuit of the _soi-disant_ baroness, but had promised to be back in time for dinner. When I entered the kitchen to demand a draught of milk, the man rose up and saluted me, and explained his errand. In the course of my ramble I had had hardly anything but this man in mind, and I had been planning to make use of him. When I met him all my plans seemed to go to pieces. I shall have to confess before I have done with it that I am the poorest plotter in the world. Give me something downright to do, and I will try to do it; but in dodges and evasions and pretences I have little skill indeed. I took the note from the man's hand and promised that Brunow should receive it. Then I drank the milk which the landlady's daughter had already set before me, and stood there tongue-tied and bewildered, not knowing how to begin. The man himself relieved me.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, taking his glass in his left hand, and saluting again with the right. “Your health, sir.”
“That's poor tack,” I said, nodding towards the glass. He had made a grimace over the wine.
“Well, so it is, sir,” he replied; “but it's better than nothing, and it's about all we poor folks can afford, sir.”
“Did you ever taste Scotch whiskey?” I asked him. He smiled a slow smile as if he remembered something pleasing.
“Why, yes, sir, I have, sir, and I won't deceive you.”
“Come to my room,” I said, “and I'll give you as good a glass as you ever tasted in your life.”
He set down his glass of sour wine on the table with an emphatic quickness, and his soldierly tread sounded behind me in the uncarpeted passage and up the bare deal steps. When he came to my room I bade him sit down, but he remained standing, and I had to give the invitation as an order before he would obey it. Then he sat like a figure carved in wood, with his shoulders back, his head well up, a hand on either knee, and a face as expressionless as the back of his head. I got my flask out of my knapsack, and with it a little collapsible cup of silver, found the water-bottle, and set everything before him.
“Help yourself!” He took a thimbleful. “Help yourself, man!” He took another thimbleful. I seized the flask from his hand and poured him enough for a good tumbler. “Now, there's the water; help yourself to that.”
He obeyed, and tasted the mixture with a solemn satisfaction.
“My friend, Lieutenant Breschia, tells me,” I said then, for by this time I had made up my mind how to begin with him, “that you are constantly breaking the rules of the fortress. He tells me that you have been giving the prisoners tobacco.”
“That's a fact, sir,” he admitted.
“Give them some more,” I said, “first chance you get.” I laid a gold coin on the table before him, and sat down in front of him. “I'd give some of the poor beggars something better than tobacco if I had my way.”
“And so would I, sir,” he answered. “And the Lord knows it. It needn't all go in tobacco, I suppose, sir?” He had taken up the coin and was holding it in his thumb and finger by this time. “Any kind o' little comfort 'l do as well, sir?”
“Any kind of little comfort, as you say,” I answered.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, pocketing the coin. “You're an Englishman and you're a gentleman, sir, and I'm very much obliged to you.”
I made no answer, for I wanted to see if my man would talk. I thought he looked as if he would like to ease his mind.
“You haven't been over the fortress, have you, sir?” I shook my head. “Miserable kind of an 'ole it is, sir, for a man to live in. I think I should go stark, starin', ravin' mad if I was to live there long, sir.”
“So bad as that?” I asked.
“You may well say that, sir,” he rejoined. “I've got a nice, easy, comfortable place along with the general, and I don't want to lose it. So long as we're in Vienna or anywhere else but here, I'm satisfied. But here! Why, good Lord, sir, it's simply sickening.”
I supposed it was pretty dull.
“Oh, it's dull enough, sir, but it ain't that. It's what you may call such a miserable hole, sir. There's nothing like it in old England, thank God, sir!”
“Have they many prisoners here?” I asked.
“Prisoners, sir? There's a regular rookery of 'em. The place swarms with 'em. I should think there's a matter o' five hundred, as near as I can guess.”
I ejaculated “Nonsense!”
“Don't you believe it's nonsense, sir,” he answered. “They're as thick on the ground as rats in an old rick, sir. P'litical prisoners most of 'em is, sir; Eyetalians, mainly. Of course one doesn't value that kind o' rubbish much. They're foreigners, sir, every man Jack of 'em. But then, sir, these damned Austrians ain't no better, and they treat their prisoners like they was so much dirt beneath 'em.”
“You look like an honest fellow,” I said, “but you're not very discreet. Suppose I repeated what you have told me to the general?”
“Why, sir,” he answered, with a twinkle in his eye, “I don't suppose you'll do that, sir; but if you did, sir, the general's got a good groom, sir, and he knows it. He's a judge of a horse, sir, and he knows when a horse is in condition. And, besides that, he knows my opinion about these here Austrians, sir.”
No, I thought to myself. Robert Hinge sounds very plausible, looks very honest, and is undeniably an Englishman. But supposing Robert Hinge to have been put purposely in my way this morning as a very good-natured and very stupid fellow, and supposing Robert Hinge to have been sent over to me on purpose to draw me out? Quite possible, quite likely, indeed--quite in the Austrian manner, as all the world knew well.
“Don't get yourself into more mischief, anyway,” I said, rising from my seat. He took the hint, finished his glass standing, and left me with a military salute. I sat for a full hour smoking and thinking, occupied mainly in wondering whether I had thrown a chance away. There was nothing to be got by wasting time, and I worried myself into a state of feverish nervousness by thinking that this man Hinge was probably a true and genuine fellow, and that I had missed my chance with him. It was the clattering of a horse's hoof in the back yard of the inn that awoke me from my reverie, and looking out I saw Brunow in the act of dismounting. He waved his hand to me, and surrendering his horse to a hostler, entered the house. I heard Hinge address him in English, and then he came tearing upstairs. The note Breschia had sent to him lay upon the table, and when he had read it he shouted from the stair-head, “Certainly. My compliments to the lieutenant, and we will come with pleasure.”
“Here's Breschia suddenly left almost alone,” he explained when he re-entered the room. “He writes apologizing for troubling us with his poor hospitality so often, but will I go over and take you with me? He declares it will be a charity, and in the great hereafter will be remembered in our favor.”
I was willing enough to go; and the hour being already near, we made some slight change in our attire and strolled across to the fortress. Breschia met us gayly and entertained us well, but nothing of note happened at the dinner. We sat late over our wine, and it was pitch dark when at last we rose to go. Breschia at first insisted on accompanying us, but, to tell the plain truth about the matter, he had taken more than was altogether good for him, and was not to be trusted to return alone. We compromised for a man with a lantern, and on that shook hands and took our leave. A man in uniform met us at the gate of the grim place, and was about to set out with us when Hinge appeared, and, without a word, took the lantern from his hand. As we made our way along the dark and stony road, with the little circle of light dancing and waving in front of us, Hinge stumbled against me twice or thrice. At first it crossed me that he had been making free with the gift of that afternoon, and that he had spent a portion of it for his own benefit, rather than that of the prisoners, in whom he professed to take so great an interest; but at the third or fourth lurch he gave it dawned upon me that with his left hand he was groping for my right. Brunow was just a step in front of us, and I held my hand out openly. The man slipped into it a twisted scrap of paper, which I transferred carefully to my waistcoat pocket.
“Here's the bridge, gentlemen,” said Hinge, “and that's the inn right before you, where the lights are.”
“All right,” I answered. “We can find the way now quite easily. Good-night!”
“Good-night, gentlemen,” he answered, and so turned away, while Brunow and I footed it home in silence.
We occupied the same room, and I did not care to read whatever message I might have received in his presence. He had proved so lukewarm in the enterprise on which we had both embarked, and had now so apparently forgotten all about it in dancing attendance on the Baroness Bonnar, that I should have made no scruple of leaving him out of my councils altogether. When he had half undressed I made some pretence of wanting something from below, and read my missive in the kitchen. It was late, and the room was empty.
I was not surprised to find I knew the handwriting, and that it was the same that Brunow had shown me in his rooms on the night on which I had first seen Miss Rossano.
This is what I read: “The wretched prisoner, the Conte di Rossano, who has languished for years in this fortress, asks, for the love of Heaven, that the Englishman for whose hands this is meant will send a line to the Contessa di Rossano, daughter of General Sir Arthur Rollinson, to assure her that her husband still lives. If she should still live, and have remarried, for pity find some means to let the writer know it.”
I went to bed saying nothing of this, but held sleepless by it all the night. With the idea which had come to me that afternoon of the possibility of Hinge being set upon me to act as a spy and to discover my intent so strong upon me that I could not shake it off, I tossed and tumbled in a very sea of doubt and trouble. I was more than half persuaded all along that this fancy was a mere chimera, and yet it took such force in my mind. It was past two o'clock when the moon rose. I got up noiselessly, filled and lit my pipe, and sat staring at the great solemn bulk of the fortress, as it stood for the time being almost white in the moonlight against the monstrous shadow of the bills. My mind was in a miserable whirl, and I knew not what to make of anything. This wretched state lasted until broad dawn, and I was still troubled by it when I walked into the keen morning air, towel in hand, for my customary swim. I undressed slowly by the river-side and stood thinking, until I was so nipped by the keen breath of the wind which blew clear down from the mountain-tops that I plunged into the stream for refuge from it. I remember as distinctly as if it had happened a minute ago, that at the very second when I dived an impulse came into my mind. I thought as I struck the water, “I'll trust that fellow!” I dived far, and swam under water until I was forced to rise for air. “I'll trust that fellow!” I thought again; and as I passed my hand across my forehead to squeeze the water from my hair, I saw “that fellow” on the very top of a little rise of land which lay between me and the fortress, and hid it entirely from my sight.
I swam back to the place from which I had originally dived, towelled myself hastily, dressed, and set out at a round pace towards the bridge. I reached it when he was within a hundred yards, and with a signal to him to follow, sauntered on towards the pine wood.
A backward glance assured me that he had seen my signal and was coming.
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{
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5
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“You gave me that last night,” I said, holding the scrap of paper before me. “You knew what was in it?”
“I didn't know, sir; I guessed. Poor gentleman's wife, sir? I thought so, sir.”
“Robert Hinge, you're an Englishman, and you've served your queen.”
“And king as well, sir. King William was on the throne when I joined, sir.”
“How long have you known this unhappy gentleman, this Count Rossano, who is imprisoned here?”
“Eight years and over.”
The man stood bolt upright before me until I gave him the word to stand at ease. I questioned him closely, and with a growing belief in him. This was the substance of what I heard from him: He had been in General Rodetzsky's service for a year or thereabouts when he first came to visit the fortress. The stables in which the general's horses were bestowed were in themselves beautifully tidy, but outside, immediately beside the door, was a great heap of manure and rotten straw, the accumulation of years, which was an eyesore to the new groom, who took immediate measures for removing it. He was at work at it a whole day and then left it. Returning a week later to his task, he thrust the prongs of his pitchfork through a pane of glass which lay hidden by the rubbish heap, and heard not only the crash and fall of the glass itself, but a startled cry. A peasant was in charge of the cart which was carrying away the refuse heap, and Robert Hinge took no apparent notice of this cry. He knew that the fortress was a prison. He had heard queer stories about the treatment the Austrians gave their prisoners. His interest was awakened, and his fancy began to be excited. When he had filled the cart, and the peasant had gone away, Hinge cleared from the wall the remainder of the heap, and found that he had laid bare a grated window almost on a level with the ground. The glass was so thickly incrusted with filth as to be as opaque as the wall by which it was surrounded, but at the broken pane a face appeared. The man in telling me the story was honestly moved. He could not describe the condition of the man he saw without imprecations on his jailer and the whole country that held them. He told me that the prisoner's hair grew to his waist, and was of a dreadful unwholesome gray; that his beard and mustache were matted, his eyes were sunken, and his face was unwashed and of the color of stale unbaked bread. The man spoke with difficulty, but had a fair knowledge of English, though he seemed unused to it. He had inhabited that hole in the earth for years. How many years he did not know until Hinge, in answer to his questions, told him the date of the year and the day of the month. The conversation was interrupted by the coming of an officer, and Hinge covered up the window before anything was seen. Afterwards he broke a few more panes and heaped clean straw against the wall to hide the window, but in such a fashion as to admit air and light. Many hundreds of times he had sat outside his stable door within arm's-length of the prisoner, and had listened to him while he talked. They had a preconcerted signal at which the prisoner instantly ceased to speak. Food and water were thrust in upon the unhappy man at regular intervals, but he was never visited, and lived a horrible, lonely death in life there, which made the flesh creep to hear of. The stench of the chamber Hinge described as something horrible and sickening, and he thought it a marvel that the man had lived so long.
The wretched man had never been allowed a minute's exercise outside his cell, and Brunow's pretence of having seen him was, of course, an invention. That did not surprise me, but I hated Brunow for it. The man's shallow and worthless spirit could go hovering about a tragedy like this with his butterfly irresponsible lies. The thought made me angry.
“Hinge,” I said, when the groom had told me all he had to say, “I am going to trust you with a secret. I think you are the man to keep it. I am going to ask you to help me in a difficult and dangerous bit of work. I think you are the man for the job. If we succeed, I am going to pension you handsomely for life.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hinge.
“Walk quietly with me and listen. I am going to have a try to set that man free. You hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I am going to ask you to help me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you do it?”
“If I can, sir.”
“Very good. Now when can we talk this matter over and get it ship-shape, and see what is to be done?”
“My time's my own, sir,” Hinge answered; “and being mine, sir, it's yours.”
I turned into the deeper recesses of the wood, and Hinge followed me. I had resolved to trust him, and I have never been a believer in half-confidences. I told him the errand which had brought me there. I told him of the countess's early death, and I told him of my meeting with her daughter and of the promise I had made to her. I set before him the fact that, if the venture succeeded and he gave me his aid in it, he would find wealthy friends and protectors. I told him that I was not myself a _rich_ man, but I showed him Miss Rossano's letter and the draft I had for a thousand pounds.
“Better send that money out of the country, sir,” he said, quietly. “They're queer beggars, these Austrians, and they wouldn't be above collaring the lot if we got clear of the country with our man afore you'd got the coin out o' the bank.”
“And now, how to set about the work, Hinge?”
“You give your orders, sir, and leave 'em to me.”
“Tell me what you can. Now, how about the guards? Is the prisoner's cell watched on all sides?”
“There's a man on stable sentry at night-time. In the day-time nobody's on watch on my side.”
I had provided myself with a flexible-jointed saw and a small bottle of oil, and they were packed in my knapsack now. I asked Hinge if he would pass these to the prisoner, and he declared that he could do it easily and without the slightest danger of discovery.
He caught eagerly at the idea, and assured me that two or three of the iron bars which guarded the window were quite rotten at the bottom, and could be sawn through in an hour. The day-time would be safest, and he would undertake to be near, to cover any sound which might be made, and give warning of any danger.
“Gettin' out o' the cell is as easy as pie, sir,” said Hinge. “That's all right. But gettin him out o' fortress--that's another pair o' shoes altogether!”
I thought hard for perhaps ten minutes, and then I fancied I saw my way. Half a dozen questions cleared it. The general was away in Vienna. The time of his return was uncertain. There were half a dozen horses under Hinge's charge. It would surprise nobody if a message came from the general ordering Hinge to meet him at any hour with two led horses. If he knew when that hour would come he could have the prisoner ready in uniform, and they could ride out together. But to do this we should need a written order from the general, which would have to pass the officer on duty. That order once being passed and sent on to him, Hinge would be answerable for the rest.
This threw a dreadful difficulty in the way, but the groom was ready with a partial help. He had received a similar order which had been countermanded, and therefore never surrendered, as it would have been if he had passed the gates with it. He thought he knew its whereabouts, and he would look for it.
In effect, he found it, and found means to send it on to me. It was scrawled in pencil from a posting place on the road to Vienna, distant from Itzia four-and-twenty miles English, or thereabouts. I pored over this document in my own room, and made many heart-breaking attempts to imitate it. They were absolute failures, one and all. I had no faculty in that direction, and my own hand stared at me from the written page the more plainly and uncompromisingly for every effort I made to disguise it. Apart from the utter vileness of the imitation, I did not even clearly understand the words employed, and for aught I knew might be giving an order which, if put into execution, would be useless for my purpose.
I was compelled, unwillingly, to appeal to Brunow. He made light of the business, and in less than an hour he brought me an imitation which looked completely deceptive. He had been able, he told me, to trace the greater part of the order on the window-pane from the original I had given him to imitate; for the rest, to my surprise and gratitude, Brunow volunteered. He took advantage of our next meeting with Breschia to tell him that he was off on a three or four days' sketching expedition, leaving me behind. He commended me to the lieutenant's friendly hospitality with all his usual gayety of manner, and on the following morning he rode away. The arrangement made between us was that he should return at about ten o'clock on the following night with news of the general's approach. The general's horses should appear to have come to grief somehow, anyway (he guaranteed to find a plausible story), and Brunow was to pretend to have ridden on with a message ordering remounts. Then Hinge was to meet us at a given point, we being on foot, and we should all make for the frontier with speed.
So long as I live I shall never forget that day or the day that followed it. Hinge was advised of everything, and no doubt was doing all that needed to be done, but the suspense was scarcely bearable. To saunter about and look at those impenetrable walls, and to wonder what was going on behind them--to invent a thousand accidents, any one of which might wreck our plans for good and all, and to suffer in the contemplation of each of these inventions of my own as much as I could have suffered if it had been true, to read knowledge or suspicion in every innocent glance that fell upon me, to fear and suspect everybody and everything, and to keep a constant guard upon myself lest I should seem for an instant to be anxious and preoccupied with all this weight upon me--all this was an agony. I am not afraid to confess all this, for I have shown more than once that I am not deficient in courage of my own kind. But here I was a very coward, hateful and contemptible to myself.
The long day passed, and the long night, and then the real day of waiting came. The thing that weighed upon me most of all was that while I knew that every minute of rest and tranquillity I could snatch might be of moment to me, rest and tranquillity were absolutely impossible. For two whole nights I had not closed my eyes in sleep, and my brain seemed on fire. My nerves were going, too, under this intolerable strain, and I feared that if a crisis should arise I should lack coolness, and plunge into some avoidable disaster.
But the day wore itself out at last, and at ten o'clock at night I was wandering along the road by which Brunow must come, and listening with my soul in my ears for the first distant noise of hoof-beats. The sun had gone down in a bank of threatening cloud, and before the moon rose the last look I had taken at the hills which hemmed us in on every side had shown them seemingly hidden by driving mists, which travelled at an astonishing pace, betokening a wild wind up there, while the valley lay in a hot stillness. The light of the moon was in the sky long before she rose above the mountains, and I could see that the wild work up there was growing wilder every minute. The wind was descending, too, from its lofty altitude, and I could hear it now roaring and now muttering in the gullies like a discontented giant.
In the course of that waiting I was often mistaken in the sound of distant hoofs. I was tricked at least a thousand times. Now it was the wind in the trees, now it was a gurgle in the river, now it was a murmur of life in the village, now it was the movement of a goat, a cow, or a horse upon the hill-side. But at last I caught the real sound, and knew it at once from all the noises which had till then deceived my fancy. The rider came along at a good round pace, and in a while I heard Brunow singing--a signal to me, no doubt. I called aloud “Hello! that you, Brunow?” and he answered with a whoop, expressive of high spirits. There was light enough to see me as he passed without drawing rein.
“I've a message from the governor to the officer in charge,” he shouted. “Meet you at the inn by-and-by.” There was no reason why we should have met at all, but the sense of precaution which touched me in his words allayed my anxiety a little. If by any very improbable chance anybody within hearing had understood him, the pretence justified itself. It could do no harm, and it was worth while to look natural. I betook myself at once to the point we had agreed upon for a meeting-place, and waited there in a renewed suspense, to which all the wretchedness of waiting I had hitherto known seemed as nothing. Suddenly the wind took me with a great gust, which almost carried me off my feet; a clap of thunder directly overhead seemed actually simultaneous with a piercing glare of lightning, and the rain came down in torrents. After the flash of lightning everything looked so impenetrably black and formless that I might as well have stared about me with my eyes shut, but a second flash showed me the gate of the fortress quivering in the light, and so distinct and near that I might have believed it no more than a stone's throw off, though I knew it to be a full mile away. In the sudden howling of the wind and the pelting of the rain I could hear nothing, but I kept my aching eyes fixed in the direction of the fortress, and over and over again I saw it leap out of darkness distinct and seeming near, but quivering as if it were built of air and shaken by a wind. The river, which flowed quite near me, began to take a roaring and ominous tone, and I grew anxious lest the ford we meant to attempt three or four miles below should have become impassable by the time we reached it. To have passed through the village would have betrayed the fact that we were going in an opposite direction to the one proposed, and might have excited suspicion and immediate inquiry and pursuit. While the river growled in a more and more menacing tone beside me, I began to wish that our arrangements could be recast. We might easily have dared the village, trusting to a half-hour's start and the chapter of accidents, while now the swollen ford might delay us for whole hours. The plans could not be changed, however, and there was nothing to be done but wait.
I was wet to the skin, and dazed by the noises of the storm, and weary with want of sleep, but every sense of fatigue vanished when I saw, by the glare of the lightning between me and the fortress, the recognizable figures of Brunow and Hinge on horseback. There was a third horseman with them, and a led horse, and for a fraction of a second I could see them all wildly prancing and leaping together, as if the beasts were maddened by the storm, as no doubt they were. It seemed an hour--I have known a day seem to go by more quickly many a time--when another flash showed them nearer, like a dark group of statuary, the horses quivering at the glare, and the heads of the riders bent against the wind and rain. I ran forward, not daring to call, and found them again in the lightning and lost them again in the dark half a dozen times. When at last we met I hailed them in a guarded tone, though it was a marvel to me that nobody was abroad at such an hour. Brunow replied boisterously, and I mounted in the dark, being half doubled as I did so by a kick from one of the plunging horses. I was fortunately too near for the full effect of the blow, but the hoof took me at the hipbone, and for the moment paralyzed me. I had much difficulty in getting astride my own beast, but I judged it best to say nothing of what had happened. All sense of power had gone from my right leg, and I could get no grip upon the saddle; but as the first sensation of numbness passed away I became persuaded that no great hurt was done, though I was in much pain and found a difficulty in keeping my seat.
The fear of the horses made this no easy task, for at every flash they reared and broke away, and the ground over which we rode was difficult, and would have been uncanny even in the daylight, so that we made slow progress. I had travelled the way repeatedly, for this was the route by which I had decided to travel if ever we were so lucky as to be allowed the experiment, and I never had more reason to be thankful for my own care and foresight.
These mountain storms are very often things of an hour, and so to-night it proved. By the time we had reached the ford the thunder and lightning were far away, the wind had sunk to an occasional sob and moan, the rain had cleared, and the moon rode high in a mass of skurrying cloud, which at times obscured her light and at times left her almost clear. But the river was terribly swollen, and it was evident that we should not be able to cross it for a considerable time.
So far not a word had been exchanged among us; but now that we were compelled to pause, I turned to our companion and looked at him, in such dim and changing light as there was, with a profound interest. He sat with a tired stoop in his saddle, and his head was bent upon his breast. He wore a peaked forage-cap and a large, rough, military cloak, which effectually disguised his figure.
“This is the Conte di Rossano?” I asked, leaning towards him.
“The same, sir,” he answered, in a voice which I shall never forget. “I know from my faithful friend here, to whom I am indebted, but I cannot distinguish my friends as yet.”
“This is the Honorable George Brunow, sir,” I said, “and I am Captain Fyffe, at your service.”
“Mr. Brunow,” he responded, raising his forage-cap and bowing, “Captain Fyffe, my dear friend Corporal Hinge, I am without words to thank you. God knows I thank you in my heart!”
His voice failed him altogether then, and we all sat silent for a time.
“What are we waiting for?” asked Brunow. “Every minute is precious. Let us push along.”
“You see the ford,” I answered. “It may be passable in an hour, now that the storm has ceased; but at present--” “Great God!” cried Brunow, with a savage impatience in his tone. “Why didn't we cross by the bridge? We could have made four times the distance by the road!”
“It was a mistake as things have turned out,” I answered; “but we both thought it best when we talked things over the night before last.”
“I never thought it best!” cried Brunow, fuming. “Hark! What the devil's that?”
There was no need to call our attention to the sound, for everybody heard it. There was no need to ask what it was, for it was impossible to mistake it. It was the sound of a cannon from the fortress. We stared at each other in the uncertain light.
“That's my fault, gentlemen,” said Hinge, calmly. “They've found the stable sentry, and he's told 'em what has happened. He came up, sir,” addressing himself to me, “just as the count was climbing out o' window. I knocked him on the 'ead of course, but they go the rounds at midnight, and they've come across him. Not a doubt about it.”
Just as he finished speaking another gun sounded. We were between three and four miles away, but in the stillness of the night it seemed much nearer.
“And with a good road under us we might by this time have been within half a dozen miles of the frontier and safe.”
“Safe?” said Hinge. “Quite so, sir. Safe to run into the ground at the toll-gate, sir. We're a lot better off where we are. I know Captain Fyffe's plan, sir, and it's the best whatever happens.”
“Gentlemen,” said the count, “let us dismount and rest our horses. We may have need of all that they can do for us.”
A third gun banged from the distant battery. The river was raging before us. The clouds parted, and the full moon shone down with a light almost as clear as that of day.
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{
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Pursuit was afoot, and what should be done to avoid it no man among us could guess. The foaming river ran in such volume that only madness would have attempted to ford it. Flight was cut off, and of course resistance was hopeless. The first place our pursuers would make for would be the bridge and the ford, since they were the only roads by which we could hope to reach the frontier. To take to the mountains would have been a purposeless folly. We could look for nothing but starvation and ultimate surrender there.
Happily for myself I was in my element again. We were forced into inaction once more, but it was a form of inaction which differed from that weary waiting which had so torn my nerves for the past eight-and-forty hours.
“I suppose, gentlemen,” I said, “that, in any case, surrender is out of the question.”
“I decline,” cried Brunow, “to be the victim of your folly. If you had taken the road we should have been out of danger long ago. You choose to be caught like a rat in a trap, and I wash my hands of the whole business. I shall walk back to the inn.”
He was already in the act of dismounting, when Hinge spoke.
“I wonder,” he said, very dryly, “what them Austrians will think of the gentleman as brought the letter from the general?”
Brunow settled back in his saddle with a muffled exclamation, and spoke no more.
“Gentlemen,” said the count, “if there is any possible way of escape without me I beseech you to take it.”
Nobody answered. We sat for a long time in silence, and the river roared by. We strained our ears to listen, but not a sound reached us from the direction of the fortress. The night, late so stormy, was quite light and quiet. An intense silence reigned on the hills, and not a sound was heard but the noise of the tumbling, hurrying water near at hand.
When I had gone to look at the ford I had taken keen note of everything, for to have mistaken the spot might have been fatal to us, even if no pursuit had been started. I had noticed a rock which stood in mid-stream about a score of yards above the ford, rising some four feet above the level of the stream. When we had reached the water-side this rock had been invisible, and I could only guess how deeply it was covered. I noticed on a sudden that its forehead was bare once more, and I stared at it with my heart in my eyes until I was persuaded that it was growing above water every instant. The river ran in this spot in a perfect torrent, with an incline, I should say, of nearly three feet in a hundred. The stream bore off the rainfall of a whole net-work of hills, but at the pace at which it ran it could not take long before it would become passable at some risk. I said nothing as yet, but the conversation I had held with Lieutenant Breschia on the morning of our first meeting filled my mind with hope. The torrent seemed no less noisy, but measuring it by the projecting arms of the rock I could see that it was falling with a greater rapidity than I had dared to hope for. Within ten minutes it had dropped six iuches, but for the next ten minutes it hung stationary; and sometimes to my fancy seemed to gain. The thousand mountain rills and watercourses which helped to fill its bed, and which had themselves been latest to receive the rainfall, were charging down with new forces; and thinking of this I almost surrendered myself to despair. But I had not even yet given way, when the volume of water fell with an astonishing suddenness, and in little more than five minutes by my watch I could see a foot of the rock clear.
At ordinary times the ford was about a foot deep, and even then the rapid incline of the ground sent the shallow water swirling along at such a pace that it made a horse's foothold on the sliding pebbles precarious. Now it was four feet deep at least, and to cross at present was as impossible as it had been half an hour before. But as I watched it became more and more evident that the stream had received its last impetus, and the very element of speed which made the passage dangerous would diminish danger every moment.
The river seemed to grow noisier as it fell, chafing against obstacles which it had hitherto overflowed, and listen as one might we could make out nothing but its sullen roar. I told Hinge what I had noticed about the stream, and with a few words to my companions I rode until the noise of rushing water was no longer oppressive to the ear, and listened with all my might. I heard a thousand distant-seeming noises, which had in them no reality--shoutings and stealthy whispers, the thud and jingle of cantering troops of horse, lonely far-away footfalls, all manner of phantom sounds. Suddenly, in the midst of these illusions, my heart stood still for a mere half-beat at a noise which I knew in an instant to be real. A troop of cavalry at a gallop crossed the wooden bridge which spanned the river a couple of miles away. It sounded like a peal of thunder, but I knew what it meant well enough. The pursuers would be ahead of us, and every pass and pathway would be threaded, and guards would be everywhere.
Half an hour passed away without bringing anything further, and I rode back to the ford. All three of my companions were watching it with an absorbed and gloomy interest, and the rock by which I marked the fall of the stream stood a clear three feet above its surface.
“Let us try it now,” I counselled, and was heading my horse at the water, when Hinge interposed.
“What's the depth, sir?” he called out to me.
“About two feet,” I answered.
“Then I shall wade,” said Hinge. “It 'll give the hoss more confidence, and I'll back leather against iron for a foothold.”
I saw the force of his advice, and, dismounting, I stepped cautiously down into the stream. At first the rush of water carried me off my legs, and if it had not been that I had firm hold of the reins, and that my horse still stood on dry land, my share in the enterprise would in all probability have been then and there over. As it was I succeeded in regaining a foothold; but though the stream reached only to mid-thigh, it swept along with such violence that I had all my work cut out to stand against it. My horse, encouraged by hand and voice, came tremblingly after me, and the others followed. The stiffest bit of all the crossing lay at the point where the rush of water diverted by the rock caught us, and here we were at the deepest. This spot once passed we were under partial shelter, and from the centre of the stream the bank rose so rapidly that in half a dozen yards we were scarcely knee deep. We gained the farther bank and remounted, and then I called a council of war.
“I have already gone over the ground we shall have to travel,” I began, “and we ought to be within three hours of safety. But the alarm has been given, and we shall find every pass guarded. What is to be done?”
“Sir,” said the count, “I have no claim upon you or your companions. I thank you from my heart for your brave attempt in my behalf. But the fates are against us. For my own part, I counsel that we resign the struggle, and that you do your best to cross the frontier singly. I shall not be taken alive.”
“There is no going back,” I answered. “It is no safer now to abandon the enterprise than to go on with it. We are not likely to be intercepted until we reach the pass. My advice is that we ride as far as we dare, and then take to the hills on foot, avoiding the passes. We shall have a scramble for it, but life and liberty are worth that.”
“Neither life nor liberty should have been in danger,” said Brunow, sullenly. “It is your fault if they are, and if I lose either through your folly, on your head be it.”
I reminded him that we had laid our plans together, and that they had had his full approval; but he was not in a mood to listen to reason, and I got no answer from him but a grunt of anger and disdain. The council of war had not served any very great purpose so far, and I turned away with a touch of desperation in my mind. I rode on, and the others followed. We skirted a wood which stretched from the river towards the nearest range of hills, and our horses' footfall on the turf, sodden as it was by the recent raiu, made hardly a sound. We kept well in shadow, and had advanced perhaps a couple of miles, when I made out the highway at a little distance looking like a broad ribbon in the moonlight. Suddenly a bugle-call shrilled on the air, and while we shrank closer into the shadow of the trees a tumult of hoof-beats filled the quiet night, and a whole squadron of cavalry came in sight, riding full tilt in the direction of the fortress. We could feel the reverberation caused by the galloping mass beneath us, and in a minute they were out of sight and almost out of hearing.
“That's a curious thing, sir,” said Hinge, speaking almost at my ear.
“What is a curious thing?” I asked.
“That is,” he replied, stretching out a hand in the direction of the vanished body of horsemen. “They've left nobody to guard the roads.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, eagerly.
“I counted 'em as they went by,” he answered. “There's every mounted man they've got in the place. They're all there down to the farriers. I'm a born fool, I am,” he added, in an accent of the greatest delight. “They've never been after us at all, sir. It's a bit of midnight drill. That's what it is. I'll bet the road's as clear in front of us as ever it was.”
After the fright we had had the news seemed too good to be true, but a brief consultation decided us to act on Hinge's hope, and to push boldly forward. We made for the highway, and following it at a road trot found ourselves breasting the first upward slope of the pass within a quarter of an hour. By-and-by the hills began to enfold us round, but the moon rode high and the road was clear and firm. For the first mile or so we kept an anxious outlook, but as the minutes went on our fears of interruption grew fainter, and our hopes rose to fever heat. We were all well mounted, our horses were fresh and full of vigor, and to all but one of us the ride itself was the merest bagatelle. But I noticed, riding side by side with the count, that he was reeling in the saddle like a drunken man, and at one moment he gave such a lurch towards me that if I had not been at hand to support him he would have fallen to the ground.
“I am weak,” he said, as I checked his horse and mine. “It is no wonder. I am surprised that I have come as far.”
He spoke with a gasping voice as if in pain, and with one hand clasped to his side.
“No hurry,” I answered. “Let us go at an easier pace.”
He soon recovered, and professed himself ready to push on again; but half a mile at the old pace brought him once more to a standstill. I gave him a little brandy from a flask with which I had been careful to supply myself, and once more he managed to ride on. From this time forward, however, he had to be watched with the utmost carefulness, and his feebleness so delayed us that we were a good three hours later in Teaching the end of the pass than we had expected. I had ascertained that the downs, which showed the frontier line, might be skirted by taking a lonely and difficult road to the right within a mile or so of our exit from Austrian territory. I had ascertained also that a sentry was on duty on this pathway night and day, his main duty being to prevent the passage of contraband goods. That we should have to deal with this fellow was an absolute certainty, and had been from the first, but it was easier to reckon with one man than with the dozen posted at the barrier.
We had come at so easy a pace that our horses showed no signs of distress or travel, and by this time the daylight was shining broadly. The dawn was two hours old, and there was on the face of things suspicion in our being on the road at such a time. Already the land of promise lay in sight, when the last obstacle to be encountered on our journey presented itself. The sentry sat as if dozing, with his rifle between his knees, but at the noise of our approach he sprang to his feet and hailed us sharply. We had passed a quick bend in the road, and had come upon him rather suddenly. We had already decided to ride up to him without reply, but he cocked his piece and called on us to halt. I waved my hand to him and we all rode on quickly. He seemed puzzled and irresolute for a moment, but he ended by clapping the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, and sang out “Halt!” once more.
“Good! good! my friend,” I answered. “We are Englishmen, and travellers. There is no need to fire.”
My foreign accent was proof enough that we were strangers, and he hesitated again. I was almost abreast of him by this time, and wishing him a good-day I was in some hope of being able to push by without further parley, but he set himself in the way with his rifle across his breast.
“What brings you travelling this way?” I made him out to ask. “You have no right to pass by here. Take the lower road,” he added, with a gesture which helped me to his meaning.
“We have passports,” I told him, producing my own paper and holding it towards him. “This is my friend, and this is my servant. The guide they gave us at Itzia has fallen ill.”
“You cannot pass this way,” he answered, gruffly, disregarding the passport. “You must go round by the lower road.”
“My good fellow,” Brunow broke in, airily, “you mustn't talk nonsense. We are going by, and there is an end of it. This gentlemen and I are personal friends of General Rodetzsky's. We have been on a visit to my friend Lieutenant Breschia at the fortress at Itzia, and we are now on our way to Pollia. That is the town below there I believe.”
I more than half made him out at the time, and he confirmed my guesses later on. Suave and easy as he was, he made no impression on the sentry, who stood there immovable, bent on duty.
“We don't want to be troublesome,” said Brunow, “and it's too absurd to talk of one man stopping four. Look at our papers if you like, and there's a little something for yourself.” He threw the man a gold coin. The fellow stooped to pick it up, and we rode on like men whose business was accomplished. He ran after us, shouting and gesticulating for a minute or two, but we paid no heed to him, and in a while he left us to ourselves.
In five minutes we were breathing free air in a free land.
Half an hour later we rode into the main street of the town and hammered at the gate of a hotel. When we had awakened everybody else in the neighborhood our summons was answered by a sleepy hostler, who admitted us to the yard and took in our horses. A sleepy waiter appeared and led us to a room, the shutters of which were still closed against the daylight. We asked for coffee; and the man having thrown open the window to admit the light and air, and having gone away, I turned to our rescued prisoner, who had fallen all in a heap on a couch in one corner of the room.
Until now I had but little opportunity of observing him, for he had ridden all the way wrapped up in his great common soldier's cloak with its big collar turned up until it obscured every feature but his eyes and the mere point of a beak-like nose. Now, as he lay in an attitude of exhaustion, I went to assist him to a position of more comfort. I took the hook-and-eye which fastened the collar of the cloak and drew them apart; and such a countenance revealed itself as I never saw before, and pray Heaven I may never see again. A huge sweeping beard descended to the waist, and its whiteness was obscured by filth incredible. The long locks that mingled with it and overlay it on either side were roped together and tangled beyond hope of severance. The face was horribly pinched and meagre, and was of the color or want of color which you see in plants which have grown wholly in the dark. I will not describe further what I saw--what loathsome evidences of foul neglect. I have no heart for it, and I feel as if it insulted the memory of a gentleman to recall the evidences of the long and miserable martyrdom he had endured. They had kept him stabled like a wild beast--those accursed Austrians--for twenty years, and during all that time the martyred wretch had never known the use of the simplest appliance of cleanliness. In all the years I have lived I have never met a man who was more completely a gentleman by nature--more fastidious in his nicety of dress and person. I had to learn that afterwards; but for the moment, whether rage or pity or repulsion most filled my heart at this first clear sight of him, I could not have told. I think he saw nothing but the horror in my face, for he blushed crimson, and started to his feet with his coarse cloak clutched about his neck, and stared at me half appealing and all ashamed.
If I had had one of his jailers to account with at that moment it would have gone ill with him, I fancy. I have lived to see the death of that horrible tyranny, and I know now, that outside the borders of the one blackguard power which still darkens in the East, no such a life as this man had led is possible for any political prisoner in Europe; but even now, when I am an old man, and ought to be able to take things quietly, my blood surges in my veins when I think of that one minute of my life. I was no milksop, and I had led a soldier's life, and had seen plenty of things that were not pretty to look at. But I was horrified, and I can't even write about it now without the old wrath and disgust and shame.
I got the poor gentleman a room to himself, and when, in the course of a few hours, the town was alive, I wandered out into the streets and bought a pair of scissors. Any old campaigner may be a tolerable barber, and I was a pretty good one. I trimmed the late prisoner into decency, and with my own hands carried up a pail of water, a piece of soap, and towels. I had taken good stock of him, and carried his bodily measurements in my mind when I went out again to an outfitter's, taking Hinge with me to translate. I bought underclothing, and a suit of clothes; and I took back a shoemaker with me, and when the-count had dressed sent the man to him to try on a number of pairs of boots he had brought with him in a basket.
When the Conte di Rossano, clothed like himself for the first time in twenty years, came into the room in which breakfast was set for us, I hardly recognized him, though I myself had taken part in bringing about the transformation which had been worked in him. He came in alert and erect, and for a mere second looked every inch a gentleman. But the broad light to which he had been so long a stranger made him blink, and sent his hand to his eyes. He came across to the table with a faltering and uncertain tread, and with a curious crouch in his walk. It struck me for the first time then, but I saw it so often afterwards that I almost ceased to notice it at all. For an instant pride and liberty had buoyed him so that he could present a passing semblance of what he had been, but the change fell upon him as quick as lightning, and no flash of lightning could have blighted him more dreadfully. He approached the table shuffling, with bent head, and purblind eyes peering this way and that. I placed a chair for him, but he seemed uncertain what to do with it until I helped him to seat himself. The filthy floor of that unspeakable dungeon had been his only seat and couch for a score of years.
He sat crouching at the table as if hugging himself together for warmth, though the day was balmy, and the sun was bright and hot outside. When he drank he took his cup in both hands as an ape would have done, and as he tasted the fragrant coffee he made an animal noise of satisfaction. He caught himself at this, and a swift tide of crimson passed over his face; but a minute later the old felon habit was upon him again, and I saw him tearing his bread with his teeth in quite the jail-bird way. Looking at his thin hands, I saw that he had clipped his nails; but the skin had overgrown them, and had split into ragged fragments. I caught him peering at them in a distasteful way, and when he detected me in the act of watching him he hid them beneath the table.
We were still at table, when there came a sudden bang at the door, and without waiting for any reply in walked a gentleman with every sign of the public functionary about him, cocked hat, official stick, and all. He bowed, closed the door, stepped forward, and bowed again.
“The gentlemen speak French?” he asked.
I answered in the affirmative, and our visitor announced himself as the _huissier_ of the magistrates court. It was his duty to demand our presence before the bench. On what ground, I asked. The functionary responded fluently and with an evident sense of his own importance that we had passed the frontier without showing our papers, and by an unrecognized route; that one of us was an escaped political prisoner; that the others were charged with assisting in his flight; that a lieutenant of lancers had been sent to demand our return, and that we were at once to appear at court. To all of which I answered flatly that we would not go; whereupon the functionary retired, leaving, as we discovered afterwards, a guard outside the house. A little later came a gentleman in official robes, who turned out to be the chief-magistrate. He explained his errand with some pomp.
“Sir,” I said, when he had come to a peremptory end, “I am an Englishman and a soldier. Here are my credentials. This gentleman, the Honorable George Brunow, is a son of Lord Balmeyle, and is also an Englishman. This gentleman is the Conte di Rossano.”
And here, to my surprise, the Conte di Rossano arose from his seat at the table, and, turning towards the official, with one hand on the back of his chair, said, in a clear, loud voice: “Also an English subject! I was naturalized before my marriage,” he added in a changed tone, and so sank into his seat again.
“You hear, sir,” I said, respectfully. “I am about to order a carriage, and in half an hour shall leave the town with these gentlemen and my servant on my way to England. Any official person molesting us will be held officially responsible for his conduct.”
The mayor wavered.
“I have the honor, sir, to wish you a good-day.”
I opened the door, and in walked Lieutenant Breschia.
“These are my birds,” he said, laughingly. “I haven't the pleasure of being acquainted with this gentleman,” signalizing the count, “but I dare say we shall learn to know each other.”
“My dear Breschia,” cried Brunow, “we are sorry to have defrauded you; but you know us, and you know it will not pay to meddle with us. We are on neutral soil. We are all three British subjects. You have no authority here, and you know it.”
“Eh, bien!” said the lieutenant, laughing still. “Civis Romanus sum. His excellency, the mayor, will bear out my statement that I came and saw and strove to conquer. You do not find it in your competence, sir, to arrest these gentlemen, who are all subjects of the British crown?”
“It is not my affair,” said the mayor.
“And I am not authorized to employ force,” said the lieutenant. “We are nonplussed, Monsieur le Maire.”
“It would so appear,” said the puzzled functionary; and being bowed from the room by the lieutenant, he retired.
“Civis Romanus sum,” repeated Breschia, when we were left alone. “It is a great saying. And so you positively won't come back?”
“Positively we will not,” said Brunow.
“Then, positively,” returned the lieutenant, “I will go back and report my failure.”
“Permit that I condole,” said Brunow.
“Permit that I felicitate,” answered Breschia; and so with a burlesque friendly bow on either side they parted.
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It was a strange and memorable journey home with the escaped prisoner, and men have been rarely more embarrassed than Brunow and myself. We had to deal with the strangest creature, a thing alternately beast and gentleman, sensitive in every fibre of his nature, and so animalized by that awful life of imprisonment that he was a constant dread and terror to himself. To see him slinking in his corner of the railway carriage or any room at our one or two halting-places, dull, blear-eyed, with his fingers tapping at his teeth, was pitiable and dreadful, but not so pitiable and dreadful as to see him grow suddenly conscious of his state and aspect and awake to some shamefaced effort to arouse himself and reassert the manhood that had once been in him.
The most astonishing thing in him was the way in which, through all these silent and horrible years, he had possessed his faculty of speech. He had been an exceptional linguist in his youth, and he was an exceptional linguist still. He was most companionable and least embarrassed with us when he was in the dark, and it was in the dark on the deck of the steam-packet which carried us to Dover that he gave me the secret of his retention of this faculty.
He sat with one arm thrown over the vessel's rail and with his face half averted.
“Do you know, sir,” I said, after trying in a dozen ways to draw him out, and after having failed in all of them--“do you know, sir, that I am quite sure of one thing about you?”
“What is that?” he asked.
“During all those years of cruel solitude you never abandoned the hope of freedom.”
“How should you know that?” he demanded, with a strange and vivid manner. I had never known him so roused and interested, even when I bad told him of the existence of his daughter.
“You have carefully preserved your power over language,” I answered. “You would never have cared to do that if you had not had some hope of future freedom.”
“I had no hope of freedom,” he returned. “But everything else had gone that held me from the beasts, and that I determined should not go. I am no poet, but I have occupied myself in making verses. I have done into verse every incident of my life, and the character and aspect of every person I have known. I have translated every line into every language of which I am master. I have hundreds of thousands of lines in my head--how can I tell how many? They are poor enough, I dare say, but I could talk every working day for weeks and not exhaust them. They are in French, Italian, German, English, Spanish, in Greek and Latin, in the patois of a half-dozen districts of my native country. How many hundreds of thousands of hours have had no other occupation. But for that I had gone mad, my friend.”
He rose and began to pace the deck, and I watched him. The night was calm, and the sea was like a mill-pond. Sometimes he forgot himself, and prowled with bent shoulders and clasped hands in a limited space, walking to and fro, with a sharp check at the end of such brief promenade, as if an invisible world had put a limit to the space he moved in; that was the jail-bird's gait, and the prison limits were about him again to his unconscious memory. Then, at other times he would assert himself with an effort only too visible. He would lift his head, throw out his chest, and march the full length of the deck with an assurance of freedom and manhood. But the slouching gait was always back in a minute, and his unconscious fancy began to confine his footsteps once more. On a sudden he paused in his walk and stretched out his right hand.
“That light?” he said.
“Dover,” I answered. “We shall land in half an hour.”
We were fortunately alone, for I would not have had it happen in the presence of a stranger for a thousand pounds. I had scarcely spoken when he dropped his face into both his hands and broke into an hysteric fit of crying. His limbs failed him; and in the passion of his emotion he would certainly have fallen to the deck if I had not put an arm about him. His poor body was all crate and basket, ribs and spine; and the wretched man's skeleton figure shook in my arms as if each sob were an explosion. He laid his head on my shoulder at last, and I put my other arm round him and held him to my breast. I love my country, and I thank God for her daily that she is free, and has taught the world the lessons of freedom, for that is the great and just pride of all Englishmen; but I never blessed her in my heart as I did then.
“God bless the dear old land,” I said. “There is freedom there at least.”
I did not know that I had spoken until he answered me.
“There is freedom there,” he said, in his foreign voice, broken with sobs. “Thank God for freedom.”
The town lights were almost blotted out for me; but I hugged him and patted him with less shame than I should have felt if he had been an Englishman. He disengaged himself at last and shook me by the hand, and began his promenade again. Before we had exchanged another word we were slowing alongside the pier, and men were bustling along the deck and racing beside us on the land. Brunow came on deck, and Hinge got together our simple baggage.
We had but just landed when I saw two ladies, whom I recognized at once. Miss Rossano and Lady Rollinson were waiting to meet us. Miss Rossano came to me and took my hand in both hers.
“Thank you, Captain Fyffe,” she said. “My father is here?”
“You are my daughter?” said the count.
She bent and kissed him on the forehead gravely, and with perfect self-possession. An onlooker, who had known nothing of the story, would have guessed little from their meeting. They had a carriage in waiting, and Miss Rossano led the count towards it.
“You will join us at the Lord Warden?” she said. And at that minute Brunow approached her. She took his hand in both of her own, precisely as she had taken mine; but entered the carriage without a word to him. Now, I have said nothing lately of my feeling for Miss Rossano; but anybody who reads this record may be sure that what had happened since I had last seen her had not tended to put her out of my mind. I knew that I was going to be very happy, or very unhappy, about her. I knew that the power lay in her hands to make my life mainly cloud or mainly sunshine. That was quite settled in my own mind by this time, and my wife and I have laughed a thousand times and more about it. Yes; I knew scarcely anything about her, and yet I was prepared to fight in the assurance that she possessed every virtue and every grace of character which I have since proved in her. This is the folly of love; but it is at the same time that which makes it so beautiful. Most young men, and most young women, live to be disillusioned. But I fell in love with better fortune, if with no more discretion, than the average man displays, and after many years of trial and happiness I know my wife to be a better woman than I had power to guess all those years ago. And I know, as every husband of a good wife knows, that I was a much better man than I could ever have been without her influence.
All this leads me away from what I meant to say, which was simply that Miss Rossano's wordless reception of Brunow made me furiously jealous of him, and altogether dashed my happiness. She had spoken to me--_ergo_, she could speak. She had not spoken to him--_ergo_, the emotion of encountering him was too great for her. We had been six years married when I told her of this.
I saw her with both hands reached out to help her father into the carriage. I saw her beautiful face, so soft and serious and lofty in its look that I have no words to say how it touched me. The carriage drove away. Hinge shouldered our bit of luggage easily, and Brunow and I walked up to the hotel side by side. We were met in the hall by a waiter who asked us if we would go to Lady Rollinson's sitting-room in half an hour, and then Brunow and I went to a private room of our own, and drank each a pint of English ale, as every Englishman did on reaching the Lord Warden in those days. It was a libation to liberty, the health of welcome home which the loneliest traveller poured when he felt himself upon his native land again after an absence however temporary.
When we had got through this ceremony we sat glum and silent enough, and I have since thought it likely that Brunow was as much hurt at the difference in our greetings as I had been. For Miss Rossano had thanked me in words and had not spoken to him, and he was probably reading the thing the other way about. But he was much more at home within himself than I was, and at any time I don't think he was capable of any very deep feeling. Perhaps I do him less than justice, and we are all apt to think our sensations more striking and real than those of other people.
At the appointed time we went out into the corridor and walked to the room which bore the number the waiter had already given us. I tapped at the door, and Lady Rollinson admitted us. The count sat in a plush-covered arm-chair and his daughter leaned above him with a hand on either shoulder. The scene looked purely domestic, and if a stranger had seen it he would have discovered nothing unusual in it. At the moment at which I entered the count's hand strayed to his shoulder, and for a mere instant touched the hand which rested there. His daughter's hand closed upon it and held it, and she looked up with her beautiful face bright with feeling.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” said the count, and we obeyed him. “I have tried to thank you often, but I have never succeeded. I shall succeed less than ever now, but I thank you.”
Lady Rollinson sat in one corner of the room with some trifle of woman's work in her hand, pretending to be busy over it. She looked up at Miss Rossano once or twice, and it was plain to see that she had been crying. As for the girl herself, her eyes shone, her beautiful lips were apart, her color came and went, and it would have been evident to the dullest sight that she was deeply moved; but she showed no sign of having shed tears, and looked altogether brave and exultant. It was a beautiful thing to notice the caressing and protecting air with which she leaned above the count; and it was strange to read the likeness which existed between her bright young face and his worn lineaments.
We had paused more than once upon our journey, and he was in all respects trimmed and dressed as became a gentleman. As he sat there with his face alight and his whole manner animated, there was no trace of the jail-bird period about him. I remembered the man I had first seen at Pollia--the man with the colorless face, the sunken eyes, the matted hair and beard--and was puzzled to identify him with the polished gentleman who sat before me. And yet, in spite of the disguise, the jail-bird was back again in as little time as it would take to snap your thumb and finger. The cloud lowered upon him in a second, and he sat biting his nails with an air altogether lost and furtive. I think his daughter first read the change in him from my own look, for after one swift glance at me she bent over him and gazed into his face. He seemed unconscious of her presence or of ours.
“You were saying, dear--” she said, and there halted.
He looked up with an undecided half-return to his former brightness.
“I was saying--” he began, and then stopped, as if searching in his own mind for the clew to what had passed a moment earlier.
“You were thanking Captain Fyffe and Mr. Brunow.”
“Gentlemen,” said the count, with a complete momentary repossession of himself, “I know not how to thank you. You have seen enough already to know that the life I have led this many year's has left its mark upon me. I fail in words--sometimes, to tell you the whole truth, I fail in feelings. There are moments when I have not even the heart to be glad that I am free again. But you will understand, and you will forgive because you understand. If words of gratitude do not come easily to my tongue, it is not because you have not deserved them.”
“The man who really deserves the thanks of all of us,” I answered, “is Corporal Hinge. Without him we should have been nonplussed; with him everything fell out in the simplest way. We have encountered no difficulty, and run no dangers.”
“But,” said Brunow, in his lightest and airiest fashion, as if he disclaimed credit in the very act of claiming it, “I need hardly tell Miss Rossano that in fulfilling the commission we accepted at her hands we should have been delighted to encounter either. As it was we had the most extraordinary good-fortune in the world. The whole thing has been a chapter of happy accidents.”
“It pleases you to say so,” said the count; “but my daughter and I enjoy no less the privilege of gratitude.”
The position was embarrassing; for the more I thought about it the more I saw how little we had done, and how plain and simple a piece of duty it had been to do that little.
“Your father is tired, Miss Rossano,” I said, taking the shortest way out of the difficulty. “You and he, besides, will have a thousand things to say to each other with which nobody else will have a right to interfere.” I rose and held out my hand, and she came from behind her father's chair to meet me with an exquisite frankness.
“You shall have my thanks, Captain Fyffe,” she said, “all my life long, whether you disclaim them or not. And you too, Mr. Brunow. I suppose we all go to town together?”
The count had risen from his seat while she spoke, and stood before us with one hand stretched out to Brunow and the other to myself. “I am poor in words,” he said, with a shaking voice; “I am poor in everything. But believe me, gentlemen, I thank you, and shall thank you always. For whatever of life is left to me I am yours.”
Two or three tears rolled over from his bright, sunken eyes, ran down the deep-channelled line in his cheeks, which misery and solitude had bitten there, and rested in his white mustache. He gripped our hands hard, and, turning away from us, sat down again.
We said good-night in hushed voices, as if we were speaking in a church or a sick-chamber, and came away.
Even at this, distance of time I am ashamed of my own sensations; but when I got away to my own room my whole feeling was one of disappointment and dissatisfaction. I had meant to do everything by myself--to have had no rival, to have brought back Miss Rossano's father unaided, and to have taken whatever gratitude was due for that service entirely to myself. As it turned out, I had done nothing. The original discovery of the count's whereabouts was entirely due to Brunow. Without him the expedition would have been fruitless, and but for the pure accident of Hinge's presence we should both have been helpless.
My bedroom window overlooked the sea, and I sat at it for three or four hours, smoking and staring across the motionless waste of water before the truth about myself occurred to me. When it came it brought as little comfort as the truth is apt to bring. I saw that my whole purpose had been to do something that should make me look noble and exceptional in Miss Rossano's eyes, and that the recovery of a living man from that infernal dungeon meant almost nothing in contrast with my own selfish wishes.
It took a long time to swallow that pill, and it took a longer time yet to digest it; but it had a wholesome effect upon me, and I was all the better for it in the end.
When I got down into the public breakfast-room I found Brunow there in the act of making inquiry of a waiter as to the hour of the arrival of the London papers. I attached no particular importance to the fact at the moment, but a few minutes later I passed him in the corridor and found him repeating the same inquiry to another waiter; and a little later, when we were seated at table together, he propounded the same question to a third.
“You're in a hurry for news,” I said.
“I want to see what they've made of it,” he answered, smilingly. “The local man down here seems to be a smartish sort of fellow, and I was careful to see that he had the facts all right before he went away.”
“What local man? What facts?” I asked.
“My dear fellow,” said Brunow, smiling and waving his table-napkin in the air, “we are people of distinction, and under the circumstances our comings and goings are naturally chronicled. We shall have a reception in town, I promise you.”
I understood by then what he had been doing, and I was almost as much ashamed as if I had done it myself. He had taken the trouble to blaze the whole affair in the newspapers; and when, an hour later, the train which brought the London journals down to Dover arrived at the station, I was there with him to meet it. He was so obviously satisfied with his own action that it would have been useless to say a word to him. And yet I fairly boiled over when I saw the travesty of the whole adventure with which he had duped the _Times_. One would have supposed from the story with which he had primed the representative of that journal that we had run every conceivable kind of risk, and had, by our own courage and cunning, surmounted every obstacle the wit of man could compass. All this was absurd enough and annoying enough, but the introduction of Miss Rossano's name into the narrative looked altogether wanton and unwarranted, and, I dare say, now that I can recall the whole thing in cool blood, that I was more disturbed and angry than I need have been. Brunow took what I had to say with imperturbable good-humor, and was altogether satisfied with himself.
“We shall have a crowd to meet us,” he prophesied. “There are thousands of Italian refugees in London at this minute, and they will all be there to cheer the illustrious Fyffe, and the no less illustrious Brunow. All the exiled noblemen who live in Hatton Garden, and make London stand and deliver at the barrel-organ's mouth, all the dukes and counts who shave and teach dancing, and sell penny ices, and keep cheap restaurants, will be there to welcome their delivered compatriot. The railway terminus will be odorous with garlic and the humanity of Italy. Fyffe, my dear fellow, we shall have a glorious day.”
When I told him, as I did, that he was a thick-skinned idiot and braggart, he looked amazed. But I left him to his surprise, and took what precautions I could against the newspaper falling into the hands of Miss Rossano. We all travelled to London together at her request, and I had some difficulty in persuading Brunow that I was in earnest in insisting that she should see nothing of the nonsense he had caused to be written and printed about our expedition.
“My dear fellow,” he declared, “the man was eager to get the news, and would have printed three times as much if I had felt inclined to give it him. You can't expect,” he went on, “to do a thing of this kind at this time of day and not have it talked about. And of course it's best to let these press fellows come to the fountain-head and get the plain, simple, unadulterated truth.”
This, in face of the story he had told, was so monstrous, and, when I came to think about it, so astonishingly like him, that I forbore to say another word, except to warn him that the newspapers should not reach Miss Rossano with my good-will.
He gave in at last, though he grumbled a great deal, and was evidently as far from understanding me as I was from comprehending him.
We made a dull party on the whole, for nobody could help feeling that the count and his daughter were absolute strangers to each other, or that our presence was a little awkward at the time. It was ridiculous to try to talk commonplace. It felt brutal and unsympathetic to sit in silence, and almost equally brutal and unsympathetic to say a word of what was nearest to all our hearts. But if we had been embarrassed on the journey, all our memory of it vanished for the moment in the deeper embarrassment of the reception which Brunow's babble had prepared for us. His prophecy of what would happen was fulfilled, and more than fulfilled. The platform of the terminus swarmed with people of every nationality known to London, and everybody there present seemed crazy with excitement. How, or by whom, our little party was singled out was beyond my power to guess. But we were recognized in a moment, and in another moment were swept asunder from each other amid such a polyglot babel of voices as I had never heard before. People were laughing and crying and cheering and fighting all at once, and I had a glimpse of the count in the arms of a score of mustachioed, sallow-featured men who were weeping and shouting, and hugging and kissing him and each other like a pack of lunatics inspired with the instinct of welcome. I was faring little better at the hands of the populace, though I cooled the enthusiasm of more than one patriot, I am afraid, as I fought my way out of the railway station. I escaped to a hackney carriage and found my way to my own lodgings, accompanied by Hinge, who was as delighted at the scene as I was angry at it. Before I had driven away from the terminus I had seen from no great distance that the count, Miss Rossano, and Lady Rollinson had safely reached her ladyship's carriage, which had been telegraphed for before our leaving Dover. I had interfered to prevent the taking out of the horses, and had seen the carriage start for home amid a roar of “vivas” and “bravas” and “hurrahs.” The last I had seen of Brunow was in the middle of a crowd, with whom he was exchanging polyglot congratulations in the height of good spirits and enjoyment.
Hinge had not been three minutes in my room before he had made himself master of the place. He installed himself without engagement or invitation as my body-servant, and I found him in my bedroom hunting the wardrobe and chest of drawers for a change of clothes.
“You'll find me 'andier when I gets to know my way about, sir,” he said. “I was the colonel's batman for three years, and I can valley a gentleman as well here as there, sir. You'll feel more like London when you've got into these, sir.”
He pointed to the garments laid out symmetrically on the bed, and, motioning to me to be seated, knelt down before me and began to unlace my boots.
I was still in the act of dressing when a knock sounded at the outer door; Hinge marched off to answer it, returning with a large visiting-card edged with a line of mourning. He presented this to me, and I read the words “Count Ruffiano,” printed very badly in blunt script type.
I told Hinge to ask the visitor his business, and I learned that he came direct from Miss Rossano with a message. I excused myself for a minute, and hastily finished dressing.
The Count Ruffiano, a head and shoulders taller than myself, stood in the middle of the room and bowed with surprising courtliness when I entered. He was six feet seven or eight in stature, had an eagle beak, a huge gray mustache, and a head of stiff, upstanding hair, close cropped and mottled in jet black and snow white. His cheeks and chin had been strange to the razor for a week; his linen was limp and discolored; and his clothes, which were of foreign cut, had once been shapely and fashionable, but were now seedy beyond belief. The hat he held in one hand was a monument of shabbiness; but his habitual stoop had the air of having been acquired by a constant courtly condescension. He was as lean as his own walking-cane, and his air of condescending gentility put a strange emphasis on his shabby clothes, and made them ten times as noticeable as they would have been without it. And yet at the very first sight of him I was persuaded that he was a gentleman.
“You are Captain Fyffe?” he said, with a marked Italian accent.
“That is my name,” I responded.
“You are possessed of mine,” he answered. “Permit me that I shake hands. I read in your English _Times_ this morning of the arrival of the Conte di Rossano. I have seen my friend, and, so far as I know, I am the only survivor of the enterprise in which he lost his liberty. I lose no moment in coming here to pay my homage to the disinterested valor which gave my compatriot his freedom, I am, sir,” he bowed and extended his hands with a smiling humility--“I am, sir, this many years a pensioner on the bounty of Miss Rossano. She knows me as a comrade of the father whom she has always until now thought of as lost to her. She has pencilled for me a line or two on the back of my card.”
I held the card still, and, turning it over, I read: “This brave and loyal gentleman is my father's one surviving friend. He wishes to know you. V. R.” I looked up after reading this brief but expressive message, and the face of the gaunt spectre who stood before me was flushed, and his head was in the air, as if he had read it with me, and was proud of the testimony it conveyed on his behalf.
I asked him to be seated, and gave him to understand that anybody carrying such a recommendation was welcome. He held out a long, lean hand, and when I gave him my own stooped over it and kissed it.
“Sir,” he said, “you have done more than restore an individual to liberty. You have reanimated a cause: you have inspired a people. There are a thousand of us at this hour in London to whom the name of the Conte di Rossano is a legend and an inspiration. Twenty years ago he was our leader--a spirit of the subtlest and most indomitable. A soul without fear, and of resource astonishingly varied. 'You have restored him to us, and before a month is over his name will ring through Italy. We are preparing for such a rising as we have never made. For years our names have been written on the sands of failure. We shall write them to-morrow on the lasting granite of success.”
He talked with any amount of fire and vigor, and in a voice pitched so high that he might have been haranguing a multitude. He gesticulated with the shabby old hat and the slim walking-stick as if he had been wielding sword and buckler in an opera, and his narrow chest swelled under the tight buttons of his ragged old frock-coat. Every English word he spoke was supplemented by an Italian vowel, so that his language, though it was perfectly fluent and correct, sounded quite foreign. His extraordinary height and leanness made him grotesque to look at, but neither the comicality of his figure nor his theatrical voice and gesture could kill the fact that he was in earnest, and I felt an immediate liking for him.
“I am not here,” he said, “on a visit of impertinence. I have an actual object. I am charged by the Conte di Rossano to tell you that a meeting has been already arranged to welcome him to London. It will be held to-night, and he beseeches you through me to be present at it.”
I demurred at first, for I had no mind to be publicly embraced by the tatterdemalion patriots I had seen in the crowd that morning. But when my visitor incidentally mentioned the fact that Miss Rossano would accompany her father, I gave him my promise at once.
The ragged nobleman promised to call and conduct me to the place of meeting, and so went his way with a torrent of thanks and a rage of gesticulation.
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{
"id": "22205"
}
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8
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I found Miss Rossano and her father in the vestry of a Wesleyan Methodist chapel. The room was crammed almost to suffocation, and there was such a crowd outside that it took us ten minutes' hard fighting to reach the neighboring school-room in which the public meeting was to be held. The way was cleared at last, and a score or so of us filed on to the platform, which was erected at one end of the crowded hall. My visitor of that afternoon immediately preceded Miss Rossano and the count, and I followed on their heels.
As we reached the platform the gaunt phantom swung round upon us, and in a voice like the call of a trumpet announced “The Exile.”
I had already had a taste of the patriotic enthusiasm of the crowd that morning, but I had never seen anything which did more than approach the delirious excitement which set in at this announcement.
There was not a seat in the body of the room, and the men who occupied the floor were packed like herrings in a barrel. One could see nothing but a great wave of swarthy, eager faces, and could hear nothing but a tumult like the roaring of the sea. There was hardly a man in the whole assemblage who was not weeping with excitement; and though I have rather a knack of keeping a cool head under such circumstances, I have to own that I was deeply moved.
It seemed impossible to stop the cheering. Ruffiano, who had constituted himself chairman, gesticulated like a windmill, and roared till he was hoarse in the vain effort to secure silence. It took a full quarter of an hour to wear out this prodigious welcome, and even then it broke out anew in scattered bursts and spurts, as if the people could never have enough of it.
All this while Miss Rossano stood at her father's side, holding one of his hands in both her own. The tears were streaming down her face without cessation, but I had never seen her look so radiant--not even on the night when I first saw her, and the happy brightness of her beauty made me her life-long servant.
The count, poor man, was shaken altogether out of self-control. He hid his eyes with his frail hand, and his tears ran like rain through his wasted fingers. I have tried many and many a time to realize in my own mind what he must have felt, but I have always known the futility of the effort.
Twenty years of solitary imprisonment, a martyrdom of physical degradation quite unspeakable, and sickening even to think of for a moment, darkness, torture, utter despair, and then freedom and human tears, and this astounding roar of triumph, sympathy, and welcome! It was no wonder the scene unmanned him. The wonder was that he had not sunk into an unquestioning animalism--a mere brute state of idiocy--years ago.
There was speech-making enough and to spare when the cheering at last was over. The count himself spoke a few broken words of thanks, which elicited another roar of sympathy and welcome scarcely inferior in volume to the first and only less prolonged. To tell the truth, I felt the whole business rather trying, and I got heartily sick of the name of the courageous, illustrious, magnanimous, and altogether noble and magnificent Signor Fyfa. I knew perfectly well, though I could not understand a tenth part of what was said, that Brunow's shameless exaggerations were accepted here as solid truth, and that I was being lauded for a number of splendid qualities which, to say the least, I had had no chance of displaying. The illustrious, courageous, magnanimous, and altogether noble Brunow came in for his share of the praise, and bowed solemnly, with his hand upon his heart, whenever the crowd cheered him. He made a speech in Italian, and achieved an overwhelming success.
Finally, the whole business was over. We had got back to the vestry, and all but a few of the chieftains had gone away, when I first became aware of the presence of the Baroness Bonnar. A light hand touched my sleeve, and a foreign voice spoke to me in English.
“This is a noble occasion. I have never been so moved in my life. I have cried until I am not fit to be seen.”
Turning and looking at the speaker, I failed for a mere instant to recognize her. I had seen her but twice before, and then only for a moment at a time, and under circumstances of no especial interest. She saw the doubt in my face, and reintroduced herself. She looked extremely pretty, and even fascinating, in a coquettish little bonnet of the fashion of that time.
When her face was in repose one could judge of her age, but when she smiled all her wrinkles--and there were a good many of them--melted into the smile, and her face looked almost girlishly young and innocent. She owned that look of youth and freshness in spite of the fact that she was rouged and powdered and painted as if she had been ready for the stage. It was pretty easy to see that she had not been quite as much affected by the “noble occasion” as she pretended to have been, for the slightest shower of tears would have ruined that admirable and artistic make-up.
“I pass for Austrian,” said the baroness; “but I am Hungarian all over, and I hate, I hate, I hate the Austrians! If I had my way I would kill them every one.”
She spoke with a pretty enough pretence of vindictiveness, but her manner was not very convincing.
Supposing I had been aware of this little person's purpose, what should I have done, I wonder? What should I have been justified in doing? I had rather not answer that question, even to myself. But if I had known for a certainty what was in her heart, and what lay in the future, there are not many things at which I should have hesitated to spoil her plans.
She did not find me very sympathetic or very ardent. I was tired, for one thing, and for another I can never take very kindly to humbug, even when a pretty woman offers it. The baroness turned from me to Brunow, beseeching him to introduce her to the acquaintance of that dear and charming Miss Rossano, who had so much her sympathy, and the spectacle of whose natural emotion had so much affected her. I am not very observant in such matters, but though Brunow disguised it pretty well, I am sure that I noticed some reluctance in his manner. He made the presentation, however, and the baroness flowed out in sympathy and congratulation.
“I am myself Hungarian,” I heard her say, “but I have lived in Austria half my life. There is no need to tell _you_ anything about that terrible government, but--mon Dieu! the things I have seen and known! I am a stranger, Mees Rossano, and the hour is sacred; but you will forgive this intrusion, will you not? because I could not help it.”
She spoke with so much vivacity and feeling that I felt a little sorry for my contemptuous thoughts of her. She had said her say, and she behaved with more reticence and more apparent delicacy than I should have been disposed to give her credit for. She said something to the count in a low and rapid voice, and he answered by the offer of his hand, and a mere broken murmur of response. I made out that she had asked to be honored by taking the hand of one ennobled by so much suffering, and the quiet and unobtrusive fashion in which she slipped from the room after offering this tribute raised her anew in my opinion. It would have been a just thing, had one known all, to have crushed that dangerous and wicked little viper exactly as if she had really been a snake, instead of a woman with a snake's nature.
She went her way, however, having begun her work of mischief under my eyes.
Another night or two of such emotion would have been fatal to our rescued prisoner; and, indeed, he gave us all a fright before we got him home that evening. All the enthusiasts had cleared away, and I was leading the poor gentleman towards a cab which had been already summoned and was now waiting in the street, when, without warning, he swooned away. I felt his arm slipping rapidly from mine, and caught him just in time to save him from a heavy fall. I carried him back to the vestry, and there we loosened his collar and laid him on the couch, and dashed water in his face, while Brunow ran for brandy. He recovered in a while, but was even then too weak to walk, so that I carried him in my arms to the street, and set him down in the cab. My wife has often told me, in talking over those old times, that she looked on me at that moment as a man possessed of Herculean strength; but, in truth, the poor fellow was so attenuated that his weight was scarcely greater than a child's.
I could hardly do less than call at Lady Rollinson's house next day to inquire after the sufferer's condition; and yet I went with great reluctance. I was so eager to be there, I was so willing to spend every hour in Miss Rossano's company, that I was afraid of being intrusive, and my very anxiety to be near her kept me away from her in this foolish fashion many a time.
The Baroness Bonnar was before me when I called, and I found her there in the daintiest and most becoming of visiting costumes, chatting away with excellent tact and unfailing vivacity.
She gave Miss Rossano time to welcome me, and then assailed me at once with laudation's of my devotion and courage, which I received, I know, with an extremely evil grace. I resemble my neighbors in liking to have credit for what I have done, but I know nothing more hateful than unmerited praise. I silenced her at last, and she turned upon Miss Rossano with a stage-whisper intended for my hearing: “I adore these brave men who are too modest to endure praise.”
“You are too oily for my personal taste, madame,” I said to myself, and my earlier dislike for her came back again.
The count, I learned, was better. Immediately on his arrival at Lady Rollinson's the family doctor had been sent for. Like a wise man, he had prescribed rest and complete freedom from all excitement. There were to be no more public meetings, and the sufferer was seriously warned against all stress of emotion.
“We have had great difficulty,” said Miss Rossano, “in bringing him to reason. The enthusiasm of last night's meeting has convinced him that a great uprising is near at hand, and that in a year or two at the outside Italy will have her freedom back again. He would die for that,” she said, with a flash of her beautiful eyes, and her face suddenly pale with feeling. “The house was overrun with Italians yesterday,” she added. “My father saw some of them, and they are all full of the news that Charles Albert is ready to march into Piedmont, and that the Pope is favorable to devolution. One never knows how much truth there is in these stories, but I have lived in an atmosphere of them all my life.” Then she laughed on a sudden, and, clapping her hands together, turned on me with a swift gesture like that of a pleased child. “You saw the Count Ruffiano yesterday?” she asked; and I, answering in the affirmative, she laughed again. “The poor dear old gentleman,” she said, “is my father's one surviving comrade, and ever since I have been able to understand he has talked to me about Italy and The Cause. He is in fiery earnest, and such a dreamer that he has been looking forward to every month of his life as the date of Italy's liberty. I have had a great deal of influence with the count”--she was serious again by this time--“and through him over the Italian revolutionists in London, and I have always counselled them not to strike until they were sure of their aim. An unsuccessful revolution is a crime. You think it strange that a girl should be thinking of these things.”
“Indeed, no,” I answered. “I should think it strange in your case if you had no such thoughts. And let me tell you, Miss Rossano, that I think your friend Count Rumano's dream is coming near at last. He may wake any fine morning to find it very near indeed.”
“You think so?” she cried, with a restrained vehemence. “You have heard news while you were abroad?”
“No news,” I answered; “but I can see the general trend of things. There is an awakening spirit of liberty on the Continent, and unless I am much mistaken, a map of Europe of this date will be a surprising thing to look at in half a dozen years.”
I should be a fool to pretend that I foresaw all the political changes which have taken place since then, but I should have been blind if I had not foreseen some of them. Liberty was in the air; there was an underlying strife and turmoil in the world's affairs which was not evident to everybody, though a soldier of fortune like myself, who made the cause of liberty his trade, was bound to be aware of it. The great politicians knew it all, no doubt; but they kept their knowledge to themselves, and waited, as we know now, with a bitter anxiety and fear for what events might bring. For the great politicians were, for the most part, then, as now, afraid of liberty, and looked on it as being very much of a curse rather than a blessing.
“You would fight for Italy,” she said, “if there were a real chance?”
“If there were anything approaching a chance,” I responded, “I would fight for Italy.”
If I had dared I would have told her what was really at the bottom of my thought: I would have fought gladly for Italy; but the fact that it was her cause, that she espoused it and hoped for it, that her father had been buried alive for it, made it dearer to me than any other in the world. I had almost forgotten that we were not alone when the Baroness Bonnar proclaimed her presence.
“Italy!” she cried; and as I turned at the sound of her voice I saw her bring the palms of her gloved hands together and turn her fine eyes to the ceiling as if the word inspired her--“Italy! oh, if I were a man I would fight for Italy! Ah, those hateful Austrians! And what a man is Cavour! and what a man Garibaldi! Oh, they will fight! They will win!”
“There is plenty of time yet. Liberty, my dear Miss Rossano, will restore your father to health, and he will not lose his share of the glory.” We English always excuse a foreigner who shows a tendency to bombast in conversation; and allowing for her partial knowledge of the language, and for the oratorical turn her people have, I saw nothing overstrained in the little woman's raptures. I had even a modified belief in their reality; and even to this day I cannot blame myself for having been deceived by her. She had an astonishing capacity in her own line, and though she had achieved no great success on the stage, she was the most perfect actress off it I have ever known.
She showed no disposition to prolong her visit, but withdrew after a stay of a quarter of an hour or so, with many expressions of good-will and ardent hope for the count's early recovery. If she might have the honor, she would call again upon Miss Rossano.
“Pardon me,” she said; “beside you I am an old woman, and I can take a liberty. I like you for your interest in poor Italy and for your father's sake, who has been a martyr in such a cause. You will let me see you sometimes. People who know me better than you do will tell you that I am a butterfly, and without a heart. But that is not true. I do not show my heart often, and never unless I mean it.”
She was gone without waiting for a response, and Miss Rossano, turning to me with a blush and a smile, asked me if I did not consider her visitor quite a charming little person. It would have been ungracious on no evidence at all to have stated my real mind, and I compromised by saying nothing. My silence on that topic went unobserved; and until I took my leave we talked about the count and the prospects of The Cause. It makes me smile now to remember how savagely in earnest I grew to be about that matter of Italian independence when once I had discovered that Miss Rossano was seriously interested in it. That, if I had only thought about it, was the way to her heart; but anxious as I was to secure her good opinion, I was guilty of no pretences. The mere fact that she desired it would have been enough to make me desire it also, even if I had had no wishes that way to begin with.
“Captain Fyffe,” said Miss Rossano, suddenly, in the midst of our enthusiastic talk upon this theme, “I am going to ask you a favor. I know very little of my father as yet. I have not spent twelve hours in his society, but it is easy to find out two things about it: he will be mad to join in any effort that The Cause may make, and--” She paused there, with a look of semi-embarrassment.
“And?” I interrogated.
“I think,” she continued, “that he is likely to be very much influenced by your opinion.”
“We have scarcely exchanged a word together on that topic,” I responded.
“Ah,” she returned, quickly, “you have influenced his judgment without that. He has formed opinions about you, and he has expressed them more than once. He thinks you are a man of unusually solid character, and I am sure you will be able to influence him greatly. You must remember, too, what a debt of gratitude he owes you. The more warmly you are disposed to The Cause yourself, the more necessary it seems to beg you not to allow him to rush into any new danger. Give us, at least, a little time in which to know each other before he leaves me again.”
I promised earnestly that I would never say a word to induce him to leave her side. I promised that if any undertaking should seem to lead him into useless danger, I would do my best to warn him from the enterprise. I promised further (but this was to myself, and I said no word about it) that in the event of any effort being made the count should be my comrade, and that I would do my loyal best for him.
That brought our conversation to an end, and I took leave of her, but not before she had assured me that I should always be a welcome visitor. I went away mighty proud and happy, and when I got home to my chambers who should I find awaiting me but the Count Ruffiano, buttoned to the throat to disguise the absence of the linen which had been so shabbily conspicuous yesterday. He was in a state of intense excitement, and when I entered was pacing up and down the room like one scarcely able to control himself.
“Pardon this second intrusion, my dear sir,” he began; “I will explain its purport in a moment.”
I induced him to be seated; but before he had got out half his statement he was on his feet again, striding about my little room in such a heat of excitement that, lean as he was, the perspiration fell in big drops from his thatched eyebrows and the tip of his Quixote nose.
“To begin with, sir,” he said, when I had persuaded him to be seated, “you are one of us? That you are a friend to humanity, I know, but a friend to Italy--yes?”
I was still hot from my talk with Miss Rossano, and I assured the count that I was very much a friend to Italy indeed.
“Then, sir,” he cried, “we have need of you! We have need of every counsel--of every hand.”
He was on his feet again, and had intrenched himself behind the arm-chair. He declaimed from that position as if it had been a rostrum, employing a wealth and variety of gesture which no English mimic could succeed in copying in a year.
News, it appeared, had arrived that morning from Paris which led to the belief that an uprising against Louis Philippe might shortly be looked for. The messenger who brought that news had within twenty-four hours encountered a messenger from Turin, who prophesied insurrection there; this messenger in turn had news from Vienna from another comrade, who was assured that Metternich was trembling in his shoes at the thought of Charles Albert's threatened advance on Piedmont.
“The wine,” cried my Italian Quixote, “is in ferment! We drink of it, and our hearts are turned to madness! We need more of your English sang-froid”--he called it “sanga-froida,” and puzzled me for a passing instant. “The hour is here,” he declared, “and the men are here! But, until now, we have ruined everything by too much precipitation, and against that we must now be on our guard!”
Of the volubility and energy with which he delivered himself of all this, and much more, I cannot convey even the slightest idea. I can give no notion of his fertility in unnecessary vowels, and I should be afraid to say how many syllables he made of the word precipitation, or how he would have spelled it in English if he had tried.
“It is for you, sir,” he thundered, stopping in his headlong walk to shake a long forefinger in my face--“it is for you to teach us to be calm!”
I asked him to take his first lesson there and then, and to begin it by being seated.
“Ah,” said he, “that is to be practical--that is to be English. To be practical and to be English is to be successful. You shall advise us--you shall lead us to victory!”
In his discovery of the excellence of my practical method he had forgotten all about it, and was pounding up and down the room at as great a rate as ever, when I took him by the shoulders and forced him into a chair.
“Let us talk business,” I said, severely; “if this means anything at all, it means action.”
“Action,” he responded, “decisive and immediate!”
“Action,” I retorted, “well matured and sane!”
“Ah! yes, yes,” cried Ruffiano; “again, dear sir, you correct me. That is why I am here. But do not think because I have no patience--do not think because I am an old--an old--” He searched in his mind for a simile, and burst out with “gas-balloon” with a laugh of childish amusement at his own impetuosity. “Do not you think because I am an old gas-balloon that there are not among us no wiser and cooler heads than mine! We are at a white-heat now, but there are men among us who can keep their wits even in a furnace like this. I, dear sir”--he would have been on his feet again but that I checked him--“I am of the inner council. We meet to-night, and, hot as I am, I fear my own heat and that of others. If you wish well to Italy, be one of us. And be sure, sir, that the rescuer of our one most dearest and most prized shall be received with honor.”
I promised; and he undertook to call upon me at nine o'clock that evening. And thus, within a day of my return to London, I found myself pledged to Italy; and a few hours later made one of a caucus of conspirators, poor and needy and inconsiderable enough to look at, but holding in their hands, after all, one or two of the strings which, being pulled at the ripe hour of time, changed the scene for more than one land in Europe.
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And now it seems to me as if I might go on writing to the end of what remains of my lifetime, and never come to a finish. But I have to take hold of myself, as it were, with resolution, and to refrain from speaking of a hundred thousand things which interest me in memory.
The story I am bidden to tell is of how and why I came to rob Miss Rossano of forty thousand pounds, and yet not to suffer one whit in her esteem or in my own. It is an easy thing to say to a man, “You took part in such and such an adventure; you know all about it; take your pen in your hand and write a history of it.” The trouble is in the selection; and I have found myself so gravely puzzled as to what I shall leave out that I see nothing for it but to set down formally before myself, for my own guidance, the names of the people who are most closely and intimately concerned in what I have to tell; and having done that, I must resolve to restrict my narrative to the history of their sayings and doings. Such a countless crowd of people surge up into memory that this is more difficult than any one would fancy. All my old comrades in deliberation, my friends in council, my companions in the war of later on are with me at times as I sit and think over the incidents of this story. The odd part of it is that a thousand things I had forgotten come back as clearly as if they had happened yesterday, and I should feel a greater pleasure in dwelling upon them than upon the main incidents to which I am bound to confine myself. Roaring nights by the camp-fire, when a chance-found skin of wine made the time glorious; jolly little touches of mirth and _camaraderie_ here and there; heats of battle, splendors of victory, miseries of retreat--all come back upon me, and the faces of many dead comrades people the air.
But to come to my resolution. There is Brunow, who was the fatal cause of it all; and the Baroness Bonnar, who made her cat's-paw of him; and Ruffiano, whom the two betrayed between them; and then there are left the count, and Miss Rossano, and the faithful Hinge. Then there is the ghost of poor Constance Pleyel, who came like a wraith out of the past and vanished again into the darkness; then there is myself for the centre of the story, whether I like it or not. Here are now my _dramatis persono_ before me. The stage of my mind is crowded with auxiliaries, but I dare scarcely glance at them.
And who was Constance Pleyel? In a sense she was the motive and main-spring of my life, for it was she who embarked me on that career of adventure which has made me what I am.
When I was a very young man indeed I fell in love with Constance Pleyel. I am not the first man whose life has been set awry by his love for an unworthy woman, nor shall I be the last. I would very willingly keep silent about that episode in my life, but the story has to be told. It shall be told with due reticence; for if I cannot respect poor Constance any more, I can at least respect the feelings which made her sacred in my eyes for a year and more in the days of my boyhood.
Months had gone by, and the spring of the year was near at hand. The count had come back to a condition of health and of mental strength which was no less than astonishing. I have never ceased to think it wonderful that a man who had been so long buried from the world, from all its interests, and from all knowledge of its affairs, should have been able so readily to take up the lost threads of life. The most remarkable thing about him, even if on the whole it were the least surprising, was the survival of the patriotic impulse in his mind. It seemed as if nothing could quench that, and as if all his suffering had served only to lend new fuel to that sacred flame. By this time he was deep in all our councils, the most active, and at once the wariest and most ardent of our leaders. I was pledged to the cause of Italy heart and soul, and was, I think, as thoroughly and % passionately devoted to her service as if the call of blood had sounded in me. I identified myself with the hopes of Miss Rossano and her father, and I was in all things their loyal servant and coadjutor.
I suppose I have made it clear by this time that I had never any very great esteem or affection for Bru-now. He was in the thick of affairs, and knew as much of our intentions and of our actual movements as any man among us. It is no credit to me that I was willing to suspect him, and that I distrusted him from the beginning. I never thought him likely to be guilty of deliberate treason, but I always feared 'his rash and boastful tongue, and I confess that I did something here and there to inspire my comrades with the sense of my own mistrust. I have not the slightest doubt that he knew of this. I certainly never took any pains to disguise it from him, and I dare say that in what followed he partly justified his own action in his own mind by my dislike of him and his own dislike of me.
Brunow was a queerish sort of study, and I honestly believe that half the harm he did sprang out of the only little bit of good I was ever able to discover in him. He would do almost anything to secure anybody's favorable opinion, and neither his judgment nor his conscience--if he had either one or the other--stood in the way of this amiable weakness. He was more amenable to flattery than a child, and was moved by it as easily to good as to evil. The misfortune was that those who would have cared to influence him in the right direction disdained to tickle his foible, while those who fooled him to his own ruin flattered him to the top of his bent.
I can't help thinking that for a long time the poor feather-head attached a considerable value to my opinion, and that he was anxious in his own way to conciliate my friendship. He knew what I thought about him, and yet he sought my acquaintance, and did what he could to propitiate me and to secure my good-will; but at last an open breach declared itself between us. It came about in this wise: I was sitting in my chambers one afternoon when the count called upon me. We had had a rather stormy discussion at our last meeting, and I had had to take sides against him. He was on fire for immediate action, and I had felt it my duty to plead for delay. We had parted rather hotly, and he made it his first business to apologize to me for something into which his enthusiasm had hurried him. This being over, we sat in silence for some time, and I saw at last that something was weighing on his mind.
“I was ungenerous and wrong last night,” he said at last, “and I feel it all the more because I am here to ask you now for a special favor.”
“My dear count,” I said, “we have the same hopes, and we disagree sometimes about the proper means of reaching them. I think there is no possibility of a quarrel between us. However much we disagree, we feel no rancor.”
“Rancor!” cried the count. “Good God! my dear Fyffe, how should there be rancor in my mind to you.”
He held out his hand, and I shook it heartily. The truest and easiest way of getting to like a man is to do him a service; that makes you wish him well forever afterwards. I should have honored and esteemed the Count Rossano if he had not been his daughter's father. As it was, I had an affection for him which it would not be easy for me to overstate.
“I have so few friends,” said the count, when our reconciliation was complete, “and I am so much in need of advice, that I venture to trouble you, my dear Fyffe, in a matter of great delicacy.”
I told him, I forget precisely in what terms, that I was entirely at his service; and after another hesitating pause he blurted out the truth.
“I have received an offer for my daughter's hand. The proposal comes to me from the Honorable Mr. Brunow. I owe him the same debt I owe to you, and I own that I should be reluctant to hurt his feelings by a refusal. His offer came to me last night, and took me by surprise. I should have been less troubled in dealing with it if he had not assured me that, with my consent, he is fairly certain of my daughter's. I should be wrong,” he added--“I should be altogether wrong if I claimed any authority over her. I have not the right to such a voice in her affairs as I should have if she had been bred under my own care. But Brunow, in spite of the debt I owe him, is not the man I should have chosen for her. You have known him for many years. I am gravely troubled, my dear Fyffe. Tell me what I should do.”
I am not exaggerating when I say that if the count had stabbed-me he would hardly have hurt or amazed me more. I had heard Brunow's butterfly protestations about his affection for Miss Rossano, and my eyes had certainly not been less open to his defects of character because he was a rival to my own hopes; but I had never regarded him as being altogether serious. I knew that he was irretrievably in debt, and I had never really feared until that moment that his opposition would take real form. A lover is always jealous, and I had envied my rival his faculty of small talk, his cheery, easy temper, and those touches of gallant attention of which practice and nature had made him master. I had been very angry sometimes at his success in pleasing. But a certain contempt had always mingled with my anger, and I had never really been afraid of him. Yet in the count's declaration of Brunow's belief that Miss Rossano was not indifferent to him I could see more than a touch of reason. She was always gay in his presence, always ready to laugh at his genial and charming nonsense--would come out of her gravest humor at any moment to meet his badinage half way.
I was thinking of all these things, and suffering sorely, when the count's voice recalled me to myself.
“I admit, I know, I feel the delicacy of the situation.”
“I am the last man in the world,” I said, “to be consulted on this question.”
“Surely not that!” cried the count.
“The last man in the world,” I repeated. “I can have no voice in the matter one way or the other.”
I felt, even as I spoke, that my words and tones alike were too brusque and imperative, but I was wounded to the heart, and alarmed alike for Miss Rossano and myself. Brunow was certainly not the man to make her happy, whatever fancy he might have inspired in her mind, and yet it was no business of mine to say so. I was his rival, and my opinion of him was naturally biassed. For the moment I hated him, but I had self-control enough left to feel that that fact bound me all the more to silence.
“You cannot advise me?” said the count.
“I have no right to advise you,” I responded.
He rose with a strange look at me, and began to walk up and down the room with his fingers at his lips. I have wounded myself in reading what I have already written about his prison look. I had learned to know him as so high-minded, so brave and so honorable a gentleman that it pains me even to think of the jail-bird aspect which came upon him at times. His walk up and down my room became something very like a prowl, and he fell to casting furtive glances at me, biting his finger ends, and murmuring inarticulately below his breath.
“You have some reason for this,” he said, suddenly. “You do not refuse to help me in such a matter for nothing.”
“I have the best of all reasons,” I answered. “I cannot advise, because I have no right to advise.”
“I give you the right by asking for advice,” he said, turning round upon me. “Is it kind to refuse me in this? I am a stranger to the world--a child, and less than a child. I owe to this man and to you everything I am and all I have. But--may I tell you? --I mistrust him. I do not care to leave my daughter's happiness in his charge.”
I made a successful struggle to control myself, and I answered him quietly: “You must know, sir, that in England young people arrange these matters very much for themselves. I have no doubt that Miss Rossano will attach full weight to your judgment and counsel. I am very sorry, but I have no right to advise you even at your own request.”
“I had hoped for another answer,” he responded. “I had even ventured to think--Ah, well, my dear Fyffe, I cannot help myself, and if you will not help me--” “I would, sir, if I could,” I answered.
And at this he sat down, gnawing at his finger-nails, and more broken and furtive in manner than I had seen him since the first week of his escape from prison.
“I owe Brunow a great deal,” he said at length, as if he addressed himself rather than me; “but what I owe to one I owe to the other, and I had hoped things would have gone differently. It was natural, perhaps--I suppose it was natural--that she should think of one of you.”
It was impossible to escape his meaning, and I saw clearly that if I had spoken first I should have found an ally in him. I do not remember ever to have felt so miserable and so hopeless; but I sat down and filled my pipe and smoked in silence, thinking that perhaps I had thrown a chance away, and that perhaps I had never had one.
While I sat thus, looking out of the window and watching with a curiously awakened interest the traffic in the street below, I felt the count's hand on my shoulder.
“Tell me, my dear Fyffe,” he said, shaking me gently, “am I utterly mistaken? I had thought--I had hoped--” “What had you thought, sir?” I asked, without turning my face towards him.
“I had thought,” he began with hesitation, and then paused--“I had thought that you would have put that question to me, rather than Brunow. Was I wrong?”
“Brunow has put the question, sir,” I answered, “and he has a right to be answered. You can guess now, I fancy, why I can give you no advice.”
“That is enough,” said the count. “Pray understand me, my dear Fyffe. This is a matter of delicacy in which I am perhaps acting very strangely, but I have thought that you cared for my child. I had hoped that it was so, and I had hoped that she might care for you. I had not thought of Mr. Brunow in this way; and if I intrust my daughter's happiness to his charge, I am afraid.”
“I did not know,” I told him, “that I had betrayed myself. If you have found out the truth about me, I can't be blamed for having told you. I should have spoken to you weeks ago, but you see how I live.” He cast his eyes about the room and nodded. “I am as poor as a church-mouse, and I see no way to better my position.”
“I had some hopes,” said the count, “that you might tell me this. It was that which led me to come here and ask you to advise me.”
A wild and improbable hope sprang into my mind, but it died as soon as it was born. Perhaps I was absurd enough to fancy the count had seen something in his daughter's manner which led him to believe that she cared for me, and perhaps he had taken advantage of Brunow's proposal to awake me to a sense of my own wasted opportunities. I put that fancy by, for intimate as I had grown to be with Miss Rossano. I had never discerned the faintest hint in her manner of anything but friendship. If my fancy had not been already dead, the count's next words would have killed it outright.
“I have nothing,” he said, “to guide me to my daughter's feelings, but I am certain of my own. Mr. Brunow's declaration took me by surprise, but I had been expecting yours, and should have received it with pleasure.”
“I did my best to form an honest judgment and to act like an honorable man. Mr. Brunow,” I said, “has known Miss Rossano much longer than I have. I must not disguise the fact that he has more than once spoken to me of his attachment to her. He mentioned that months ago, but in such a way that I hardly supposed him to be in earnest. He has spoken first, and he has a right to an answer. If when he has received his answer I still have a right to speak, I may do so.”
“That,” said the count, “is not the conclusion at which I hoped you would arrive. I think I can offer an alternative. If I ask you to look at this matter like a man of the world, you will have a right to laugh at my presumption. I was a man of the world once, but that was long ago. I have lost so much that what is left to me is hidden in a cloud of self-distrust; yet I think I am right in this, and you yourself shall be the judge.”
He paused there for some time, and I could tell by his inward look, and by the occasional motion of his lips, that he was choosing words in which to make his meaning clear to me. He looked up at last, with his gray face illuminated by the mere ghost of a smile, and reaching both hands across the table towards me, leaned upon them firmly.
“My penetration, blunted as it is, has not been altogether at fault,” he said; “I have hit the truth in your case. That is so?” I nodded, gloomily enough, I dare say, to signify assent. “What I propose, my dear Fyffe, is this: I cannot read my daughter's mind at all, and so far as I can tell she may have no such preference as leads to marriage for either of you. She is half English by birth, and wholly English by education. If she would marry at all she will follow her own inclination, after the fashion of young ladies in this country. Even if I had had the authority which a life-long watch over her would have given me, I should never have dreamed of using it. But this is the plain English of the matter. I would gladly trust my child with you, and I should be sorry to trust her with Mr. Brunow. That sounds ungrateful to him, for I owe him an enormous service; but there are duties which transcend gratitude, and this is one of them. I have surprised your sentiments, and have extorted a confession from you. I ask you now to authorize me to lay before my daughter your case and Mr. Brunow's side by side. I will tell her, if you prefer it, precisely what passed between us. If she should accept neither of you, my own hope and yours will have had at least a chance of fulfilment. You have no objection to making that proposal?”
I answered truly that I was profoundly grateful for it, and that I had never had so much honor done me.
The count departed well pleased, and I was left to await his news in such anxiety as any man who has not awaited a similar verdict might picture for himself. I did not stir from my rooms for several days, and at almost every minute of that time I was either at the very height of hope or the very bottom of despair.
The news came in a startling and unexpected way at last. About four o'clock on the afternoon of the third day a rapid step came up the stair, and somebody knocked with an angry and passionate insistence at the outer door of my chambers. Hinge, startled by the unusual exigence of the summons, ran to answer it. I learned from him who my visitor was, for as he opened the door he sang out: “Good Lord, Mr. Brunow, what on earth's the matter?”
“Stand on one side!” cried Brunow, in a loud and angry voice; and scarcely a second later he entered the room I sat in, and, banging the door noisily behind him, faced me, still grasping in his right hand the walking-cane with which he had offered such a startling announcement of his presence.
“You damned traitor!” said Brunow; “you infernal traitor!”
He had hardly spoken, indeed he had hardly turned his white and wrathful face towards me, when I understood precisely what had happened. Of course an absolute certainty was out of the question, but I felt the next thing to it; and what with the exulting thought that it was possible and the fear that it might not be true, I was so taken aback that I had no answer for this unusual greeting.
“You blackguard!” Brunow stammered, his stick quivering in his hand.
“Come, come,” I answered, rising, and keeping a careful eye on him, for he looked as if he were fit for any sort of mischief, “this is curious language. Will you be good enough to tell me how you justify it?”
“You know well enough how I justify it!” cried Brunow. “Your dirty under-plot has succeeded. You have that for your comfort, but you may take this to flavor it. I took you for an honest man until a quarter of an hour ago, and now I know that you are as dirty and as despicable a hypocrite and backbiter as any in the world!”
“That is a lie, my dear Brunow, whoever says it!” I responded. “You will be good enough to tell me at once on what grounds you bring such a charge against me.”
“Oh,” cried Brunow, “I'm not going to debase myself with quarrelling with a man like you! You have my opinion of you, and you know how you have earned it. That's enough for me. Good-afternoon.”
He turned, but I was at the door before him.
“That may be enough for you, my dear Brunow, but it isn't enough for me. You don't leave this room with my good-will until you have given me some justification for your conduct.”
“I'll give you none!” he cried. “You're a liar and a hypocrite, and I've done with you forever! That ought to be enough for you! Stand by and let me go, or--” he raised his stick with a threatening gesture, but at that I could afford to smile. I knew Brunow a great deal too well to think him likely to assault me after having put me on my guard by a threat.
“I wonder,” he said, with his lips quivering and his teeth tight clinched behind them--“I wonder that I don't thrash you within an inch of your life.”
“I wouldn't waste much wonder on that question if I were you, Brunow,” I answered. “You will be able to find an easy explanation. Tell me on what grounds you come to me with these angry accusations.”
“You pretend you don't know?” he sneered. “You can't guess, you soul of honor!”
“I pretend nothing,” I told him; “but no man uses such language to me without justifying it. A gentleman having under any fancied sense of wrong used such language will hasten to find reasons for it.”
“You may keep me here,” said Brunow, throwing himself savagely into an arm-chair. “I won't bluster with you, but I decline to explain or justify a word I've said, and you can take what course you please.”
“Very well,” I answered, turning the key in the lock and then putting it in my pocket, “we shall both have an opportunity of exercising the great gift of patience.”
“Look here,” he cried, suddenly leaping from his chair and shaking his forefinger in ray face, “do you pretend to deny that months and months ago I told you what my feelings were with respect to Miss Rossano?”
“You told me,” I answered, “that you admired her, and that she had a very pretty little income of her own. You coupled those two facts together in such a way as to make me think you were ready to contract a mercenary marriage.”
“That's how you choose to put it,” he retorted. “I could have supposed, without your help, that you'd find some such means of justifying yourself. Your affection has nothing mercenary in it, of course. In that respect you're above suspicion. A mountebank soldier with a wooden sword to sell that nobody chooses to buy. A strolling pauper without a penny to his name.”
I don't quite like to think of what might have happened if this strain of invective had not been interrupted at that moment. I know now, and I almost knew then, what ground Brunow had for his anger and resentment. But the words he used were almost too much for my endurance, and I was glad that a ring sounded at the hall bell, and that Hinge, who, I have no doubt at all, was listening outside, answered immediately. I heard a muffled voice outside, and then Hinge knocked at the inner door; and having in vain tried the handle, said: “The Conte di Rossano, if you please.”
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I drew the key from my pocket, unlocked the door, and admitted the count, who stood for an instant on the threshold, looking from me to Brunow and from Brunow to me with an aspect of some considerable amazement. Hinge was gaping in the passage, and it was evident that he was more interested in the proceedings than he knew himself to have the right to be; for, encountering my eye, he withdrew his own instantly, and plunged with great precipitation out of sight.
“Come in, sir,” I said to the count; and he entered, closing the door behind him, and still looking from Brunow to myself and back again with an aspect of complete surprise strongly mingled with displeasure.
“I had not expected to find Mr. Brunow here.” This told me, or seemed to tell me at once, that Brunow had but recently left the count, and my conjecture turned out in a moment to be true.
“I have repeated to Captain Fyffe, sir,” said Brunow, “what I told you less than half an hour ago.”
“Then,” said the count, “you have repeated to Captain Fyffe what I emphatically denied to you. That, sir, is a refusal of my plighted word.”
His meagre figure was drawn to its full height, he threw his head back, and his deep-sunken eyes flashed with indignation.
“I have told this fellow,” cried Brunow, “that he has betrayed my confidence--the most sacred confidence one man can repose in another--a confidence I extended to him, believing him to be a man of honor and my friend.”
“And I, sir, have instructed you,” returned the count, “that your accusation is altogether baseless. There, if you cede so much to the authority of my years, the matter may be allowed to rest. If you have further business with Captain Fyffe, I will find another opportunity of calling upon him.”
“I have no further business with Captain Fyffe,” said Bruno, “now nor at any time.”
So saying, he looked about him for his hat, caught it up, bowed angrily to the count, and without a word or a glance for me walked out of the room, slamming the outer door so noisily that the whole house shook with the concussion.
“Mr. Brunow,” said the count, when we were thus left alone, “is an ill-conditioned person. I owe it to you to explain precisely what has happened. But first, my dear Fyffe, give me your hand, and let me offer you my felicitations.”
I took the hand he offered and held it a moment, hardly realizing where I stood.
“Your suit is accepted; and if you will do us the honor to dine with us this evening, I am charged by Lady Rollinson to say that she will be charmed to meet you at her table. There, my dear fellow,” he concluded, hastily withdrawing his hand, “you are stronger than you fancy yourself to be.”
He stood, half laughing, as he straightened the fingers of his right hand with his left, and then shook them in memory of my grip.
I had not a word to say for myself, and I felt as foolish and awkward as a school-boy.
“And now,” said the count, laying a hand on each of my shoulders and pressing me gently towards an arm-chair, “I will tell you what has happened between Mr. Brunow and myself.”
“Never mind about Brunow just at present, sir,” I cried, recovering my wits a little; “I have other things to think of which are of greater moment.”
“Well, yes,” he answered, with a very sweet yet mournful smile, “I can believe so. Brunow will keep.”
“I am to understand, sir,” I asked, “that Miss Rossano accepts the offer of my hand?”
“Precisely,” said the count, nodding with his affectionate and melancholy smile.
“She knows my circumstances?”
“I will not say she knows them absolutely,” he replied, “but I think she has a fairly accurate knowledge of them.”
“I have an income of three hundred pounds a year.”
“So much as that?” he asked, with a dry, quaint look. It was so wise, so friendly, so childlike, so gay, so unlike the dull and dreadful aspect his face had worn when I had first known it that it affected me strongly, “My dear Fyffe,” he said, reaching his friendly hand out towards me once more, “why should we talk about money? If you can put Brunow out of your mind I can put money out of mine. My daughter loves me, and the man who saved me loves my daughter; and Violet--well, she shall speak for herself.”
I was so entirely happy that I could afford to take pity on my unsuccessful rival. When I thought how I should have felt if our cases had been reversed--if he had won and I had been rejected--I was willing to forgive him anything. I hoped that in course of time he would come to see how baseless his suspicions were, but in my joy I could nurse no anger against him. But I was eager to meet my promised wife, and he did not fill my thoughts for more than a passing moment.
The count volunteered to accompany me to Lady Rollinson's house.
“You are bidden to dinner,” he said, “but I dare say they will excuse an afternoon visit as well. The circumstances are unusual.”
His face was full of a quiet and happy humor, which even in the midst of my own whirling emotions struck me as being remarkable. What a native courage must have existed within this man that all the miseries he had undergone had left so much of his manhood to him! What a tranquil and heroic soul he must have borne to have survived that hideous time at all. I know of myself that I should have beaten my brains out against the wall of that loathsome jail many years ago had his lot fallen to me, or I should have sunk to the stupor of an idiot.
We walked together arm in arm, as our manner was, and we talked of scores of things as we went along, though there was always one thought uppermost in the minds of both of us. The count seemed almost as happy as I was, and the knowledge that he welcomed me so warmly was like honey to my heart. For all this I was in an absurd flutter all the way; and when we reached the house I had come to such a condition of mind that whether I were in a delirium of joy or a delirium of misery I was in no wise sure. The delirium was certain; but I found that afternoon how true a thing it is that extremes meet. Great joy and great sorrow are not very wide apart in the havoc they work on the nerves.
I have been trying to recall everything that happened that day; but I find that I have no memory of anything at all between our talking very brightly and affectionately in the street, and my finding myself alone in Lady Rollinson's drawing-room. There was a bright fire burning there, for the spring days were chilly. There was a clock ticking delicately on the mantel-piece, and my mind fastened on to the sound as if there were possibility of checking and steadying my whirling thoughts by thinking of it--pretty much as a man would clutch a straw in a whirlpool. The rustle of a dress sounded in the corridor outside, and a step paused at the door. My heart beat furiously, and then as the door opened it seemed as if it stopped for a second. Miss Rossano entered (it is the last time I shall call her by that name), and for a moment we stood face to face in silence, like a pair of foolish statues. She was more self-possessed than I, for she advanced and offered me her hand, and I took it clumsily, as if I had no idea what to do with it.
I had loved her from the very first moment I had seen her sweet and noble face, and every hour had seemed to make me love her more. And yet I had never breathed a word to her, and here we were plighted to each other in this strange and sudden fashion, with no preliminaries of courtship, with no question asked by me or answered by her, and hardly at the moment an understanding of how a thing so curious had come to pass.
I have not forgotten anything that was said or done that happy hour, but it is still all too sacred to be written down for any eye but hers or mine to read. It is enough to say that I learned she loved me. Her love has ceased to be to me the puzzle it once was, for one grows used to everything, and I have been both her husband and her lover now for so many years that it would be strange indeed if any sense of strangeness were left in it. But when I first found out that she had fallen in love with me just as quickly as I with her, I could not get over the wonder of it, or the feeling of added unworthiness with which the knowledge burdened me. But, in truth, the very things which make a man feel so clumsy and coarse in the presence of the woman he loves are the things that take a woman's fancy, just as her sweetness and delicacy are the things that take his. I never was a bit of a handsome fellow, but I was a big man, flowing over with health and vigor, with a big voice and a broad chest and shoulders, and, until I fell in love, I never set a great deal of value on good looks in a man. But there was I, a great hulking fellow who had passed all the best part of his life in the giving and receiving of hard knocks, a fellow who could not for the life of him help feeling that he carried the flavor of the camp about with him. What was there, in the name of Heaven, I used to ask myself in those first days of courtship, for a delicate and high-minded girl of refined breeding to fall in love with? But that, my lads and lasses all, is the provision of great nature which makes delicacy love strength and strength love gentleness, which makes fear look pretty to a soldier's eyes, and makes courage look noble and admirable to a charming creature who is afraid of a mouse. So now that I am older and more experienced, I have no wonder that my wife did not choose to fall in love with some namby-pamby fellow of the drawing-rooms rather than with me, though I have now, as I have had always, the sense to know that she is worth ten thousand of me.
I came back to something like sanity in the first ten minutes, and we sat there with no lack of things to talk about, a trouble from which I believe lovers do occasionally suffer. I am not going to pretend that the count and Italy occupied all our minds, but they had their full share of our thoughts, and we both knew that there was no question of marriage just at present. With the history of her broken-hearted mother before me I was in no mood to ask her to be my widow, and there was a growing certainty that there was fighting in front of us, and that it was likely to begin pretty soon.
If Lady Rollinson, Violet, the count, and myself had been dining alone that evening, I should probably have been allowed, under the circumstances, to dispense with evening-dress, and so there would have been no necessity for my going home again before dinner. The count, however, had already advised me of expected guests, and however fascinating the society in which I found myself, I had to break away from it for an hour.
The spring dusk was already thick as I passed along Bond Street, and there was a slight fog abroad; but at the time of which I am writing the West End shops kept open hours later than they do now, and there was no sign of cessation of business. There were a good many foot-passengers abroad, and in front of a brilliantly lighted jeweller's-shop I found myself brought to a stand-still by a little block in the traffic. A carriage stood immediately in front of the shop, and I was about to step round it into the horse road when I saw that a lady was bowing to me from it, and discovered that the lady was no other than the Baroness Bonnar. I raised my hat in answer to her salutation, and as I did so Brunow emerged from the crowd and handed a small packet to her. She took it from him with a smile, and gave the word to the coachman. I had seen that she had a companion with her, a lady whose back was turned to me; but I had taken no notice of the fact, and, indeed, had not given it a thought. But as the coachman wheeled round his horses the lady's face came for a moment into the full light of the brilliantly illuminated window, and I, standing wedged there in the momentary block of pedestrians, met her glance point-blank. She gave not the faintest sign of recognition, though she must have seen that I stared and stared as though I had beheld a ghost; but leaning back in the luxurious cushions of the carriage, drew down her veil and arranged a fur rug about her knees. I stood stock-still, and was rather roughly hustled before I so much as remembered where I was. When I looked round Brunow had disappeared. He had probably seen me, and having found time to cool, had wisely decided against a renewal in the public street of our quarrel of that afternoon. I walked on like a man in a dream, for Constance Pleyel was the last woman in the world I had thought to see, and the very last woman to be found in the society of Brunow and the Baroness Bonnar. So far as I knew, Brunow had certainly little enough to do with her, and their meeting might have been one of the purest chance; but that she was associated in some way with the baroness was evident enough from her presence in that lady's carriage. It is a bitter thing to have to go back on the past in this way, but I cannot tell my story without it. If there are worthless women in the world, there are some who are very nearly angels, and I feel as if I were almost dishonoring the sex in telling the truth about poor Constance, for I had been very honestly in love with her when I was a lad, and it seems even now, after the lapse of all these years, as if I were defiling the place which had once been a sanctuary. But when I had recovered from the shock of my surprise and began to understand what I had seen, it crossed me in a very vivid fashion that the mistrusting dislike with which I had always regarded the baroness had received strong confirmation in an unexpected way; for Constance Pleyel was not and had not been for years one with whom any self-respecting woman would wish to be intimate. The thought of the Baroness Bonnar, fresh from contact with her, coming into Violet's presence was anything but agreeable. I am not much of a prude, and was never disposed to hound a woman down for an error in love; but the plain English of the matter was that no woman who would care to know Constance Pleyel had a right to exchange a word with Violet. My mind was a good deal exercised about this matter as I walked swiftly homeward. I thought about it while I was dressing, and as I drove back to Lady Rollinson's that strange _rencontre_ filled my thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. You may judge of my surprise when the baroness appeared as the very last of the invited guests. Considering the elaborate toilet she had made she had shown wonderful despatch, and though I have no pretensions to be versed in these mysteries, I should have been inclined to think that such a display as she made could only have been achieved with an hour or two's labor. In spite of haste, if she had been really pressed for time, her make-up was as perfect as ever, and what with her flashing white shoulders and flashing white teeth, her sparkling diamonds and sparkling eyes, and the artistic flush of artificial color on lier cheeks, she looked quite dazzling.
Dinner was announced at the very instant of her arrival, and the count himself took her in to dinner. That, in the light of my latest knowledge of the lady, was the cruellest thing to remember, but the little traitress was all smiles and pompousness, and smiled and chatted as if no thought of mischief had ever entered her heart. Lady Rollinson had confided Violet to my care, and I sat at table between her and the baroness. She talked across me to my companion until my nerves grew rigid with the strain of the repression I was compelled to lay upon myself, and the dinner, which ought to have been a little foretaste of heaven to a newly-accepted lover, was a long-drawn discomfort. There were two gentlemen at the table besides the count and myself, but they were both Italians, and had no notion of the English custom of sitting over their wine after dinner. The count was a total abstainer, for his long-enforced abstention had taught him a curious delicacy of palate, so that all wines were actually distasteful to him. When the ladies had retired we smoked a cigarette, drank a cup of black coffee, and made our way to the drawing-room, where Lady Rollinson had promised us something unusual in the way of music. It was my right to have monopolized Violet's society, or if not actually to have monopolized it, to have taken a full share of it. I found opportunity to whisper to her that I had an especial reason for speaking to the baroness, and while the music was going on I planted myself at that lady's side. She received me with more than her usual foreign affability, and chattered so rapidly that one or two of the guests, who I suppose really cared for the performance then going on, cast glances of open disapproval in her direction. The little woman was quite at home, however, and continued to talk with great animation. I made two or three attempts to interject what I had to say, but she stopped me each time, and started off on a new theme before I could get more than a word in edgewise. I know that she must have seen from my looks that I was not in the least degree disposed to the flippant mood to which she herself pretended, and at last she either was, or feigned to be, tired of my failure to respond to her.
“You are _bête_ to-night, _mon beau capitaine_,” she said at last, and with a humorously disdainful gesture of her fan she made a motion to rise.
“Not yet, baroness,” I said, taking the fan in my hand. “I have something serious to say to you.”
“I am not in the mind for anything serious tonight,” she answered, “and this is not the place for anything serious.”
“I am in the mood,” I said, “and the place will do well enough.”
She flashed her eyes at me with a sudden anger.
“Is that an impertinence or a gaucherie?” she asked. A second later her charming girlish smile lit up her face again, and rising from her seat she dropped a little mock rustic courtesy. “If M. le Capitaine Fyffe will honor me at my own humble residence, I am never abroad till one.” With that she shot me a curiously veiled glance and turned away, holding up her hand as if to ask me to listen to the last strains of the music which her own vehement chatter had already spoiled for everybody who cared to listen to it. She had evidently a purpose in holding me off, and I of course could form a reasonable guess as to what the nature of that purpose was. I devoted myself to Violet for the rest of the evening, and contrived so well to forget the baroness that by the time at which I was compelled to take my leave I was restored to the state of mind natural to an ardent lover who had only that day been lifted from something very like despair to the fulfilment of his hope.
When the baroness took leave I helped her to adjust her costly fur mantle. Violet was standing by, and the baroness was talking to her with a pretence of animation which I know was intended to prevent me from giving her a reminder of what had already passed between us. As she turned to go she gave me a moment's chance. I had been waiting for it, and I seized it instantly.
“To-morrow, then, at twelve,” I said.
She turned, with her eyes wide open and angered, as if I had presumed in speaking to her and had offered her an insult. But she changed her mind in the merest fraction of time, and answered, smilingly: “To-morrow, then, at twelve.”
Then she looked at me with the odd veiled glance I had seen before--a glance which expressed both dislike and fear, and held at the same time a keener and more piercing observation than anybody at first sight would have been likely to charge the butterfly-like woman with.
I have spoken quite openly, and as if what I have had to say had been the most commonplace matter in the world. Violet had heard me, but when we went back to the drawing-room together she asked no questions. She has told me since that she wondered a little what appointment I could have with the Baroness Bonnar, but she gave me here the first of a hundred thousand proofs of that noble freedom from the pinch of small curiosity which helps to make her different from and superior to her sex.
I kept my appointment next day, and found the baroness at home. She had a dainty little house of her own, and I suppose that at this time she kept better style, was furnished with completer credentials, was admitted to know better people, and was more liberally supplied with funds than at any other period of her curiously vagabond existence. She was to me at this time the Baroness Bonnar pure and simple, a foreign lady of wealth and position who moved in good society, had agreeable and influential friends, and obvious command of money. She was to me, in short, what she was to the rest of the world, and I had no earthly reason to doubt any of her pretences. But I had come with a definite object, and I approached it at once. She was not at all disposed to banter to-day, but met me with perfect candor.
“My time is a little limited, Captain Fyffe,” she began. “Will you do me the honor to let me know at once to what I owe your visit?”
“I passed you last night in Bond Street,” I returned. She nodded briefly, with her lips tight set and her eyes glittering a little dangerously, I thought. “Would you oblige me by telling me the name of your companion?”
“Would you oblige me,” she retorted, “by telling me the reasons for which you ask it?”
She was so very quick and resolute that I saw at once she had been prepared for the occasion.
“I had rather not give my reason just at present, baroness,” I said. “I have, as a matter of fact, no reason for asking the lady's name for my own satisfaction, because I know it with much more certainty than you do.”
“Oh!” she said, very quietly. “Then why do you ask?”
“Let me change my question,” I responded. “Let me ask you if you have known Miss Constance Pleyel long?”
“Do you know, my good Captain Fyffe,” said the little woman, toying idly with the _vinaigrette_ and sniffing at its contents now and then, “you have a manner which is abominably resolute. You are speaking to me as if you were a rustic _juge d'instruction_, and I a prisoner in the dock.”
“I beg your pardon, baroness; I was conscious of no such manner. Will you oblige me by telling me if you have known this lady long?”
“I do not recognize your right to question me,” said the baroness; “but since you are audacious enough to come here and to question me about that lady after what I heard last night--” she paused there of set purpose, and repeating the words “after what I heard last night” with emphasis, paused again.
“After what you heard last night,” I repeated, unable to attach any meaning whatever to her words.
“You decline to understand me?” she said, with a threatening nod of her pretty little head. “Very well. But if,” still with marked emphasis, “after what I heard last night you are sufficiently audacious to come here and ask me questions about Constance Pleyel, I can tell you that I have known that lady long enough to know the history of her life and how far you are responsible for the sorrows she has known.”
“I responsible?” I cried.
“Do you deny it?” she retorted.
I had risen to my feet unconsciously, and she arose to face me.
“I deny it absolutely!” I answered. “The suggestion is an outrage!”
For sole answer she touched a little silver gong which stood upon the table. A servant appeared in answer to the sound, and the baroness, without turning her head towards him, said, “Send my compliments to Miss Pleyel, and let her know Captain Fyffe has called.”
I stood rooted in astonishment.
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The baroness walked to the window as the servant retired, throwing upon me as she went by a look of mingled triumph and disdain. I had no word to say for myself, and I awaited the progress of events with wonder. The baroness looked out upon the street, with her tiny foot tapping at the carpet, until the servant returned.
“Well?” said she, imperatively turning on him.
The man looked confused and stammered.
“Well?” she repeated, with an angry impatience.
“I beg your pardon, Madame la Baronne, but I am to say--” “You are to say?” she echoed, scornfully, seeing that he paused and stammered anew. “Say what you are to say.”
“Perhaps it would be better,” the man said, “if I spoke to madame alone.”
“Say what you have to say,” his mistress commanded. “I presume you have an answer from Miss Pleyel?”
The man who was a young and by no means ill-looking fellow, was evidently in considerable distress. “It is not my fault, Madame la Baronne,” he said, with an appealing glance at me, “but Miss Pleyel's message is that she declines to meet Captain Fyffe under any circumstances.”
“That will do,” said his mistress. “You can go.”
The man retired once more. I could see that the baroness was disappointed, but she made the best of the circumstances.
“I am not surprised,” she said, with as fine an expression of scorn as she could command.
“Nor am I,” I responded. “It is natural that Miss Pleyel should not wish to meet one who knew her fifteen years ago.”
“It is like a man and a soldier,” she said, “to presume upon the natural delicacy of a lady under such circumstances. She shrinks from you and fears you. She dare not encounter you even in the presence of so dear a friend as I am. But I do not shrink from you, Captain Fyffe, and I am not afraid of you. I tell you once more that I think your coming here is, all things considered, as pretty a piece of audacity as I can remember.”
“Madame,” I answered, “I came here with a purpose. When I have fulfilled that purpose I will relieve you of my presence.”
“Go on,” she interjected, contemptuously.
“The position is both difficult and delicate, but my duty is plain, and I see no way of escape from it.”
“Your duty to yourself,” said the baroness, “is plain enough. Such a man as I see you now to be will make it his duty, at any cost, to defend himself.”
“To defend himself from what, madame?” I asked, surprised at her boldness.
“From the plain truth,” she answered, with an expression of anger and disdain which, if not real, was an excellent bit of acting in its way. “The brave Captain Fyffe is ambitious, and has made up his mind to marry money; but Miss Rossano, whom I have the honor to know, might shrink from Captain Fyffe if she knew him to be not merely a penniless adventurer, but a perjured and heartless villain.'
“Madame,” I replied, “I will not be so poor a diplomatist as to lose my temper over these charges. There are hundreds of people still alive in my native place to whom Miss Pleyel's miserable history is known, and such a charge as you are making could only excite derision if it were openly brought against me.”
“You came here with a purpose,” she said, coldly. “I shall be obliged if you will fulfil your purpose, and--” “When I have fulfilled my purpose I will go. I will be as brief as I can. When I was a lad of twenty I was desperately in love with Miss Constance Pleyel, or thought I was, which at that time of life is pretty much the same thing.”
“It will serve at any time of life,” said the baroness. She listened with an air of aversion and impatience, which made a painful task more painful to perform.
“My father was a half-pay officer,” I went on, “very poor and very proud. Miss Pleyel's father was a tradesman, an Austrian Jew, rich, vulgar, and ostentatious.”
“Rich, certainly,” the baroness responded. “I can congratulate you on one point, Captain Fyffe; you have not yet, so far as I can learn, suffered sentiment to blind you to the charms of wealth.”
I passed the sneer. When a man is resolutely bent upon a journey he does not stop to fight the flies that tease him.
“We moved in different circles. I spoke to Miss Pleyel perhaps a dozen times, but in the hot enthusiasm of youthful love I wrote to her often.”
“I have seen your letters,” said the baroness, with a short, contemptuous laugh. “They might have deceived any woman.”
I allowed myself to be diverted for a moment.
“She keeps them? It is a sign of grace in her that she cares, after so many years, to remember an honest, boyish passion.”
“A sign of grace?” cried the baroness, passionately. “Oh, I lose patience with this cool infamy!”
Now all this time has gone by I can recall this scene as if it were a bit of stage play; and now that I can read every motive and understand every movement, I am inclined to think the baroness's part in it the finest piece of stage work I have ever seen.
“If you will permit me, madame, I will try to put the case in such a way that there shall be no mistake as to what I mean to say. I saw Miss Pleyel rarely, and never once in private. I wrote to her often; I wrote reams of boyish nonsense, which was all meant in fiery earnest then. Then news came. Miss Pleyel ran away from her father's house with Colonel Hill-yard, a man of wealth, a married man with a large family, and, in spite of that fact, a notorious _roue_. They lived abroad for six months, and Miss Pleyel ran away from Colonel Hillyard with a Russian officer, with whom she went to St. Petersburg, where she caught a grand duke, who was so far fascinated as to contract a morganatic marriage with her. Since that time Miss Pleyel's adventures have been before the world. Her name has been lost under a score of aliases, but there is no pretence between you and me, and no dispute as to her identity.”
“Captain Fyffe,” said the baroness, “I do not yet think so poorly of you as to believe that you have invented this abominable story, but I can tell you that it is, from beginning to end, a tissue of falsehoods.”
“Pardon me, madame,” I responded, “there is no man living who knows that wretched history half so well as I do.”
“Oh, you men, you men!” cried the baroness, sweeping her little white hands towards the ceiling, and wringing them above her head with a tragic gesture. She turned upon me suddenly, with an admirable burst of passion and feeling. “Captain Fyffe, I am a woman of the world; I am _expérimentée_--unhappily for me, too, too bitterly experienced. Believe me, I already have the very poorest opinion of your sex. I beseech you not to lower it further.”
“The most casual inquiry,” I answered, “if you should care to make it, will confirm every word I have so far spoken. And now I need detain you little longer. It is a terrible thing to say to a lady, but it must be said. It is all the more terrible to say, because I had at one time a sentimental worship for that poor creature who has proved herself so often to be unworthy of any honest man's regard. No lady who knows the reputation of Miss Constance Pleyel, or who, being warned of her reputation, declines to test the truth of the warning and remains her friend, can be permitted to associate, to my knowledge, with anybody for whom I entertain the slightest regard or esteem.”
“Do I understand you to threaten me, Captain Fyffe?” asked the baroness. “You must permit me for a moment to instruct you. My position in society is secure enough to enable me to defend any _protégée_ of mine against any insinuation which Captain Fyffe may make.”
“I make no insinuation,” I returned. “I lay plain facts before you. I will send you by messenger, within an hour, the names and addresses of a score of people who know the facts of the case. You shall, if you choose, employ an agent, whose charges I will defray, and whose report I will never ask to see.”
“Thank you, sir,” she answered. “I do not spy upon the people to whom I profess to give my friendship.”
That was perhaps as heroic a lie as even a lady of the baroness's profession ever uttered; but at that time I was not master of the facts of the case, and the little woman spoke with so much dignity and nature that she imposed upon me. I was really half ashamed of having suggested to her a course which only a minute before seemed quite natural.
“Madame,” I said, “the position is a peculiar one, and it cannot be encountered by ordinary means. I accept without reserve the declaration you offer of your belief in Miss Pleyel's innocence. But then, you see, unhappily, I know the whole story, and I am forced, however unwillingly, to offer you an ultimatum.”
“Pray let me hear it,” she answered, in a tone of sarcasm.
“It is briefly this,” I said. “It is impossible that the Baroness Bonnar should retain her association with Miss Pleyel and with Lady Rollinson at the same time.”
“You guarantee that?” asked the baroness. “May I ask what means you propose to adopt?”
“If I am compelled,” I answered, “but only in case I am compelled, I shall take the one possible, straightforward course, and shall tell to Lady Rollinson the story I have told to you.”
The baroness tried another tack.
“I have often heard it said,” she began, bitterly, “that it is only women who have no mercy upon women. Do you tell me, Captain Fyffe, that you can have the heart to hound this poor creature down, even if all you charge against her were true, if all her life until now had been one huge mistake? Is she to have no chance of amendment? Do not suppose,” she cried, “that your story convinces me for a moment! I am looking at your side alone, that is all.”
“Pardon me,” I felt constrained to answer, “I see no sign of any wish for amendment. The only defence yet offered lies in a gross and groundless accusation against myself. When I came here I had no idea that Miss Pleyel meant to be dangerous to me. I learn from you the course on which she has decided.”
“She!” cried the baroness. “She has decided upon nothing. Perhaps I have been led too readily to leap at a conclusion. She has made no accusation against you, poor thing; but I confess that I thought she was striving to defend you. She was terribly agitated by the chance sight she caught of you in the street last night. She has been weeping ever since. She gave me your letters with some broken words, which perhaps I may have misconstrued. If I have done you wrong, I beg your pardon. If I have done you wrong, I beg your forgiveness with all my heart. But surely, Captain Fyffe, you do not in cold blood propose to one woman that she shall throw another on the world, that she should cast her, however frail she may have been, into new temptations. You must let me tell you,” she hurried on, raising her hand against me to arrest any interruption I might have been disposed to make--“you must let me tell you that I exercise some little forbearance in taking this tone at all. No slander has ever touched my reputation, and I do not intend that it shall smirch it now. I have but to say I have been deceived to establish myself in the sight of all who know me. Tell me, sir, if you have ever heard a whisper against my honor. Did ever man or woman breathe a word in your hearing with respect to me which might not have been spoken of a sister of your own?”
The plain truth was that I knew nobody but Bru-now who had any acquaintance with the little lady's antecedents. He had certainly spoken of her often in terms which I should have been very sorry to have heard applied to a sister of mine if I had been so fortunate as to own one. But, then, Brunow was a man about town, and a braggart at the same time, and I had attached no more importance to his talk than to the irresponsible babble of a baby. It was not my business to repeat Brunow's stupid follies, and I kept silent. She, however, was not disposed to let me off that way, but pressed me for an answer.
“Madame,” I was forced to say, “I am not so impertinent as to call your reputation into question for an instant. I will not be so insolent as to sit in judgment upon so delicate a question for a moment. I have said all I had to say, and can see no reason for recalling any part of it.” I bowed, and made a movement to retire, but she flashed between me and the door, and faced me with supplicating hands.
“Think again, Captain Fyffe,” she besought me; “think again. Poor Constance is not the heartless wretch you fancy her. She is alone in the world; she is friendless, penniless. There is nobody to lend her a helping hand, nobody to believe in her wish to lead a better life but only poor little me. And of what avail is my belief in her, of what avail is my wish to lift her from the mire if you should go from me and trumpet her past abroad. I knew her, Captain Fyffe, when she was richer and happier than she is now, when she was received by society in St. Petersburg, when she was courted, admired, adored. I am sorry for her in my soul. It would wring my heart to let her go. And notice, Captain Fyffe, I am not trying to thrust her on the world, I am not trying to introduce her to any friend of mine. When you saw us in the street yesterday she drove out for the first time in my company in London. Ah, Captain Fyffe, we cannot do much good in this miserable world if we try ever so hard. I have never tried very hard. I have been a frivolous, butterfly, useless creature; but at my time of life, you see, one begins to have serious fancies. And it was mine to find this poor creature an asylum, where she might hide her head from shame, and be free of all temptation. You are a stern man, Captain Fyffe, you have shown me that, but do not be all justice and no mercy.” She actually cried and clung to me as she spoke, and even now it seems difficult to believe that there was no genuine feeling at the bottom of it all, though I know perfectly well that there was no ground for the merest scrap of it.
The situation was horribly embarrassing, and yet if I had been the most yielding fool alive there was no escape. It was simply impossible that I, with my eyes open, should permit any woman who openly associated with Constance Pleyel to associate with Violet.
“I have no wish,” I answered, “to speak one word to Miss Pleyel's disadvantage, and I have no right, to dictate terms to you; but if you should insist on continuing your acquaintance with Miss Pleyel and with Lady Rollinson, it will be my bounden duty to tell her ladyship what I know, and leave her to act for herself.”
“Ah, well,” she cried, in a voice of despair, “I do not even know that I can blame you; but am I to be sure that I can buy your silence?”
“That you can buy my silence?” I repeated.
“Yes,” she answered, despondently, looking up at me with tear-stained eyes. “I mean--will you say nothing if I promise to visit Lady Rollinson no more and to meet Miss Rossano no more? I am asking nothing for myself, Captain Fyffe, remember, and I would not stoop to make terms at all if it were not for this unhappy woman's sake. Will you promise me this?”
I thought the matter over for a minute, and I promised. As it turned out, I never did an unwiser thing; but I had no means of knowing how unwise it was, and I was affected by her tears and protestations. If Baroness Bonnar had not had the skill to bedevil cleverer men than myself, and men twenty times as experienced, she would never have risen to the position of eminence she occupied.
We parted on the understanding that she was to pay no more visits to Lady Rollinson's house, but was to do her loyal best to avoid Violet and her chaperon. I went away half inclined to think myself a brute for having exacted that undertaking from her. Of course, if I had been the man of the world I thought myself, I should never have gone to see her, never have shown my hand, but should have awaited the development of events after having told Lady Rollinson what I knew, and having left her to safeguard her own interests and mine.
The whole business had been cruelly unpleasant, and I left the baroness's house thinking that on the whole I was very well out of it. I was sorry for the little lady herself, and did really and seriously give her credit for good intentions, which proves either that she was an exceptionally fine actress, or that I was an exceptional greenhorn.
I had scarcely left the house when I heard my name called in a loud whisper, and, turning, saw the gaunt figure of Ruffiano within half a dozen yards of me. He was astonishingly shabby still, but he rejoiced in clean linen, and had been recently shaven, so that he looked far more presentable than usual.
His eyes were blazing, and the whole of his long bony frame was hitching and jolting with suppressed excitement.
“I have news!” he said; “such news! Which way go you? The man is here.”
I turned in the direction indicated, and saw a foreign-looking fellow in a huge beard, a slouched hat, and a melodramatic cloak, looking for all the world like a conspirator in an Adelphi or Olympic drama at that date. It was raining slightly, but the man stood with folded arms in the middle of the pavement at the street corner, like a statue of patience, with the keen February wind buffeting his long cloak picturesquely about him, and blowing his wild hair and beard in all directions. At a signal from Ruffiano he crossed over to us, and the droll old Quixote, with superabundant gesture, began to question him in Italian, the man answering, of course, in the same tongue. When they had talked together for four or five minutes Ruffiano turned upon me with his hands spread wide, and his face beaming with triumph.
“You see,” he said.
“You forget, my dear count,” I told him, “that I don't understand a word of what you have been saying.”
The count reviled himself, and plunged into apologies so fluent as to be only half intelligible.
“This gentleman,” he said, indicating the shaggy melodramatist, “has but now arrived by the morning train from Paris. The hour is here at last. Louis Philippe has run away, and by this hour we suspect he is in England. You know what that means for us?”
I knew what it meant very well, but I was not disposed to believe the story without examination. I found that the messenger spoke no word of any language but his own, and resolved on carrying him at once to Count Rossano. To that end I called a hackney-coach, not greatly caring, I confess it, to be seen in broad daylight in London streets with such an astonishing pair of guys as poor old Ruffiano and his friend.
The count was at home, and, receiving us at once, heard the story with an excitement equal to that of the narrator. When it was ended he turned on me with the very phrase Ruffiano had used: “The hour is here!”
“You can trust this man?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he responded.
I confessed that I should prefer to await a confirmation of his story by the newspapers, but the count interrupted me with a wave of the hand.
“You will see,” he said, “that the newspapers will confirm the story to-morrow, and in the meantime we shall have saved a day. France is awake, and the awaking of France is the dawn of liberty for Italy. We must hold a meeting to-night. You will wait?” he asked me. “I have a hundred things to talk of, but I must first despatch Count Ruffiano to our friends.”
“Yes,” cried Ruffiano, with a more than common emphasis on the superfluous vowels he used, “we must meet to-night. The hour is here. In a week from now we shall have the usurper by the throat. Wait but a day, and you shall hear such news from Milano! They are ready there, and there will be no holding them back this time.”
The count silenced him, and gave him rapid instructions in Italian. I could follow most of what he said in this case, for I was familiar with every name he mentioned. He was calling out the astutest and most influential of the Italian refugees then in London. The revolutionary Italian party, like all the revolutionary parties known to history, was split up into sections. There were moderates and immoderates among them, men to whom the name of Carlo Alberto was an oriflamme, and others to whom it was the very signal of scorn and loathing. The count was calling the extremists of both schools together, and Ruffiano expostulated.
“This is a time,” said the count, addressing me, “at which we must sink all divisions. We shall find ample time to quarrel when the work is done. In the meantime the work lies before us, and no good Italian can hang back from it.”
“We shall do nothing but quarrel,” Ruffiano protested. “We shall be at daggers drawn among ourselves.”
“Leave that to me,” said the count, “and do you do my bidding.”
After this there was no more question, and Quixote set off, taking his brigand of a companion with him. The count paced the room in a sort of silent fury for a while, but he was easily tired, and after two or three minutes of this violent exercise he dropped, pale and panting, into an arm-chair, and wiped the thick beads of perspiration from his forehead.
“There is no doubt about the news,” he said then; “and even if it were not true to-day, it would be true to-morrow or the day after.”
I pointed out to him that its very likelihood should make us resolve that our evidence was perfect before we acted on it.
“Yes, yes,” he cried, with an angry impatience; “but we must be ready for action, and I propose no more. There is just one thing in respect to which I have not yet taken you into confidence. I have had an opportunity offered me of the purchase of a stock of arms. They were made in Birmingham, at the order of one of the South American republics which fell into bankruptcy just as the order was fulfilled. They are to be had at a very low price, and I am inclined to buy them. I ask your judgment on this matter on two grounds, Captain Fyffe. To begin with, it is twenty years since I knew the world, and the fashion of arms has so changed during that time that I am a judge no longer. I shall want you to decide on the quality of the weapons.” I nodded assent to this, and he went on. “The second reason is much more personal to yourself. The cause is poor, but my daughter, in the course of a few days, will have in her own hands a large sum of money inherited from her mother, and increased by interest through her long minority. In round figures she will receive something like forty thousand pounds. She proposes to offer that sum to her father's country. You ought to know of that.”
I did not see what concern this was of mine, and I said so. Violet's fortune, so far as I was concerned, was entirely at her own disposal. I felt this so strongly that I did not dare to express myself quite unreservedly, lest I might seem guilty of a pretence of too great disinterestedness. But I added that if the money were my own, I could think of no better way of spending it, and the count was satisfied.
He was in the very act of describing to me the weapons he proposed to buy when a servant entered with a card.
“This is my man,” said the count, and bade the servant show the visitor in.
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“Mr. Alpheas P. Quorn” was the name printed on the card of the visitor just announced, and I had scarcely cast my eye upon it when the man came in. He was a prodigiously fat man, with a pigeon breast, and a neck so short that his tufted chin was set low down between his high shoulders. He was dressed in actual burlesque of the fashion then prevailing; but, spruce as he was, he nursed undisguisedly a huge quid of tobacco in one clean-shaven cheek, and his hands, which were covered with rings of no great apparent value, were very dirty, and the nails uncared for. He bowed with a great flourish of politeness, spat copiously in the fire, and bade the count good-day in a thin and shrill-pitched voice, so out of keeping with his monstrous size that I had to cough and turn away to disguise a laugh.
“My respects, count,” said Mr. Quorn, “my respects and compliments. I presoom, sir, you have heard the noos from the European Continent.”
“I am in pretty constant receipt of news,” the count responded, with a swift glance in my direction; “but I do not know that it is yet common property.”
“Wal,” said Mr. Quorn, “I'm inclined to think it is. But my folks are pretty considerably damn smart, and so, I guess, are yours.” He paused, looked hard at me, and turned his quid reflectively. “This gentleman--?” he said, interrogatively.
“This gentleman,” the count responded, “is in full possession of my confidence. This is Mr. Quorn, Captain Fyffe. I was telling Captain Fyffe at the moment of your arrival,” he continued, “the nature of our business. I shall rely upon his judgment of the goods you have for sale.”
“That's all right,” said Mr. Quorn. “I've got the real thing to sell, and I want a man as knows the real thing to see it before it's bought. Then you're satisfied and I'm satisfied. If I ain't mistaken now, Captain Fyffe's the man that hooked you out of that blasted Austrian dungeon.”
“It is to Captain Fyffe,” the count answered, “that I owe my liberty.”
“Then you owe him a lot,” retorted Mr. Quorn. “There's nothing sweeter on the face of the earth, and I presoom, sir, that you know it. I am a foe to slavery, gentlemen, everywhere and always. In the sacred cause of freedom I have been tarred and feathered and rode upon a rail. In comparison with twenty years in Austrian hands that ain't a lot, but it was more than I bargained for, and as much as I wanted. In the sacred cause of freedom, gentlemen, I'm willing to sacrifice even a pecuniary consideration. I could do a trade with Austria that would increase my profits by fifty per cent. But I'm all for freedom, and you get first offer.”
“What is your news from the Continent, Mr. Quorn?” inquired the count.
Mr. Quorn looked about him for a convenient spot, selected the fireplace, spat again, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and winked with a slow deliberation.
“What's yourn?” he asked. The count smiled and shook his head. “Wal,” said Mr. Quorn, “I'll tell you what I'll do with you. I'll letter it with you. L.” “O,” said the count, still smiling.
“U,” said Mr. Quorn.
“I,” said the count.
“It appears to me,” said Mr. Quorn, “we're on the same trail. The exalted individual we've got in mind, count, has done something. What's he done now?” He rolled his big head between his fat shoulders as he put the question, and chewed away at the great plug of tobacco in his cheek as if he were paid to do it, and as if he were paid by piecework.
“Yes,” said the count, “he has done something, but that is a little vague.”
“Wal, yes,” Mr. Quorn allowed, seating himself and setting both elbows on the table, “I allow it's vague, but it won't be vague to-morrow morning.”
“You allude,” said the count, “to the rumor that Louis Philippe has--” “Yes, sir,” retorted Mr. Quorn, with a very bright twinkle of both eyes, “that is the rumor I allood to. That ain't vague, captain, is it? We both know all about it,” he went on, “and I reckon it ought to grease this contract just a little and make it run smooth. Your time's here, if ever it will be, and I propose we strike a bargain.”
“When can you supply the goods?” asked the count.
“Where?” asked Mr. Quorn, as if he were chopping something with a hatchet.
“Ah,” said the count, “that has to be considered.”
“Yes,” the visitor assented, “that has to be considered. I'm for having everything above-board. It ain't easy to handle the contrabands of war at a time like this, when every heraldic bird and beast in Europe is on his hind-legs and looking nine ways for Sundays. If Captain Fyffe likes to come down with me to Blackwall I can show him something. On my side I'm all ready, and when I know where the goods are to be landed I'll undertake to fulfil my part of the contract. I'll leave you to yours. Money down on delivery is the only terms. I want to know the money's there, and you want to know the goods are there. The name of the Count Ro-Say-No would be a sufficient guarantee for anybody in the world but a cuss like me. I'm business. In matters of business, gentlemen, delicacy and consideration for high-flown feelings don't enter into my composition, not for a cent's worth. If I was trading with Queen Victoria I should want to know where the money was coming from. Forty thousand sterling is a lot of money, and I expect you, as a man of the world, to excuse my curiosity.”
The count rose from his seat and rang the bell by the fireplace. A servant answered it, and he said, simply: “Ask Miss Rossano to be kind enough to see me here.”
The servant retired, and Mr. Quorn filled in the time of waiting by walking about the room with his hands under his coat-tails, making a cursory inspection of the furniture and the engravings on the walls, and walking from time to time to the fireplace to expectorate. When Violet entered, the count placed a seat for her, but she remained standing, with an interrogative look from Mr. Quorn to me which seemed to ask an explanation of that gentleman's presence.
“My dear,” said the count, “we have often spoken together of the necessity for the purchase of arms for The Cause.”
“Yes,” she said.
“This gentleman,” the count indicated our visitor, “has arms to sell. We have had news this morning which makes it necessary that we should move at once.”
Her face turned pale for a moment and her lips trembled, but she spoke an affirmatory word only, and waited.
“Mr. Quorn,” said the count, “has fifty thousand stand of arms to dispose of.”
“I suppose this is all right,” interrupted Mr. Quorn, “but I may be allowed to say that I have been in a business of this sort more than once in my time, and I never knew any good come out of the introduction of a petticoat.”
Violet looked at him, and I saw her lips twitch with an impulse towards laughter; but Mr. Quorn obviously misunderstood the emotions he had inspired.
“Do not suppose from that, madame,” he said, with great solemnity, “that I have not the reverence for your sex which rules every well-regulated masculine boozom, but this, if it means anything at all, means secrecy, and that is not your sex's strong point.”
“That is a matter, Mr. Quorn,” returned the count, “with which, as I think, you need not concern yourself.”
“That's all right,” returned Mr. Quorn. “I merely mentioned it. It's no affair of mine.”
“Mr. Quorn,” said the count, “has fifty thousand stand of arms to sell. With them he has three million percussion-caps and three million cartridges. His price for the whole is--” he paused there and waited, looking towards the visitor.
“Forty thousand pounds sterling,” said Mr. Quorn.
I interrupted the conversation at this point, asking when the cartridges in question had been made. That was more than Mr. Quorn could say; but I insisted upon an examination of their quality before any bargain with respect to their purchase could be begun. No sportsman shoots with last year's cartridges, and a man whose life depends upon his ammunition should be at least as careful as a sportsman.
“Now,” said Mr. Quorn, “I like this--this is business. This comes of talking to an expert.”
But all the same I could see that he was not over-pleased by my interference at this point.
“We will leave that to your judgment, my dear Fyffe,” said the count. “But in the meantime Mr. Quorn desires to be satisfied of our ability to purchase. You have consulted your lawyer, dear, and you know at what time you will have control of your money--” “On the twelfth of next month,” said Violet. “I have a letter to that effect. If this gentleman desires to see it I shall have great pleasure in showing it to him.”
“Thank you, miss,” said Mr. Quorn. “I should feel satisfied if I could see the document.”
Violet left the room with a furtive smile on her lips, and in a minute or so returned with the letter, which she handed to Mr. Quorn. He drew from his coat-pocket a spectacle-case, and took from it a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. He breathed on these, and polished them with his handkerchief, and then read the letter.
“Richardson & Bowdler,” he said, tapping the paper with one bejewelled, dirty finger, “Acre Building, Cheapside. No objection, I presoom, to my calling on these gentlemen and ascertaining if this document is genuine?”
“Sir,” said the count, stiffly, “the whole matter is open to your investigation. You will take any course which seems to you to be justified by your own interests.”
“That's above-board,” said Mr. Quorn, calmly pocketing the letter and returning his glasses to their case. “I'll take a run down to these folks at once, and things being satisfactory there, I'll be at Captain Fyffe's service any minute. If you've nothing better to do this afternoon, captain, I'll run you down to Blackwall and show you what is to be seen.”
It was arranged that he should call for me between three and four o'clock, and on that understanding he took his leave, retiring with many flourishes and an assurance, specially addressed to Violet, that he was flush on the cause of freedom anywhere and everywhere, the hull globe over, and dead against them blasted Austrians anyhow.
“You must remember, my child,” said the count, when we three were left alone, “that you are spending a great sum of money in this enterprise, that it may all be wasted, and that even if by your help The Cause should win you can never hope to see one pound of your money back again.”
Violet had seated herself beside him at Mr. Quorn's departure, and now, when he began to speak, she slid one arm about his neck and nestled closely to him, with her ripe young cheek touching his grizzled and lined old face.
“I have thought of all that, father,” she answered. “I shouldn't care much in any case what became of the money, for I shall have plenty left. But if it were the last penny, you and Italy would be welcome to it.”
“I know that, my dearest,” the count answered; “but all the same I could wish it were my own. You have not yet heard to-day's news?”
“No,” she said, drawing a little away from him, in order that she might look into his face. “What is it?”
“France is up!” he responded. “Louis Philippe has flown away, and is either on the road here or here already.”
“And that means?” she said.
“'Instant action,” returned the count. “Action without one hour's unnecessary delay.”
“Tell me,” she said, “exactly what it means.”
“We have called a meeting for to-night,” said the count, “and until that is held I can tell you nothing final. But you have a right to know my own design. We can really do nothing practical until we are armed. But I shall propose to quit England to-morrow. I shall leave Captain Fyffe to the negotiations with Quorn, and shall arrange for communications across the frontier, which will enable me to judge of the best place and the wisest hour for an attack. I shall go alone, because I wish to excite as little notice as possible.”
“You must not go alone,” she said, and made a movement towards him with her hands half extended. It was just such a movement as you will see a mother make towards a child that has not quite learned to walk and is in danger of falling. I could see the maternal instinct beaming in her face. The beautiful girl beside this grizzled and prematurely aged man was motherly all over, and it was a lovely and a touching thing to see. The count saw her meaning in a second, and drew back from her with a melancholy and affectionate smile, holding out both hands against her.
“I must go alone,” he said.
“No, no!” cried Violet, taking both his outstretched hands in hers, and bending over him with a look of infinite protection. “My poor dear, have you not suffered enough, and run dangers enough already? I could not bear to be away from you.” He was about to speak, but she closed his lips gently with the palm of her hand. “I have not been your daughter long,” she said, with a little catch in her voice which took me at the throat and made my heart ache with tenderness and pity for her. “I can give you up, dear, when the time comes, but not an hour before.”
“Should I not be happy, Fyffe?” asked the count, turning to me with tears in his eyes. “No, no, dearest, you will wait in England. I shall leave you in safety, for I will take nothing with me--no, not a thought, if I can help it, which would make me a coward for Italy.”
“I can give you up when the time comes,” she repeated, simply, “but not now. I will not ask you to take me into any danger. I don't think,” she went on, striving to make something of a jest of it, and to hide the deeper feeling which controlled her so strongly--“I don't think that I am fond of danger or that I should like it at all; but there is no real reason why I should not be with you just at first.”
“Aye, yes,” cried the count, “there is every reason. I do not know where I may have to go. I do not know how I am to live--to travel--with what associates I must combine. My dear child, you must know the truth; my love must venture to speak it. You would be a drag upon every step, and with you I should not dare to face a single peril. I must go alone; I know the hardship, but that is the task of women. They wait at home and suffer, while the man goes out to enjoy adventure and excitement. It was your mother's fortune, my child, and you inherit it. She was all English, and yet she endured it for my sake. You are at least half of Italy, and Italy has need of both of us. If Italy needs my life, she is welcome to it. If she had need of yours, I would say not a word to hold you back. But your place is at home. Is it not so, Fyffe?”
I was a selfish advocate enough, but he had reason on his side, and I should have been blind indeed not to have seen it.
“It will be wiser--wiser far,” I urged, “to stay at home. To speak plainly, you could not fail, in any sudden emergency, to hamper your father's steps. He would be nervous about you, and anxious for your safety.”
“But there is no need for that,” she cried, with a tender impatience. “I am not afraid. If I were a man you should not talk to me so.”
“No,” said the count, rising and folding his arms about her. “If you were a man, my dearest, you should have your way.”
“Oh,” she said, with a downward gesture of her clinched hands, “I hate these thoughts about women. Why should we not have courage? Why shouldn't we share danger with those we care about? I am not afraid of danger. But I could keep you away from it when there was no reason for it.”
“Violet,” said her father, gently, “I am not inclined to be rash; not now. I have had twenty years of warning, remember.”
“Remember, poor dear!” she cried, with both arms round his neck and her face hidden on his shoulder, “I have never forgotten for a moment since I knew that you were alive. But don't let me be so useless. Let me do something. Let me be near you. Don't leave me behind.”
“You do much already,” said the count, soothing her as he spoke with one loving hand upon her flushed and tear-stained cheek. “You surrender your father and your plighted husband, and a great slice of your fortune. Ah, dearest, you do enough!”
“I do nothing,” she declared. “Oh, I wish I were a man!”
“So do not I,” said the count. “I should quarrel with any wish the fulfilment of which robbed me of my daughter.”
She moved away from him gently, and dried her eyes. Her father watched her solicitously, and by-and-by she walked to the window of the room and said, in a tone of commonplace: “You cannot prevent me from following you.”
“I can forbid it,” he said, in a tone of pain.
“And I can follow all the same,” she answered. He looked at her with a glance in which I read both surprise and grief, and for a minute he found no answer. When she moved to look at him he had turned away, and did not see how timid and beseeching her eyes were, for all the rebellion in her words.
“My child,” he said, “I am at a grave disadvantage. It pleased God to part us, and to deny us even the knowledge of each other's existence. I am still a stranger.”
“No, no, no!” she cried. She turned and ran to him, and it was plain that an appeal couched in such terms was more than she could bear. “You are my father,” she sobbed, “my dear, dear father! All the dearer,” she went on, in words made half inarticulate by her tears, and all the more expressive and affecting--“all the dearer because we never knew each other through all those dreadful years! I love you, dear, and I am not undutiful, and I will do whatever you ask me; but I want to be with you, I want to be with you. I have had you for such a little time. I want you--I want you always!”
“You must spare me to Italy,” said her father, kissing her hands and stroking them within his own.
“Italy! What would Italy be to me if you were not a part of it?” The Southern blood broke out there plain to see, and in her flashing eyes and vivid face and the free gesture with which she spoke she was Italian all over. “Do you think a girl can love a country or a name as she loves her father? Do you think she cares about your houses and intrigues, your Piedmonts and Savoys, your Cavours and Metterniches? I would give everything I have to Italy, but I would give it all to Austria just as soon if you were on her side!”
The count stood as if stricken dumb. I do not believe that this human natural aspect of the case had ever occurred to him as being within the broadest limits of possibility. Italy had come to mean everything in the world to him. The word meant love, revenge, ambition, the very daily bread and water of his heart and soul. The fate of Italy overrode, in his mind, every personal consideration--not only for himself, but, unconsciously, for every living creature. It was natural that it should be so. It would have been strange, perhaps, had it been otherwise. I could see that his daughter's outburst sounded in his ears almost like a blasphemy. He stood wonder-struck and silent.
“If you,” he said at last, with a face as white as a ghost's, and raising a shaking hand towards her--“if you, my daughter, the living remembrance of my wife--if she herself were back here from her repose in heaven--if all that ever were or could be dear to me stood on the one side, and my country's freedom on the other, I would lose you all--I would sacrifice you with my own hand for that great cause as willingly as I would sacrifice myself.”
“Of course you would,” she answered, with an amazement almost equal to his own. “What was the use of proclaiming a truth so self-evident as that? You are a man and a patriot, and you love your country”--her voice rang and her bosom heaved--“and you have given all the best years of your life in suffering for her; and that is why I love and honor you. But that is what a man could never understand. You love your cause, and we women love you for loving it; and love it because you love it, and we would die for it just as soon as you would. Oh, you heroic, noble, beautiful--goose!” She rushed at him, and kissed him with a passionate impetuosity. “And you think it's all Italy. It isn't Italy; it's you! You're my father, and you're a hero, and a--and a--martyr, and the noblest man that ever lived; and I love you, and I'm proud of you, and--Italy! You're my Italy, dear!”
I know that I have not even recorded the words she spoke, well as I fancied I remembered them. But there is no recording the manner, all fire and passion and melting tenderness; and such a sudden sense of fun and affection in the very middle of it all that I was within an ace of crying at it. The count did cry, without disguise, and so did she, and I did what I could to look as if I were not in the least moved. But when her outburst was over, and we had all settled down again, there was no further hint of disobedience. Violet sat down submissively on a little footstool at the count's side, holding his hand and resting her head against his knee while he detailed his plans, so far as they were ripe, or speculated beyond them, looking into the possibilities of the future.
In a while, according to arrangement, Mr. Quorn returned, and this broke up our conclave. I knew already the hour and place appointed for that night, and the count and I agreed to meet there. 12
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We met in a room in Soho, over an Italian restaurateur's. The place was dimly lit with lamps and a brace of tall candles, and down the centre of the room ran a long, unclothed table, with chairs ranged at either side of it. The men who formed our council were of every social grade, and in the crowd which hung about the room at the moment of my entrance there were two or three who would have passed social muster anywhere, and two or three who were shaggy, unkempt, and ragged enough to have been taken for beggars. One or two wore the short round jacket which is the trade-mark of the Italian waiter, and one, a diamond merchant from Hatton Garden, carried so much of his own stock in trade in open evidence about him that he would have been a fortune to a dozen of the poorer brethren. But whether they were prince or peasant, lean tutor, fat padrone, coarse stockbroker, or polished noble, they were all at one in patriotism, and there was not a man there who had not proved himself up to the hilt, and who was not given, body and soul, to The Cause.
In the darkest corner of the room stood an old grand pianoforte, the top propped open, and the keyboard exposed as if it had been but recently employed. A chair with a ragged cushion on top of it was pushed a little back, and a sheet of music drooped from the stand towards the keys. My entrance had excited no regard, and I took my place in this dim corner to look about me. The count had not yet arrived, and, indeed, I was some five minutes before the appointed hour; but as I stood watching, Brunow came in and shook hands with at least a score of the men assembled. The light was anything but clear, and I could not be quite certain of his aspect; but to me he wore a troubled and harassed look, and I thought I had never seen him so pale and wan. He talked loudly and excitedly; and little as I understood the language with which he was so familiar, I made out enough to tell me that he was exulting in the news that day had brought us, and was prophesying success for the Italian cause. For people who did not know him, he had an extraordinary power of exciting enthusiasm, and before he had been three minutes in the place everybody was listening to him; and once or twice as he spoke there was a murmur of applause, now and then a laugh, and once a burst of cheering. Just as this broke out he caught sight of me standing in the dimness of the corner by the old piano, and peered at me as if uncertain of my identity. When he recognized me he turned away and spoke no more, and I thought it was anger at me which flushed his face at first and then made it paler than ever. I was sorry for Brunow, and, little as I valued him, I was grieved that he should nurse his groundless grudge against me; but there was nothing to be done at present.
Almost as the cheers which had greeted Brunow's last sentence died away the count came in. He walked straight to the head of the table, and took his seat there. There was more cheering, and then the men assembled took their places anyhow, with no distinction of persons. The count's official statement of the news was received with a murmur in which a note of stern interest was audible. I had been assured, from my first knowledge of them, that the men of this particular conclave meant business. It had been the main affair of my life to judge of the intentions of societies similar to this, and I have no reason to believe that my experiences had been altogether wasted. Their purpose was evident enough now, and in the flush of anticipated victory which brightened every mind with the thought that the one ally of the oppressor was down, I read the reflection of my own certainty. “You are my Italy,” said Violet to her father, and in my own mind I repeated her words as if they had been the end of an old song, and added, “_You_ are mine.”
It was not long before I found myself summoned to an active part in the deliberations of the night. I heard my own name from the count's lips, and, looking up, saw his hand beckoning to me.
“My dear and valued friend,” said the count, as I stood by him, “knows nothing of Italian. All of us speak or understand his language more or less, for our exile in England has taught us at least the tongue of freedom. To-day Captain Fyffe has accepted a mission in our behalf. We have had an offer of fifty thousand rifles. A wealthy Italian lady, who commands me to conceal her name at this moment, has provided the money for their purchase.” There was a tremendous cheer at this, and every man there sprang to his feet. “Captain Fyffe,” the count resumed, when quiet was restored, “has charged himself with the negotiations. He is an experienced soldier, and has undertaken to see that we are not buying anything that is not likely to be of solid worth to us. I will ask you now to listen to Captain Fyffe's report.”
I never pretended to be anything of an orator, but I could make a plain statement of that sort, though I was a little embarrassed by the feeling that a good many of my listeners could not understand me. I reported that I had overhauled a number of cases of the arms it was proposed to purchase, and that I was reasonably satisfied of their efficiency. The rifle was of the latest make, and though we have made great strides in gunnery since then, we have made no such stride as was made at that time. I was able to say that the weapons were more effective than anything with which our enemies were armed, and to announce that we were in a position to effect an astonishing bargain.
“More than that,” I said, in conclusion, “I am not disposed to say even here. The arms are contraband of war, and if it were known that they were in England it would be the duty of the authorities to seize them. That fact makes silence safest.”
Those who understood, or who thought they understood, translated this brief statement of mine to those who did not, and this made a deep hum all about the table. In the midst of it a man entered at the door, and, advancing to the count, began to talk to him animatedly in some local dialect, of which I could not understand so much as a syllable. The count nodded twice or thrice to signify attention, and though at first he looked doubtful, he ended by smiling, and dismissed the messenger with an applauding pat upon the shoulder. He rose to his feet before the man had reached the door, and made a brief statement, which was received with a mingling of dissent and applause. Ruffiano leaped to his feet, crying out in English: “Brothers, I claim a word!” and there was instant silence, every face turning attentively to his. He began to speak rapidly, with all his usual vehemence, and with even more than his usual plenitude of gesture. Almost at the beginning of his argument he bent his lean figure forward and beat rapidly upon the table with the palm of his hand, and then, suddenly recovering his full height, sent both arms backward. Brunow sat immediately on his right, and the back of the orator's hand caught him resoundingly upon the cheek; and at this unexpected incident the audience broke into a sudden shout of laughter, in which Brunow tried to join--with a curiously ill success, I thought. I could not understand the subject of discussion, for Ruffiano had immediately gone back to his native language, and there was something about Brunow's look which could hardly be accounted for by so trifling a misadventure as that which had just occurred. The instinct of the eye told him that I was looking at him, and he glanced at me and then suddenly averted his face. He made an effort to appear at ease, but his color came and went strangely, and both his hands trembled, though I saw that he was pressing them heavily upon the table with the intent to steady them. I thought he might possibly have been raging inwardly at me, and that in his unreasoning anger at me he might find my mere presence hateful to him; but I could not help thinking that his looks expressed fear or suspense rather than anger. When the laughter excited by the accident had died away, Ruffiano turned to him with a voice and gesture of apology; and having once laid his hand on Brunow's shoulder, continued to address him as if the argument he was offering, whatever it might be, concerned Brunow more intimately than any one else there present. He seemed, so far as I could judge, to carry the suffrages of the meeting with him, but I had quite resigned any feeble attempt I had made to follow the thread of his discourse, when I caught distinctly the words, “Beware of the women! I say it again and again and again: beware of the women! It is my last word, beware of the women!” Every word of this I understood quite clearly; and while I was wondering why the advice was given, Ruffiano dropped back with a grotesque suddenness into his seat, and shouted the words of warning a fourth time, striking both hands, palms downward, on the table.
Brunow followed him, and beginning somewhat shakily at first, recovered confidence as he went on, and, warming to his work, delivered a speech which sounded eloquent and persuasive. It pleased his audience, beyond a doubt, for almost every sentence was punctuated with murmurs of approval; and when he sat down there was warm applause, in which almost everybody but Ruffiano joined, but he remained unconvinced and dissatisfied; it was evident from the way in which he rolled his gaunt figure in his chair, and his frequent cries of “No, no! wrong, wrong! absolutely wrong!” The count persuaded him to silence, and then spoke again to the man who had charge of the door. He bowed and disappeared, and there was a moment or two of waiting, during which everybody looked eagerly towards the entrance. I seized the opportunity to whisper an inquiry to the count.
“A deputation of Italian and Hungarian legates,” he responded. “They desire to congratulate us on the news of to-day, and to express their sympathy for The Cause.”
“That can do but little harm,” I answered. “But I agree with Ruffiano all the same: the less they know of our actual intentions the better.”
The count nodded smilingly. “You are quite right; ours is not work for women.”
As he spoke the door-keeper reappeared, bowing, and the whole assembly rose to its feet. Half a dozen ladies entered, and some eight or ten of our own number, among whom the count and Brunow were most conspicuous, moved to welcome them. After a little bustle of compliments and arrangement, chairs were found for the visitors at the far end of the room, and the meeting fell back into its former aspect. One of our unlooked-for visitors sat on the chair near the old grand piano, and I could see her white hand, ungloved and with a jewelled bracelet sparkling at the wrist, resting on the key-board. That corner of the long and narrow chamber was so dim, and the intervening lamps and candles sent up such a glare between, that I was not quite certain of her identity; but I felt a shock of surprise in the mere fancy that this was the Baroness Bonnar. I made a movement to one side, and, shading my eyes from the light, made her out with certainty. It was the Baroness Bonnar, and no other. She had often spoken in my hearing of her Hungarian birth, and of her hatred of the Austrians; but I had never been inclined to regard this as being more than a bit of private theatricals, and I was astonished to find her withdrawing herself from the butterfly, fashionable career she seemed to follow, and taking so much interest in sterner matters as her presence there seemed to indicate.
There was a little ceremonial, in the course of which the count proffered a formal welcome to the deputation; and one of the ladies, who was richly attired and wore an air of much distinction, spoke for three or four minutes in a balanced, musical voice. The count whispered me her title--I have forgotten it ages ago, though she was a great personage in her time--and told me that she had lost her husband and her three sons in the struggle for independence. This made her interesting and venerable, and I watched her closely as I listened to the balanced accents of her mournful and musical voice. While this lady spoke her figure hid that of the baroness, but I could still see the white hand resting on the key-board, and the jewelled bracelet glittering in some stray ray of light. By-and-by the hand began to hover over the keys as if it were playing a phantom air, and a moment later I saw its fellow hovering in company with it. Just as the speaker sat down I heard the sound of a chord, but this went unnoticed in the burst of cheering which arose.
I could see the baroness now. She was sitting with both hands on the keys, and as the cheering died away they rose and fell again with a loud and brilliant crash. Everybody turned and stared in a dead silence, and she began to sing. I had heard that song from Violet's lips, and a day or two later she made me a translation of it, of which I have long since forgotten everything but the first verse. It was a song of revolution, almost as popular in Italy and quite as sternly prohibited as was the Marseillaise in France. Here is the one verse that I remember: “Oh, is it sleep or death In which Italia lies? Betwixt her pallid lips is any breath? Is any light of life within her eyes? Oh, is it sleep or death?”
It went on to picture Italy prostrate under the armed heel of Austria, and in its concluding verse the trance was broken, the trampled figure had risen to its feet, had wrested the sword from the oppressor's hand, had hurled him to the earth, and stood triumphant over his lifeless body. I have heard finer voices by the dozen, but I have not often heard a finer style or one more magnetic and enthralling. The little woman sang as if the song possessed her, and it is not often that a singer finds such an audience. When the first amazement was over I looked about me and saw that everybody had risen and turned towards the singer as if by a common impulse. The song was recognized at the first bar, and it was listened to with an enthusiasm which had something very like worship in it. Before the first verse was over I saw tears glittering in many eyes, and when leaving the mournful strain with which she opened, the singer passed on to the swing and passion of the second and third verses, many of the listeners were so carried away that they wept outright; somebody struck in on the final line with a ringing tenor, and then the whole crowd joined in. The third verse was sung over and over again, in a scene of enthusiasm almost as wild as that of the count's welcome at the railway station, or the later and still more memorial meeting of that same evening. The hot Italian blood was fairly fired, and it took a long time to cool again. Brunow, who only a few minutes before had seemed so unlike his usual self, surrendered himself to the excitement of the moment with a zest, and seemed as madly enthusiastic as any one of them. He sang with both hands in the air, beating time extravagantly; and when at last the hubbub was over, he pressed his way to the baroness, who stood smiling at the pianoforte and drawing on her-gloves. He took both her hands in his, and said something to her at which she laughed as if well pleased. He made a way for her through the crowd gathered about the piano, and escorted her to the door. As they passed me I heard her say to him: “I told you how it would be,” and I had reason to remember the words afterwards.
This unlooked-for episode being over, and the deputation of ladies having been dismissed with roaring “vivas,” we went back to business. I noticed that Brunow's earlier awkwardness of manner had given way to a mood and aspect of great elation. But of course I was without the key to the understanding of the situation, and his change of temper had no significance for me. I can understand it now, however, and I know that he had frightened himself unnecessarily over the baroness's little experiment. It was he who had taken upon himself the onus of introducing the ladies' deputation, and the baroness's object is, of course, clear enough. All she wanted was to make herself favorably known to the general leaders of the party as a well-wisher to The Cause. Whether Brunow knew, then, anything of her full purpose I am unable to say with certainty, but I am inclined to think he did, and I have two or three proofs which have grown more cogent with time that he already knew the theme of Austrian money, and had embarked on that wicked and degrading career which led him to so swift and just a punishment.
Of course little real business was done in those big gatherings of party of which this night's assembly was one. All the men were true and tried, as I have already said, but their numbers alone would have made them unwieldy as an active body, and the real work was performed by a sort of informal committee, of which I had now for some time been a member. Almost from the first hour of his arrival in England the count had taken his place among his party as the natural and recognized leader. I never knew a man who made less pretence of being dominant, but I never knew a man either who had in so marked degree that unconscious inner force of character which gives a man control over his fellows. At any moment of importance it was his habit to single out among us the men of whose counsel he had need, and only those thus singled out ever ventured to stay behind when the public business was finished and the more intimate discussions of the inner conclave were about to be held. This night, a little to my surprise, he beckoned Brunow, who, as I fancied, had been waiting in hope and expectation of the summons. His face, which had grown once more a little haggard and anxious, brightened when he received it, and the count held him in private conversation for a moment, with one hand on his shoulder. He spoke in a subdued tone, the murmur of which alone reached me; but when he had finished what he had to say, Bru-now answered with a loud alacrity: “Willingly, my dear count, most willingly.” At this the count beckoned me, and as I approached Brunow held out his hand.
“I hope you'll take that, Fyffe,” he said. “I beg your pardon, with all my heart. I wasn't myself when I spoke, but I know that what I said was the merest nonsense.”
I took his proffered hand at once, without a shadow of suspicion or reserve. There had never been very much in common between us, but we were life-long acquaintances, and, after a fashion, we had been friends. I was glad to patch up the quarrel, and willing to say and think no more about it.
The council we held was a brief one, for the count had already made up his mind to his own satisfaction; and when he had advised us of that, the business was practically over.
“I arranged with Mr. Quorn,” he said, “more than a week ago, that if it were finally decided to purchase the arms he had for sale I would travel with him to Italy on board of his own ship, and would myself undertake the responsibility of effecting a landing. I have arranged also that trustworthy information shall be conveyed to us from the shore, I am not anxious to fall into Austrian hands again, and I shall take all precaution to avoid surprise.”
“On what part of the coast do you intend to effect a landing, sir?” Brunow inquired.
“That will depend,” the count answered, “on circumstances of which I am at present ignorant. I must wait and see. I shall probably start to-morrow. Mr. Quorn quite naturally and properly declines to part with the goods until he is paid for them. The money cannot be drawn until the 12th of August, but it will then be despatched to me by a safe hand, and I shall have ample time to signify the place to which it must be carried. Quorn,” he added, “is assured of our _bona fides_, and will be ready to start at any hour I may indicate.”
One or two of our number, I remember, endeavored to dissuade him from his plan, on the ground that we had need of his leadership in England, and that there were many things to be done there which could not be intrusted to hands of less authority. Ruffiano combated this opinion.
“We shall all be wanted in Italy,” he argued, “and Count Rossano will be more needed there than any of us. The mere knowledge that he is again on Italian soil, and that he is amply provided with arms, will bring the people about him anywhere.”
The discussion did not last long, and it was so plainly to be seen from the beginning that the count was bent upon carrying out his own plan, and Brunow, Ruffiano, and I were so strongly of opinion that he had chosen the most useful course, that opposition vanished very early. The count delegated his authority as president of the council to Ruffiano, who, in spite of his outside singularities, was a man of much force of character, and, next to the count himself, commanded most completely the respect of the party.
Ruffiano, the count, and I walked to Lady Rollin-son's house together, and Brunow came half-way. As we walked together behind the two elders, who were deep in conversation, we found little to say to each other; but at last Brunow put his arm through mine in quite the old friendly fashion, and brought me almost to a standstill.
“I mustn't go any farther, old fellow,” he said. “I shall get used to things by-and-by, I dare say, but it was a little bit of a facer at first, and I haven't quite got over it yet. Look here, Fyffe, we've always been friends, don't let what's happened make any difference between us.”
I don't think I ever felt so well disposed to him as I did at that minute. I was victor, for one thing, and it was easy to make allowance for the man who had lost; and, apart from that, his withdrawal had been so generous and candid that I should have been a brute not to have accepted it instantly. I shook hands with him with a warmer cordiality than I had ever experienced towards him, and with a higher opinion of his manhood. It was the last time I ever took him by the hand, poor Brunow! and though it is a hundred chances to one in my mind now that he was at that very moment plotting to betray me, I can't somehow find it in my heart to feel so bitter against him as I should have felt against a stronger man. He never seemed to me to be altogether responsible, like other people, and the payment of his treachery was so swift and dreadful that the memory of it breeds a sort of half-forgiveness in my mind.
There were scores of hard business details to be thought of and talked about, and we three conspirators sat together until the night was late. When at last Ruffiano left us, the count detained me.
“The world is full of changes,” he said, “and no man knows what may happen. We may never meet again, Fyffe, and I have a solemn charge to leave you. If I am caught again they will make short work of me. I do not mean to be caught if I can help it, but I know the risk I run. If anything should happen to me, I counsel you, for Violet's sake, to retire from The Cause. She cannot spare us both, and Italy has no claim on you.”
I suppose the surprise I felt at receiving such advice from such a quarter showed itself in my face, for he went on with a smile: “I see you wonder at me, but I have had time to think since Violet spoke out her mind this afternoon. A man may have a cause and may set it above everything in the world, but a woman sees an individual--her father--her lover--her brother--her husband--a baby--any solitary human trifle--and to her the one individual is more valuable than any ideal. You will do as I wish, Fyffe?”
“No!” I answered. “I am pledged, and I will carry out my promise. I should despise myself and Violet would despise me if I went back from it.”
“Well, well,” he answered, and I could not tell from his manner whether he was pleased or displeased at my reply, “we are all in God's hands. Good-night, and good-bye. We shall not meet again for a little while, in any case.”
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The count had been gone a week, and of course no news was as yet to be looked for. He had sailed with Quorn for some undecided part of the Italian coast, and we had resigned ourselves to hear no more of him for at least another fortnight. We were all busy enough at this time, and news favorable to our enterprise came on us thick and fast every day.
This is no place for a history of the last Italian revolution. That story has never yet been fitly told, but it will furnish a splendid epic one of these days for a great historian. It came like a beneficent earthquake, with toil and trouble and turmoil enough, and it stirred up all Europe, and shook down many unjust forms of government. To my mind it is the happiest and most beautiful event in the modern history of Europe, for the revolution, though it was effected with the sternest purpose and the most unflinching heroism, was marked by none of the excesses of revenge and hatred which have disfigured so many popular risings against tyranny.
I had been hard at work until three o'clock in the morning, had gone to bed dead tired, and had slept like a log until ten, when Hinge came in with a cup of steaming coffee, and began with his usual silent dexterity to lay out my clothes. I paid no especial heed to him at first, but by-and-by I caught sight of his face reflected in the mirror which decorated my skimpy wardrobe, and I could see at once that he was beaming with self-congratulation. He was one of the most faithful and constant fellows in the world, but as a general thing he was a little saturnine in temper. Any outward display of cheerfulness was rare with him, and such an outward sign of inward exultation as I read this morning was a downright astonishment.
“Why, Hinge,” I asked him, “what's the matter with you?”
“Nothing the matter with me, sir,” responded Hinge.
“You look particularly pleased,” I said. “What has happened? Has anybody left you a fortune?”
“No, sir,” Hinge answered, turning his hard-bitten, queer old mug towards me with a shining smile. “Nobody's left me a fortune, sir, but I'm just as glad as as if they had. You're a-lying a bit late this morning, sir, and you haven't seen the newspapers.”
“The newspapers!” I cried, springing out of bed at once. “Let me have them. What's the news?”
“The news is, sir,” Hinge answered, standing in attitude of attention, and smiling like a happy Gargoyle--“the news is, sir, as the Italians is playing Old Harry at Milan with them Austrians, and old Louis Philippe turned up at Newhaven, England, yesterday.”
I made my toilet with unusual haste, and in the meantime Hinge brought the papers and read out the news.
“I spent some years among them Austrians, sir,” said Hinge, and then paused suddenly, scratching his head with a look of irritation.
“Yes,” I answered; “what of that?” Something was evidently on the good fellow's mind, and in the midst of his delight he was troubled with it.
“You're a-going out to Italy, ain't you, sir?” he asked. I was shaving at the moment, and contented myself with a mere affirmative grunt. “Well, it's like this, sir,” said Hinge; “I was in a civil capacity when I was in Austria, wasn't I, sir?”
“Well, yes,” I told him, “I suppose so.”
“They couldn't have sworn me in without my knowing it, could they, sir?” Hinge demanded. “Of course I picked up a bit of the language in the course of a year or two, but when I went there I didn't speak a word. When I was first engaged, sir, there was a lot of things said to me as I didn't understand no more than the babe unborn. Now, if I was swore in,” Hinge proceeded, with an air of argument, “and if I was swore in in anything but a civil capacity, that can't be counted as being binding on my heart and conscience. Now, can it, sir?”
“You silly fellow,” I answered, “you couldn't have been sworn in without being aware of it. A man cannot vow and promise that he will do anything without his own knowledge and desire.”
“Well, then, sir,” said Hinge, apparently relieved a little, “if I was swore in--and I might have been, you know, sir--I don't know but what they might have thought they'd done it--but even if it was so, you wouldn't think it binding?”
“Of course it couldn't be binding, but of course nothing of the sort was done. You were engaged, as I understand, as a groom.” Hinge assented. “You happened to be engaged by a gentleman who was an officer in a foreign army. You don't suppose that an officer makes it his business to swear in all his civilian servants, do you?”
“Why, no, sir,” Hinge admitted. “But it was a foreign country, and a lot of things was said to me as I didn't understand no more than the babe unborn.”
“You may make your mind quite easy on that score, Hinge. You are not in any way bound to the Austrian service. But what difference can that possibly make to you now?”
“Why, sir,” said Hinge, scratching his head again, “I've lived among them Austrians, and I don't like 'em. I'm for Italy, I am. I used to think, sir, as the Italians was a organ-grinding class of people as a body, and I never had much respect for 'em. But I've seen a lot in six months, sir, and I've learned a bit, if I may make so bold as to say so. There's the count, now, sir; anybody can see as he's a gentleman. Why, if you'll believe me, sir, I've never seen a gentleman as was more a gentleman than the count. But, bless your heart, sir, you'd never have thought so if you'd a known him all the years as I did, off and on, a-living worse than a wild beast behind a muck-heap, and in a cellar underneath the stables. Now you know, sir,” proceeded Hinge, growing warm and even angry with the theme, “that ain't civilized; it ain't Christian; it ain't treating a man as if you was a man yourself. Because a gentleman goes and fights for his country--that's a natural thing to do, ain't it? --they keep him dirtier and darker and 'orribler than any wild beast I ever see, for twenty years, and would have kept him all his miserable life, sir. I used to get that 'ot about it when I found it out I used to feel as if I was ready to do murder. I did, indeed, sir. And yet I can appeal to you, sir, and ask you fair and square, between an officer and his servant, if I am not a civil spoken person, as a rule. I believe I am, sir, and yet I used to feel as if it 'd do me good, every now and then, to go out and shoot a Austrian.”
“I suppose,” I said, “that the upshot of all this is that when I go to Italy you want to go with me.”
“That's it, sir,” Hinge returned, delightedly. “If I'm only free, sir, if I was engaged in nothing but a civil capacity--” “You are quite free to go,” I told him; “and I had thoroughly made up my mind to take you with me, supposing always that you were willing to be taken.”
“I'm more than willing, sir,” Hinge responded. “I should like to hear 'Boot and saddle' again, sir; so would you, I am sure.”
I had never heard Hinge break out like this before, and the good fellow's enthusiasm and right-thinking pleased me, and as I went on dressing I kept, him talking.
“I should think, sir,” he said, and he was about me all the while in his usual handy and unobtrusive fashion--“I should think, sir, as anybody as knowed the count 'd be glad to fight on his side. It makes you want to fight for a gentleman like that as has gone through so much. And if you'll excuse me telling you, sir, what makes me so pertickler glad to go--” “Yes,” I said, for he paused and looked a trifle confused. “Go on, what is it?”
“Well, sir,” he answered, “I know it isn't right in my place to be talking, but there's Miss Rossano, sir--” I turned rather sharply round on him at the mention of that name, and Hinge, standing at attention, saluted. “No harm meant, sir,” he said, “and I 'ope, sir, there's no offence. But I took a letter from you to Miss Rossano, sir, last Wednesday week. It was the second time as I was in the house, sir, and when Miss Rossano came out to give me the answer, she saw as it was me, and she asks me in; and there was the count, sir, a-sitting in the parlor. And says Miss Rossano, 'Father,' she says, 'here's the faithful man,' she says, 'as treated you so kind when you was in prison along with them blooming Austrians,' she says; and the count he gets up in his grand way, and he shakes me by the hand, with his other hand on my shoulder. They'd have made me sit down between them, sir, if I'd a done it, and the count, sir, with his own hands, he powered me out a glass of sherry wine. It was the right sort, that was,” said Hinge, passing his hand across his lips with a gleam of remembrance, and instantly resuming his rigid attitude, as if he had suddenly found himself at fault, as, of course, in his own mind he did. “They was that kind between 'era and that nice way with it I didn't know whether I was a-standing on my head or my heels. And then the count he says something to Miss Rossano in his own lingo--language, I should ha' said, sir, begging your pardon--and Miss Rossano she answers him back again, and they get a-talking till there was tears in both their eyes, sir. And then Miss Rossano she fetches out her purse, sir, and she takes a ten-pound note, and here it is.” Hinge took it from his waistcoat pocket, and opened it out before me. “Of course, sir, I didn't want to take it, for whatever little bit I done I done it for my own amusement, as a man may say. I've had a-many larks in my time, but I never was paid for none of them like that--two pound a week pension for a lifetime and a easy job into the bargain. I didn't want to take this, sir,” Hinge continued, folding up the note and restoring it to his pocket; “but Miss Rossano she comes at me and shut it into my hand with both her own, whether I would or no, and all of a sudden, sir--” He stopped with a gulp, and swallowed laboriously twice or thrice. I was tickled, but I was touched at the same time, and touched pretty deeply; but I could not afford to show that to Hinge, and I dare say I looked pretty hard and stern at him.
“What did she do?” I asked, rather gruffly.
“She--she kissed my 'and, sir; that un.” He held out his right hand and looked at it as if it were, in some sort, a wonder. “I never seen anything done like it,” said Hinge. “And I was that took aback, and that delighted, and that flabbergastered!”
Hinge positively began to blubber, and what with, the mirth of it, and my own vivid sense of Violet's feeling at the time, and this revelation of the simple fellow's goodness, I was very near doing the same myself. I verily believe that I should have joined Hinge, and a very pretty pair we should have made (for I have found at the theatre and elsewhere that there is no way of disposing a man to tears like the way of making him laugh through affection and sympathy beforehand); but luckily for myself, I made shift to ask him, in a blustering way, what he meant by it, and to order him out of the room. He was so very shamefaced while he waited upon me at breakfast after this that I would have given a good deal to shake hands with him, and to tell him that he was a very fine fellow; but though I have known that impulse many times in my life, and have sometimes felt it very strongly, I have never been able to obey it, and I know that with many people I have passed through life as a hard man--perhaps to my own advantage.
This was the beginning of a strange day--the day on which I had my first suspicion of Brunow, and the day of poor old Ruffiano's betrayal, in which I myself had an unconscious hand. It came about in this way: I had seen at a gun-maker's shop in the Strand some weeks before a brace of revolvers which had greatly taken my fancy. They were not the old-fashioned, clumsy pepper-caster which I can very well remember as having been used in actual warfare, and, indeed, esteemed as a deadly weapon, but were new from America, with all the latest patents. I had already examined them thoroughly, and had made up my mind to buy them when the time came; but I was afraid of accumulating expenses, and it was only now when the pinch of war was so near that I could find the heart to part with the money. Hinge went with me, keeping his usual place at a pace or half a pace behind my right shoulder, so that I could talk to him whenever I had a mind, while he still kept the position which he thought consistent with his master's dignity. Just as I came upon Charing Cross I sighted Ruffiano; and he, seeing me at the same moment, hurried across the street in his impetuous fashion, and barely escaped being run over. The escape was so very close, that when he reached me I congratulated him heartily, though if I had known what was going to happen I might much more properly have commiserated him. But the future is in no man's knowledge, and I have often been forced to think that that is a blessed thing, and one to be heartily thankful for. I have been happy at many moments, and so have those nearest and dearest to me, when, if we could have known what an hour would bring forth, we should have been profoundly mournful in anticipation of an event not yet guessed of.
Poor old Ruffiano was full of enthusiasm and full of news. He was better dressed than I had ever seen him before, and in consequence less remarkable to look at.
“You shall congratulate me on more than that,” said the good old man, smilingly. “Within a few hours I shall have news straight from home, and but for you--see now how one thing depends upon another--it might never have reached me at all. Had I never known you I might never have known your excellent and estimable young friend, the Honorable Mr. Brunow, and,” he continued, smiling and bending over me, to lay the tip of a bony finger on either of my shoulders before he straightened himself to his gaunt height, “it is evident that if I had never met the Honorable Mr. Brunow it would not have been possible for the Honorable Mr. Brunow to bring me news.”
“You get your news from Brunow?” I responded, little guessing what it meant, and feeling in my blind ignorance quite friendly towards Brunow for having done anything to give the sad exile so much pleasure. “And I needn't ask you if the news is good news.”
“I am told it is,” he responded; “but I have it yet to hear.” He explained to me that he had two sisters resident in Italy, who lived at tolerable ease upon what the family confiscations had left them of their property. “They would have maintained me well,” said the old man, with his cordial, innocent smile, “but I have always pretended to them to want nothing. They have children, and young men will be expensive, and I get on very well without infringing on their little store. They live together at Posilippo, and a neighbor of theirs, one Signor Alfieri, the bearer of a great name, you observe--it is like an Englishman having Mr. Shakespeare coming to see him--this Signor Alfieri is a neighbor and a friend of theirs. He would have called upon me, but he failed to find me, and he sails for Italy to-night. I meet him at--I forget the name, but it is on your river, and the Honorable Mr. Brunow is so good as to be my guide. Come with me,” he said, suddenly. “You will learn the very latest news of Italy, and you will meet a good patriot who will tell you what was actually doing three weeks ago.”
Now it happened, as fate would have it, that I was free that evening and that Violet was engaged. If I had had any chance of meeting her I should have declined Ruffiano's invitation; but the night seemed likely to be vacant of employment, the old man seemed solicitous, and I saw no reason for refusing him. Quite apart from that it would, as he suggested, be agreeable and perhaps useful to know at first-hand what an Italian thought of the chances of the rising which must have been imminent when he left his country. So I made arrangements to meet Ruffiano and to dine with him at the same Italian restaurant in the upper room of which we held our meeting, and after this I shook hands and went about my own business.
It was dark when we met again, for this was only the fifth day of March, and it was about half-past six in the evening. Ruffiano told me that he had left word at Brunow's lodgings that he might be found here, and we ate our simple dinner, drank our half-flask of Chianti together, and had already reached our coffee and cigars when Brunow came to keep his appointment. He was astonished to find me there, and, I thought, disagreeably astonished. Remembering the terms on which we had parted when we had last Been each other, I was a little surprised at this. I have said already that at our parting on that occasion we shook hands for the last time. It was not because I did not offer him my hand on this occasion, but he seemed not to see it, and I took it back again, resolved in my own mind not to be angry with him, and thinking it probable that he had some attack of his old infirmity of temper.
“Ah, you are here!” cried Ruffiano, rising and half embracing him. “It is a pity you were not here earlier. We have had a jolly little dinner and a jolly little talk.”
I seem to hear the old fellow's voice now, with its quaint accent, the “jollia leetle dinnera” and the “jol-lia leetle talka,” with his half-childish-sounding vowel at the end of almost every word. Poor old Ruffiano! He has seen the end of his trouble this many and many a year. I never knew a more loyal gentleman, or one less capable of digging such a wicked trap as he fell into. Brunow's manner was altogether a puzzle to me, and even next day, enlightened as I was by events, I was unable to understand it, because it seemed altogether so silly a thing for him to run his neck into the noose as he did. I have sometimes thought it possible that he counted on his own apparent simplicity for safety, but in that case he could not have counted how far his embarrassment at the beginning had invited suspicion and misunderstanding.
First of all, he made some little effort to back out of the undertaking, and then, Ruffiano describing himself as being altogether disappointed, he became resigned, and undertook to pilot us to the place of rendezvous. He had a cab outside, one of the old-fashioned four-wheeled hackney-coaches, and as he led us to it some stranger, entering the restaurant, jostled him at the door. He turned with his face towards me at this instant by accident, and I saw that he was as pale as death, and had a queer flush of color at the eyes. His manner was alternately strangely alert and curiously preoccupied, and altogether I knew not what to make of him. The man who drove the cab had evidently had his orders beforehand, and knew exactly where he was expected to go, for he started off without a word. We seemed, to my mind, to travel interminably, for in the course of the journey I fell rather more than half asleep, and at wakeful and observant intervals found myself in portions of the town which, though I have always boasted to know London pretty well, were altogether strange to me. First I made out, with a kind of half-wakeful start, that we were at Whitechapel, and waking, as it seemed to me, a wink or two later, I found that we were in a region of docks and public-houses, with here and there a sulky gleam of dock-water or of river showing under the dark sky--rare passengers and rarer tenements. But, of course, I had not the faintest reason for suspecting anybody, and we went rumbling on, I pretty sleepy, and pretty full of a satisfactory dinner after a hungry day, and Brunow and Ruffiano silent, as it seemed to me, nearly the whole length of the road. After, perhaps, an hour and a half's driving, Brunow woke me by calling impatiently to the cabman, and I came to the full possession of myself in time to see the vehicle swerve suddenly to the right. My prolonged drowse half refreshed me, and the cold, wet air which blew up from the river through the window Brunow had opened fell freshly on my cheek. I could see the river gleaming ahead, with spaces of liquid blackness in it, and a red or green light burning here and there. It was still raining, and the clouds were heavy in the south and west. We stopped almost at the river-side, before a tumble-down-looking little public-house, and here Brunow alighted hastily. A hulking fellow leaned against the door-jamb smoking a short pipe; and Brunow addressing an inquiry to him, he jerked his thumb towards the river, and answered: “Just got steam up. Start in an hour at the outside.”
“Is there no boat?” Brunow asked.
“Boat?” said the man, spitting lazily into the road; “boats enough, if you care to pay for 'em.”
“You hear,” said Brunow, turning, and Ruffiano, dragging his gaunt length out of the cab and stumbling with some difficulty to the rough, dark pavement, called out for a boat by all means.
“I will see him but for a minute,” he said; “but it will be better than nothing. I should be loath to make such a journey without result.”
“Find us a boat,” said Brunow. He spoke in such a voice as a man might have used if he had ordered his own execution, and I remarked that at the time. I can see now that a hundred thousand things were happening to advise me of the truth, but I was as ignorant and as unsuspicious of it as if I had been a baby. The man at the door lounged out into the road, and with a turn of the head invited us to follow him. We obeyed this voiceless bidding, and in a very little while found ourselves on a rough quay at the river-side. We descended a set of break-neck steps, and in another minute found ourselves afloat. The man pulled with leisurely, strong strokes to where a boat lay in midstream, with its green light towards us; and nearing the vessel, raised a hoarse cry, “Ship ahoy there!” The cry was answered from aboard the boat, and a ladder was lowered to us by which we climbed on deck. Brunow went first, Ruffiano followed, and I went third. It struck me as a surprising thing that at the very minute on which my foot struck the ladder the boat shot from under me. I sang out aloud to the man to ask where he was going, but he returned no answer save in a sneering and insolent-sounding growl, which might have meant anything or nothing. My conclusion was that he was coming back in time to take us away again, and I gave the matter no further heed, but followed Ruffiano on deck, still unsuspicious. My first surprise came when a man in a dreadnaught jacket and a sou'wester asked in German, “Is that the man?” and, without waiting for an answer, sang below, “Full steam ahead!” Even then I had no idea of a plan to carry off anybody, but I was astonished to find a man talking German and giving orders in German on a craft which I had imagined to be Italian.
“But why full steam ahead?” I asked Brunow; and he turned upon me in the darkness with a faltering in his voice.
“I don't know,” he said. “There's something infernally strange about all this. Have we been trapped? This fellow's a German.”
“Trapped!” I answered. “How should we be trapped?”
“This,” cried Brunow, in a loud and quavering tone, “is not the ship I meant to board. There's some mistake here! Hi, you there!”
“Halloa!” said the man in the dreadnaught, approaching and speaking in broken English. “You can hoult your chaw. There is nothing for you to cry out about. Gom dis vays.”
Still in growing wonderment, and feeling on the whole that I should have been much better satisfied if I had had with me the brace of revolvers I had bought that morning, I followed the man down the companion-ladder.
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{
"id": "22205"
}
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15
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None
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The paddles had already begun to churn in the water, and the vessel to move slowly, but with a swift vibration in every plank of her which promised speed when once she had gathered way. I was suspicious enough already, though in so vague a fashion that I hardly guessed what I suspected, and I recall the fact that I was not in the least surprised when I heard a cry from Ruffiano's lips, and saw the old man struggling in the arms of a big sailor who had clipped him by both elbows from behind and held him in a position of the most serious disadvantage. Without reflection, I sprang to his release. I felt a heavy blow between the shoulders, which would in all probability have taken effect upon my head but for my sudden movement, and in an instant I was in the middle of as severe a rough-and-tumble fight as I could remember anywhere. There were eight or ten people engaged in it, and the whole thing was so rapid that I had not the faintest idea as to where my opponents came from. I only know that within five seconds of the time at which I had left the deck I was somehow back upon it, fighting, as it seemed to me at the moment, for bare life, though I cannot think at this time of day that any very serious personal violence was intended towards myself.
I was fighting like mad with half a dozen when we suddenly swerved altogether against some part of the bulwark which had not been properly secured, and was probably made to open to afford a gangway for passengers, or for the unloading of baggage. The rail swung back, and I, clutching desperately at one of the fellows with whom I was struggling, fell overboard, and soused into the black water, with the bitter chill of a rainy spring in it. I think I may say quite honestly that on land I was a tolerably accomplished sportsman, but I was mainly inland bred as a boy, and though I could swim, after a fashion, and could also, after a fashion, handle a pair of sculls, I was a moderately poor creature in the water. The man I had clutched went down with me, and we both came up spouting the loathsome Thames water from our mouths and nostrils, and still holding to each other. As good luck would have it for me at that moment I came up on top, and a single blow disengaged me from my late adversary. The vessel from which we had fallen was already at a distance which seemed astonishing, and as I trod the water and looked about me, all the twinkling lights of the river craft and the shore looked alarmingly distant. I made for the nearest of them all, and swam, dreadfully embarrassed by my boots and soaked clothing. The light towards which I directed myself shone green over the black spaces of the water, and concentrating all my observation upon it, I thought I approached it at quite a royal pace. In a very little while, however, I discovered that the light was bearing down on me at a much greater rate than that at which I was approaching it, and finally I had some ado to get out of the way of the boat which carried it, and was considerably tossed and tumbled about in the long furrowing wake it made. I sang out at my loudest, but I can only suppose that I was not heard, for the craft, whatever it might have been, swept swiftly down the stream, and in a few seconds was lost to me. I began to feel horribly cold and hopeless. I have been in danger a good many times in my life, but almost always when I could warm the sense of peril by action; but here I felt for a moment as if my time had come, and as if nothing I could do could avert it. The fancy fairly sickened me; and what with the chill of immersion, the sickening taste of the nauseous water, and my own sense of feebleness as a swimmer, I was on the edge of giving up; but all of a sudden, as I have felt more than once in my time, a perfectly calm and bright sensation succeeded to the panic, and I rolled over on to my back, determined to make the best of things and to husband my strength as far as possible. I had read scores of times, as everybody has, that a man floating in the water has only to throw his head back, to keep his hands down, and to rest quite still to be safe. I tried this promising experiment, and whether from the weight of my wet clothes or the irregularity of my breathing, I found that it would not answer, and that I was compelled to keep in motion. I could feel that the current was carrying me, and as I paddled along, most carefully husbanding my strength, I saw that I was bearing gradually nearer to a light on shore, whose position in reference to the various other lights determined me that it was a fixed and not a moving object. I swam towards it, carefully regulating my respiration and determined to avoid all flurry, but I saw that in spite of my utmost efforts I was being hurried past it. Then I drifted into a space where there was something of a little broken, choppy sea, and got another fill of that beastly water, which tasted of tar and sewage and all abominations, and sickened me again to the very heart. Then, before I had fairly recovered from this, and while I was only automatically keeping myself afloat, I saw the wet, rotting piles of a wooden pier quite close to me, and swimming like a madman, touched the surface, and tried to get a grip of it. I failed, and was swept along, gripping and slipping in a most desperate endeavor, until at last the finger-nails of my right hand stuck somewhere in a crack of the water-soaked and slimy wood, and I held on, feeling that I was safe. I had not the faintest sensation of pain at the time, but I clung to the slimy pillar of that pier so urgently with both hands that my nails were half torn away, and for a fortnight later it was only with great difficulty that I could handle a pen, or button or unbutton a collar, or use a knife and fork. I tried to bottom the stream, but found I was quite out of my depth, and so worked cautiously along with the current from post to post until I came to the end of the structure, and then feeling my way round it in grim darkness, found myself at last with my feet embedded in soft mud. I held on there for a minute or two to take breath, and then fought on again. In a little while I found myself on dry land, but so used up by the pull and by the unwonted exertion that I fell all in a heap at the water's edge, and lay there so prostrated that I could move neither hand nor foot. At first the air was tenfold colder than the water had been, but the natural heat reasserted itself gradually, and my forces so far gathered themselves together that I could stand upon my feet and walk. I went on blindly just at first, with such lights as were visible dancing wildly all about me, and it must only have been by sheer good fortune that I did not wander back into the river from which I had so narrowly escaped. Sometimes I saw hundreds of lights, green and red and dazzling white, which had no existence at all, but in the midst of these I made out one which was stationary and real, and I went towards it. When I reached it I found that it hung above the door of that identical public-house at which we had found our boatman, and there at the doorway, glass in hand, was the hackney driver who had brought us down. The man looked amazed to see me, and was more surprised still when I hailed him. He undertook immediately to drive me back to town; helped me into the cab, wrapped me up from head to foot in a rough oilcloth, got me a stiff glass of hot brandy-and-water, and drove away.
The journey down had been long, but the return seemed actually interminable, and it seems so now in my recollection of it. I plead guilty to a confusion of mind which for a while left me powerless to think about anything. Notwithstanding the wraps with which the driver had supplied me, the cold of the March night pierced me to the bone, and the brandy I had taken seemed rather to stupify than to revive me; but when at last I did get home, and Hinge had helped me to a scorching rub-down with rough towels, and had assisted me to dress in dry raiment, I felt more myself again, and sent downstairs for the cabman, who was still waiting there for his fare. The man could tell me absolutely nothing of any value, and I soon found out that the fellow was as much surprised at the turn events had taken as I was myself. A servant girl, it seemed, had come upon the street and had told him that he was wanted a few doors off. He gave me correctly and with no unwillingness Brunow's address, and told me that the gentleman who chartered him had bidden him to drive first to the Italian restaurant, and then to our ultimate destination. I took the man's number and dismissed him with a handsome gratuity. Hinge at first wanted to insist on my immediate retirement to bed, but with every moment that went by I felt better, and when I had drunk a cup of his excellent coffee I was quite myself again, except in so far as all the events of the night seemed to have a curiously unreal and dreamlike feeling about them. The more I turned the thing over in my mind the more I felt inclined to doubt Brunow's _bonafides_, and yet our long acquaintance and the downright horrible character of the betrayal which had really been committed made the doubt seem so criminal that I tried to drive it away. The more I refused to harbor it the more emphatically it came back again. I recalled Brunow at every instant at which I had consciously or unconsciously observed him, and I _knew_ that there had somehow been a burden on his mind. I could recall his cry when he had said that we were aboard the wrong ship; and let me do what I might, I could not rid myself of the belief that his voice and look at that moment were artificial and theatrical. Once, in the middle of that rough-and-tumble which ended in my involuntary plunge into the water, I had caught sight of him in the gleam of a sickly oil-lamp which swung above the deck. He was held, yet not restrained, by a burly seaman, and the picture was burned into my mind as if by fire. The man was peering over his shoulder, ten thousand times more interested in watching the progress of the struggle than in guarding Brunow, and Brunow was watching the struggle too, but not in the least with any look of amazement, but only with one which I could not for the life of me help construing into fear and shame and self-reproach. It was like a scene beheld by lightning, divided and apart from everything else, and I found it ineffaceable.
It seemed to me obvious that the first thing to be done was to communicate with Ruffiano's friends, for whether he had been spirited away by design or not, it was undeniable that he was in a strange predicament. I set out at once for our ordinary meeting-place, taking Hinge with me, and a brisk walk of a quarter of an hour brought me to the spot. The room in which we held our meetings was approached by an entrance which ran beside the lower room of the restaurant. I left Hinge in this narrow passage, and mounted the stairs rapidly. Before I reached the room I heard the hum of excited voices, and when I tried the door I found that it was locked; I gave the signal known to every member of our fraternity, and the door was opened. The man who opened it, a swarthy Neapolitan whom I barely knew by name, started with amazement as he saw me, and gave vent to an ejaculation. There were perhaps a score of men in the room, and as I stepped forward they all started to their feet and began to press about me with questionings, of which I could barely understand a phrase. One man only hung aloof, and that man was Brunow. I was so amazed to see him there, and so bewildered by the din of welcome and inquiry, that I had no opportunity for a real observation of anything; but I am a mistaken man indeed if Brunow were not to the full as much amazed at seeing me as I at seeing him.
“My good friends,” I called out at last, “let me have silence for a minute. Where is Count Ruffiano?”
Every one pointed at once to Brunow. He advanced, and I read treason in his face.
“My dear Fyffe,” he cried, holding out his hand to me, “I had never hoped to see you alive again.”
This time it was I who refused to see Brunow's hand, as he, only a few hours ago, had declined to see mine. If I had laid bare his villainy there and then, I have no shadow of doubt that there would have been murder done. If I had even hinted at suspicion, his life would have been barely worth a minute's purchase. If my associates had a fault with which both foes and friends alike would have credited them, it was that they were dangerously prone to act first and to argue afterwards. There had been treason in the camp already; when was ever a revolution conducted without it? But I could not make it my business to denounce a fellow-countryman, and a man who had once called himself my friend, unless I could proceed on actual certainty. It took an hour of excited talk to do it, and I had to describe my own share in the adventure twice or thrice; but I got Brunow away at last, and as we went down the stairs together I slipped my arm through his and held him with a grip which I dare say he found significant.
“You will come to my rooms,” I said. He made no answer, and I walked along with him, Hinge following at a distance of a yard or two, and so far, of course, suspecting nothing. Not a word was spoken by the way, and Brunow walked like a man who was going to the scaffold. When we came to iny own rooms I locked the door and faced him.
“What have you done with Ruffiano?” I asked him, sternly.
“God only knows what has become of him,” cried Brunow, casting his hands abroad with a gesture which was meant to convey at once irritation and wonder. “I made my way straight back to tell the story of the extraordinary incident of to-night, and I have told it. The men we have just left can confirm me in the statement that I did not lose a minute.” He was defending himself already, though no accusation had been brought against him.
“You escaped from the ship?” I asked him, curtly.
“Yes,” he answered, with a gasp; “I escaped from the ship.”
“How?” I asked.
“I followed your example,” he returned, “and leaped overboard.”
“To arrive here,” I said, “in dry clothes, having made no change?”
He gave a sudden start at this, and cast a hurried glance at his own figure. Then he looked at me with an expression I shall not readily forget. It was that of a hunted creature trapped, and recognizing the fact that he was caught.
“I swam ashore,” he said, “and I have changed my clothes at home.”
I moved without a word to the door, and, opening it, called out to Hinge, who stood waiting for me in the darkening passage, bidding him to mount. He came and stood at attention.
“Mr. Brunow,” I said, “will give you the key of his rooms, and you will go from here to there, and by his orders will bring back to me a soaked suit of clothes which you will find there. Oblige me by handing my man your key,” I added, turning again on Brunow.
He shot a whisper at me.
“Do you wish to have me murdered?”
“I wish to know,” I answered, “and I mean to know, the truth. What have you done with Ruffiano?”
“I tell you,” he cried, desperately, “I have done nothing! I know nothing! You were there yourself, and you can tell as well as I that the whole thing was a surprise. How was I to know we were being carried aboard an Austrian craft? How could I suspect the man who came to me of treachery?”
“You swam ashore?” I asked. “I am not to be charged with hunting you to death because I ask for a sight of the clothes you swam in. Give Hinge your key!”
“He's quite welcome to it,” he answered, turning his white, defiant face on me, and fumbling in his pocket with a hand so unnerved that he could grasp nothing with it for a minute. “There you are,” he said at last, drawing out his latch-key and handing it to Hinge. “Do as you are told.”
Hinge accepted the key, and, saluting, left the room without a word, though with a curious look both at Brunow and myself. When he had gone Brunow threw himself into a chair and drew out a cigar-case. He opened it, and selected and lit a cigar, though he shook so that he only succeeded with an expenditure of some half a dozen matches. When he had got a light at last he threw himself back and puffed away with as complete an expression of _insouciance_ as he could command. I, of course, had nothing to say until Hinge returned, though I knew perfectly well beforehand what the result of his errand would be. He came back at last, and when his step was heard upon the stair Brunow looked more ghastly than ever as he turned his face towards me. When Hinge came in empty-handed the poor detected wretch rose with a pretence of bluster which was miserable to see.
“Why the devil,” he cried, “haven't you done what you were told to do? This is a pretty servant of yours. Why hasn't he brought the things back as he was told to do?”
Hinge said nothing, but looked from me to my visitor in some bewilderment.
“You hear!” cried Brunow, rising and throwing the stump of his cigar into the grate with a sickly pretence of anger.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” said Hinge; “there's Mr. Brunow's key, sir. Seems to me I've been sent on a fool's errand. Mr. Brunow's man wants to know what I mean by coming with a message like that. He says Mr. Brunow hasn't been at home since half-past six this evening. Mr. Brunow's man, sir,” Hinge pursued, “seemed to think I was trying to make a fool of him.”
“That will do,” I answered. “You have obeyed your orders, and that is all you have to think about. Go and wait outside.”
He went, but I could see that he nursed a little sense of injury. I turned to Brunow and asked him: “Is the game played out yet, or have you any other shift to show me?”
He made no answer at the minute, but fumbled in his pocket again for his cigar-case, with the same shaky and uncertain motion as before. He avoided my eyes, though every now and then he looked towards me as if in spite of himself. For my own part, I could not look away from him, and I do not know now whether I felt more rage or more contempt or more pity for him. I had not thought him so cowardly as he showed himself to be.
“It is for you,” I told him at last, “to explain your actions of to-night. You know what the situation means. I charge you here with having betrayed a comrade whom you had sworn, in common with the rest of us, to stand by to the last. If I had brought the charge I am making now against you a little more than half an hour ago it would have gone hard with you. You are as well aware of that fact as I am, and you know that nothing could have saved you from my just renunciation but the memory of an old friendship, of which you have proved yourself utterly unworthy.”
“I know you're talking nonsense,” he responded, trying to brave it out still. “What should I want to betray old Ruffiano for?”
A sudden gust of wrath swept through me, and blew away before it the last sense of compunction in my mind.
“Understand,” I said, “that I am in earnest in this matter, and that I mean to carry out my threat at once. Unless I receive from you a full confession of this night's infamy, I shall detain you here, and shall send Hinge to summon a meeting here; and at that meeting I shall denounce you as a traitor to the cause you have sworn to forward. I shall bring my proofs, and I shall leave you to justify yourself as best you may. What the consequence of that step may be it is for you and not for me to calculate. I will give you five minutes in which to make up your mind.”
“You can do what the devil you please,” he said; and I rang the bell. Hinge came in, and I bade him go out and call a cab. He obeyed, and taking a seat at the table I began to write out a series of addresses. I read them aloud to Brunow when I had finished, and he recognized the names of half a dozen of the most resolute of our leaders.
“You are playing with your own life!” I cried. “You have only to tell the truth to have a chance for it. You have only to go on lying in this futile way to throw your last chance into the gutter. I will palter with you no longer, and unless by the time at which Hinge returns you have made a clean breast of it, I shall send for the men whose names are here, I shall bring my charge, and you will have to stand the consequences.”
“You can commit any folly you please,” he answered. “I've nothing to say to you; and if you choose to excite the suspicions of a lot of foreign scum like that, you can do it, and take the responsibility.”
“Very well,” I said, and the room was dead still for a space of, I should say, four or five minutes; then the rumble of a cab was heard in the street and a step upon the stairs. It was a dreadful minute alike for Brunow and myself, and, looking at him, I felt a resurrection of pity in me.
“Is this bravado worth while any longer, Brunow?” I asked him. “I have no resource but to keep my word. If my man enters the room before you have spoken, he shall go on his errand, and then may Heaven have mercy on the soul of a traitor!”
Hinge's footstep came nearer, and his key touched the lock with a smart click. Brunow rose to his feet as if without any volition of his own, and made a sign with his hand against the door.
“You wish him to remain outside?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, and, falling back into the chair from which he had arisen, covered his white face with both hands. He had allowed his burning cigar to fall upon the carpet, and, a faint odor of acrid smoke reaching my nostrils, I looked for it, found it, and threw it into the empty grate. This trivial action seemed as important at the moment as anything else.
Hinge knocked at the door, but I told him to go down-stairs, and to detain the cab until I should call him. I heard the closing of the outer door, and heard every step of Hinge's feet until he reached the bottom of the stairs. Then the silence was so intense that I could hear Brunow's watch quite distinctly as it ticked in his pocket, and my own kept time to it.
“You have decided wisely,” I said at last; “and when you have told me the truth you shall have your chance.” He was silent for so long a time that I had to urge him. “I shall not wait forever.”
“Well,” he said, desperately, looking up at me for a mere instant, and then, burying his face in his hands again, “tell me what you want to know.”
“I want,” I told him, “to know the truth about the whole of this miserable business. Who employed you here?”
“Employed me!” he responded.
“Who paid you for this act of treachery?”
“You know all you want to know, it seems, already,” he answered, sullenly, and at that I lost patience with him wholly.
“If I am not answered at once and without reserve,” I said, “I will keep my part of the bargain, and leave you to your chance. Who paid you?”
“You can do what you like,” he answered, rising. “I'm not going to betray a lady, anyhow.”
“Thank you,” I answered, with a more bitter disdain than I can easily express in words. “If you choose to make your confession in that form, it is as useful to me as it would be in any other. You were paid for this by a lady. Who was she? You will find it agreeable to have a little force exerted for the satisfaction of your own conscience, if that is the name you give it. Who was the lady?”
“I don't know that I'm bound to risk my life for her,” he answered. “It's in her way of business, and she's paid for it.”
“And who is she?” I demanded once again.
“The Baroness Bonnar,” said Brunow.
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To say that I was not astonished would be absurd; but the words had scarcely been spoken a moment when I began to be aware that I was wondering at my own amazement. On the whole, there was nobody whom I knew and nobody at whose existence I could have guessed who was quite so likely to be engaged in an affair of that nature as the Baroness Bonnar.
He fell back into his arm-chair with a certain air of defiance and lit another cigar, as if by this time he were thoroughly determined to brazen the whole thing out, and to justify himself to himself, even if it were impossible to find a justification for any other. His cigar slipped from his nerveless fingers; as he reseated himself he stooped to pick it up, and, looking at it with a critical eye, began to smoke again. I verily believe that if any stranger had been present, I might have been supposed to be the more disturbed and self-conscious of the two. Perhaps I was, for throughout the whole of this singular interview I was haunted by a wondering inquiry as to what I should do with the man when I had completely exposed his infamy. I dare say I was a fool from the first to feel so, though I could not help it; but to surrender him to the vengeance he had invited seemed altogether an impossibility. In that respect at least he had me at a disadvantage, and I cannot help thinking that he knew it.
“The Baroness Bonnar!” I echoed. He made no answer, but leaned back in my arm-chair, smoking with an outside tranquillity, as if the whole affair were no business of his. “The Baroness Bonnar!” I repeated, and he gave a brief nod in affirmation. “And what,” I asked, “does she propose to pay you for this unspeakable rascality?”
A decanter and a water-jug stood upon the table, and he helped himself, holding up his tumbler against the light to judge of the amount of spirit he had taken before adding the water he needed. When his shaking hand jerked the jug and he had taken more water than he thought necessary, he sipped critically at the contents of the tumbler and added a little more spirit. Then he sipped again, and settled himself back into his chair, as if resigned to boredom. I knew I had only to speak a word to put all these airs to flight, but I hesitated to speak it.
“What does she pay you?” I asked again, and he turned upon me with a wretched attempt at a smile and a wave of the hand in which he held his cigar.
“It isn't usual to discuss these things,” he answered.
“You wish me to understand,” I said, “that for the sake of an amour with a woman of her age you have broken the most sacred oath a man could take, and have betrayed to life-long misery an old man who trusted you, and who never did you any harm. You have confessed yourself contemptible already, but surely you have a better excuse for your own villainy than this?” He was still silent, and smoked on with the same effort after an outward seeming of tranquillity, though his white face and shaking hand belied him. “What did you get in money?”
“Look here, Fyffe,” he answered, inspecting the ash of his cigar with the aspect of a connoisseur, and evading my glance, “your position gives you an advantage, but you are trying to make too much use of it. I had the most perfect assurances that the old man would be treated kindly, and I know that nobody has any intention to do anything but keep him out of mischief.”
I am very much ashamed of it now, and I think I was even a little conscious of shame about it then, but I felt inclined to comprehend the man, to fathom his depths of self-excuse, and I bore with his evasions and his explanations in a spirit of savage banter.
“Come,” I said, “we shall get to understand each other before we part. What were you paid?”
“In money?” he asked, flicking the ash from his cigar and settling himself with ostentatious pretence of ease. “In money--nothing.”
At that very minute a knock sounded at the door, and mechanically consulting my watch, I saw that it was already nearly midnight. I had no reason to expect a visitor at that hour, and I stood listening in silence, while Hinge answered the summons at the door. There was a murmur of voices outside, and when I looked at Brunow I saw him start suddenly forward as if in the act to rise. For a second or two he set in an attitude of enforced attention, leaning forward with a hand on either arm of the chair, as if prepared to spring to his feet; but observing that my eye was upon him, he sank back again and began to smoke once more. This time nothing but the rapidity with which he puffed at his cigar was left to indicate his discomposure.
Hinge rapped at the door, and when I bade him enter, came in followed by a stranger, whose aspect was simply and purely business-like. This man bowed to me and then to Brunow, and receiving no response from either of us, stood for a moment as if embarrassed.
“Captain Fyffe, I believe?” he said, rather awkwardly.
“That is my name,” I answered. “What is your business?”
“I beg pardon for coming here, sir,” he responded, “but I have been waiting all night to find the Honorable Mr. Brunow, and I have only just heard that he was here. Can I have a word with you, sir?” He turned to Brunow as he spoke. “Sorry to trouble you, sir, but you remember what you promised me. I took your word of honor, sir, and I've made myself personally responsible.”
“Damn it all!” cried Brunow, rising, with a whiter face than ever; “do you suppose that a gentleman is to be badgered about a thing of this kind at this hour of the night in another gentleman's rooms? Wait outside. Go down-stairs and wait for me, and I will arrange with you when we go home together.”
“Very well, sir,” the man replied. He was perfectly respectful, though there was an underlying threat in his manner. “I'll do as you wish. But I hope you understand--” “I understand everything!” cried Brunow, with an imperious wave of the arm. “Do as you are told!”
“Hinge,” I said, seeing a sudden light upon the complication of affairs which lay before me, “Mr. Brunow and I have business with each other which may detain us for some little time. This person can wait in your room until Mr. Brunow is at liberty.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the man responded, “I've spent a good deal of time about this business already, and it's getting late. I shall be glad to know when I may expect to be able to talk to Mr. Brunow.”
“You will wait outside,” I answered; “and I think I may guarantee that you will not be kept waiting long.”
The man retired, and I turned on Brunow, as certain of the position of affairs at that moment as I was half an hour later.
“This man,” I said, “has a business claim upon you, and you have promised to satisfy him to-night. Now, I know something of your affairs, and I can guess pretty well that without to-night's action you might not have been in a position to meet him. You had better make a clean breast of it, and it will pay you to remember once for all that I hold your life in my hands, and that I am not altogether indisposed to use my power. What were you paid, or what are you to be paid?”
“I have told you everything I had to tell,” said Brunow, falling back into his former sullen attitude. “You can do just as you please, Fyffe, but I shall say no more.”
I took between my thumb and finger the sheet which lay upon the table, inscribed, as he knew perfectly well, with the names and addresses of the people mainly concerned in our enterprise, and held it up before him.
“Very well,” he said, after looking at it and me, and reading no sign of wavering in my face, “I was to get five hundred pounds.”
“Provided always,” I suggested, “that your plot came to a successful issue.”
“Of course,” he answered, biting his cigar and speaking in a tone of furtive flippancy, which I suppose was the only thing left to the poor wretch to hide the nakedness of his discomfiture.
“And you reckon,” I asked him, “on being paid to-morrow?” Except for a sullen motion of his chair he gave no sign of answer. “Now listen to me,” I said. “I have made up my mind as to what I will do. You shall not touch one penny of this blood-money. You shall have a run for your worthless life, and I promise not to denounce you to the men whom you have betrayed for twelve hours. To-morrow at midday I shall tell all I know, and you are the best judge of what it will be safest to do in the meanwhile.”
“All right,” he answered, desperately, rising to his feet and buttoning his coat about him; “you've found your chance and you've used it. It's a useful thing for you to get me out of the way, no doubt, but I may find a chance of being even with you yet, and if I do, I'll take it.”
“You seem resolute,” I told him, “to force me to do my worst. At this very instant, when I hold your life in my hands, when it is in my power to hand you over to justice by a word, and when I propose--partly for old friendship's sake and partly because I am ashamed that a fellow-countryman of mine should have been such a blackguard--to let you go, you are fool enough to tell me that my mercy has no effect upon you, and that you will do your best to be revenged upon me. Think that over, Brunow.”
He turned his face away, and sat in silence for a minute; but all of a sudden I saw his shoulders begin to heave, his hands worked together, and he broke into convulsive tears. He sobbed so noisily that though the door was already closed, I darted towards it with an instinctive wish to shut out the sound from the ears of the people in the next room.
“For God's sake, Fyffe,” he broke out, “let me go! I'll promise anything, do anything. I've--I've always been an honorable man till now, and I--I can't stand it any longer. If you've got any pity in you, let me go!”
I was as much ashamed as he was, though, I hope, in another way, and I was eager to cut short the conference. For all that, I had a duty to discharge.
“You shall go,” I said, “and I shall be glad to be rid of you. But first of all you shall make a clean breast of it.”
He told the story in a furtive, broken way, as well he might; and how much more and how much less than the actual truth he told me I never knew with certainty, but it came to this. He had had heavy gambling losses, and had got into financial difficulties. The Baroness Bonnar had found this out, and had told him of a way by which he might recuperate himself. She had only hinted at first, and he had indignantly refused her proposal, but he had played about the bait, as I could readily fancy him doing, and had finally gorged it. He was to have received five hundred pounds next day on consideration of the arrival of intelligence from the people to whom he had betrayed Ruffiano, and he confessed that he had been promised other work of the same kind.
“I swear to you, Fyffe,” he declared, “that I'd never have done it at all if I hadn't had the most solemn assurances that nothing would happen to the old man.”
“Do you think,” I asked him, “that the solemn assurances of a spy are worth much in any case?”
“They won't hurt him,” said Brunow; “I made sure of that beforehand. I give you my word of honor. I was careful about it, because I have rather a liking for him.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if, having rather a liking for him, he had betrayed him to the Austrians, what he would have done if he had rather a dislike for him. But it could serve no purpose to argue at all in such a case, and it was hopeless to imagine that any exposure of himself would have made the man realize the perfidy of his own nature.
“The world is before you,” I said, “and, so far as I am concerned, you may go where you will. I do not pretend to offer you any security from the vengeance of the men whose oath you have betrayed. I should be powerless to do that, however much I wished it. You must shift for yourself.”
“Very well,” he answered, sullenly; and, rising to his feet, he began to button his coat and to gather together his hat and gloves and walking-cane. Then he made a movement to go, but half-way to the door stopped irresolutely. I thought he was about to speak again, but after a pause of a second or two he went on, opened the door with an unsteady hand, and went out without closing it behind him. The man I had told to wait outside must have been upon the watch, for I heard his voice at the very instant at which Brunow set foot in the narrow passage.
“Well, sir?” he said.
“Well?” said Brunow.
“I am sorry to press this claim, sir,” said the man, “but I have my instructions, and I can't help it. If you'll give me your word that you will settle in the morning, I will wait till then. But it's no use making any bogus promise.”
“I suppose you don't mean to lose sight of me?” Brunow asked.
“That's the state of the case, sir,” the man answered.
“H'm!” said Brunow, in a casual tone; “got anybody with you now?”
“Sheriff's officer in a hackney-coach down-stairs,” the man responded. He had caught Brunow's tone to a hair, and spoke as if the whole thing were the merest casual trifle.
“He's prepared to do his duty now?” asked Brunow. I heard no response, but I presume that the man gave some sign of affirmation, for Brunow went on: “Very well; I'm ready. It could hardly have happened at a better time.”
“I thought you were going to square up to-morrow, sir,” the man said.
“So did I,” responded Brunow; “but I've as much chance of that now as you have of being Emperor of China. Go on; I'm quite ready.”
There was a trifling difficulty with the catch of the outer door, with which both Hinge and myself had long been familiar, and which we now surmounted with perfect ease. It bothered Brunow and the stranger, however, for I heard them both fumbling at the lock, and at last Hinge, hearing also, left his little bedroom on the landing and came to their assistance.
Then the door was opened, and with a cry of “Goodbye, Fyffe!” to which I returned no answer, Brunow went away in charge of his business friend.
At the first opening of the outer door the cold wind of the spring night came into the room with a burst, and scattered a handful of papers about the floor. I busied myself in picking these up again, but finding that the hall-door was still open, I called out to Hinge to close it. He delayed until I had repeated my order in an angry tone, and then, having closed the door, he came into my room with a hurried and excited look.
“Beg pardon for keeping the door open, sir,” said Hinge, “but I've just seen something rather curious.”
“Never mind that now,” I answered. “Go to bed. I shall not want you any more to-night.”
“No, sir,” said Hinge. “If you'll excuse me, sir, this is something very important.”
He was not wont to be troublesome, but after all the events of that strange night I was fairly unsettled and pretty well out of temper. I snapped at Hinge, telling him to go and not to bother me with any nonsense just then.
“Got to tell you this, sir,” said Hinge, standing at attention, and looking straight before him. Even then it was with no sense of importance in the matter he had to communicate that I listened to him.
“Go on,” I said, “and get it over. What is it?”
“Well, sir,” said Hinge, “when I was in the general's service in Vienna I used to see a lot of the Austrian police. I got to know some of them by sight--a good many, I might say. Secret chaps, they was, sir--spies.”
“That's all very interesting,” I returned, “but you can see I'm bothered just at present, and I want to be alone. You can tell me all that at another time.”
“There's one of them a-living in this house, sir,” said Hinge, as little moved by my interruption as if I had not spoken.
This was news, and my impatience and ill-temper vanished.
“How do you know?” I asked. “Tell me all about it.”
“I never set eyes on him but just this minute, sir,” said Hinge, “since I left Vienna. But he walked upstairs just now with a latch-key in his hand, and he went into the rooms overhead of yours, sir. That's him a-walking about now, I'll lay a fiver.” As a matter of fact, I could bear a heavy footstep pacing the room above. “The odd part of it is, sir,” Hinge pursued, “this cove knows Mr. Brunow, and Mr. Brunow knows him, sir.”
“Oh,” I asked, fully interested by this time, “how do you know that?”
“They spoke together on the stairs, sir. This fellow Sacovitch, that's his name, he says to Mr. Brunow, 'Alloa,' he says, 'you 'ere?' And Mr. Brunow says, 'Don't speak to me; I'll write to you.' Now I don't like the look o' that, sir, and I thought you ought to know about it.”
“You are quite right, Hinge,” I said. “It was your business to tell me; and if I had known it yesterday, or if I had only known of it eight hours ago, it might have been of use to me.”
“This Sacovitch chap didn't see me, sir,” said Hinge, with a certain modest exultation; “I took care of that. But I nips half-way upstairs after him, and sees him open the door with his latch-key, and then I nips down again.”
“Do you think he would know you if he saw you?” I asked.
“There's no saying about that, sir,” Hinge responded; “he might and he mightn't. You see, sir, he's a swell in his own way, this chap is. He used to dine with the general, and they used to salute him like as if he was an officer. There was every reason, don't you see, sir, why I should notice him, and there was no mortal reason in the world why he should notice me. But there's no mistaking him, sir, and I should have spotted his ugly mug among a million.”
“Thank you very much, Hinge. That will do.” Hinge went away, and I sat down to think this new matter over. Of course I had never been foolish enough to suppose that Brunow had given me any information of value against his party, outside the one admission that he had been hired by the Baroness Bonnar; but here was sudden proof of the incompleteness of his confession. Shall I confess that my first impulse was to do an extremely silly and inconsiderate thing? I felt inclined, foolish as it will sound, to walk upstairs and to introduce myself sardonically to Herr Sacovitch, since that was the gentleman's name, with the proclamation of my newly-acquired knowledge of his business, and request that he would waste no further time in prosecuting it so far as I was concerned. But this foolish desire had scarcely occurred to me before I threw it out of the window. If the man believed himself to be unknown, I had the whip-hand of him in knowing him, and to have exposed my knowledge would only have been to release him for the prosecution of useful business on his own side, while some other person, whom I might never have the luck to recognize at all, would take his place. I was rather flattered, on the whole, to think that a great European power like Austria found it worth while to put a watch upon my actions; but there was only a passing satisfaction in that fancy. I could not get poor old Ruffiano out of ray head that night. I undressed and went to bed, but I courted sleep in vain. All night long I heard the quarters strike, and then the hours, and all night long the picture of the good, genial, patient, suffering old man fairly haunted me. There were times when I blamed myself severely for having allowed his betrayer to go free at all, and there were moments when, if Brunow had been once again before me, I should have had no control over myself. But, after all, mercy is just as much a duty as justice, and on looking back I am not disposed to censure myself very heavily for the course I took. I can think of nothing more hateful than Brunow's crime, and of nothing more just than the punishment which finally befell him; but I am glad that the act of vengeance was not mine.
It was bright morning when at last I fell asleep, and before that happened I had formed one clear resolution. This was to seek out Violet in the course of the day, to let-her know what had happened, and consult her judgment as to what my own course should be. In the meantime Brunow, in a debtor's prison, could do no further mischief, and was, at the same time, safe from immediate vengeance. There was time for a pause before further action was needed, and it was this reflection more than anything else which calmed me down at last into a state of mind in which sleep was possible.
I breakfasted at the usual time, for Hinge in household matters was a perfect martinet, and all my home affairs were as punctual as a clock. Then, at as early an hour as I dared to venture on, I walked to Lady Rollinson's house. The servant who answered my summons at the door had been in the habit of skipping on one side at once, and throwing the door open in something of an excess of hospitality. I had sometimes even felt a touch of humorous anger at the man; for his fashion of receiving me had seemed to indicate that he was in possession of the secret of the position, and it was as if his flourish of welcome showed an approval of my suit. But to-day he held the door half open, and, before I could get out a word of inquiry, said, “Not at hom?”
“Neither Lady Rollinson nor Miss Rossano?” I asked him.
“Not at home, sir,” the man repeated. He looked conscious beneath my eye, and his manner was distinctly embarrassed.
“Are you quite sure of that?” I asked him. “Kindly go and see.” The man looked more discomposed than ever, but he said for the third time: “Not at home, sir.” And in the face of this repeated declaration it seemed useless to inquire again. I walked away, a little puzzled by the man's manner. I had heard of no intended visit, and so far as I could guess I knew of every plan which Violet and Lady Rollinson had formed. It is not usual for an accepted suitor to be met at the door of his _fiancee's_ house with that curt formula, and I went away dissatisfied and wondering, turning my steps homeward. I had made up my mind to dismiss the whole circumstance and to write to Violet, and I was walking up the stairs which led to my chambers, in haste to put that little project into execution, when I ran full against a stranger on the landing. He raised his hat with an apology, and I was in the act of doing the same when his foreign accent induced me to look more closely at him. He was a tall, dark man, very gentlemanly to look at and irreproachably dressed. In a dark, saturnine way he was handsome, and recalling Hinge's statement that he would have known the ugly mug of our fellow-lodger among a million, I settled within my own mind that this could not be the man; but I still observed him with a little interest in the certainty that if not the man himself, he was at least a visitor. Hinge was at the door when I reached it.
“Did you spot him, sir?” he asked, eagerly. “That's him as you ran into on the stairs--Sacovitch.”
I answered that I should know the man again, and with that should have forgotten to think about him, but that for days afterwards Hinge was full of excited intelligence about him, relating how he had received such a visitor at such a time, and had gone out in a cab at such an hour, returning after such and such a length of absence. In a very little time the mention of him became a bore, and I forbade Hinge to speak of him unless he had something of importance to tell me.
In the meantime I wrote my note and sent it to the post. I waited all day, and received no answer. When the next morning's post came in I turned my letters over hastily, and was a little surprised, as well as disappointed, to find that I had no line from Violet. Again that morning I made my way to Lady Rollinson's house, and again the accustomed servant met me, and this time fairly staggered me with a repetition of his “Not at home.”
“Am I to understand,” I asked, “that Lady Rollinson and Miss Rossano have left town?”
“Can't say, sir,” said the man, staring straight above my head with unmoving eyes, but fidgeting nervously with his hands and feet. “My orders is: 'Not at home to Captain Fyffe.'”
“That will do,” I returned, and walked away, more puzzled than I had ever been in my life before. I went back to my rooms, and there I wrote this note: “Dear Lady Rollinson,--When I called at your house yesterday I was told that you and Violet were not at home. When I called again this morning, I was told that you were 'not at home to Captain Fyffe.' This troubles and worries me so much that I hope you will not think me impertinent if I ask the reason for it.”
I despatched that letter by Hinge, with instructions to await an answer. In half an hour the answer came, and for the time being left me more puzzled and troubled than ever: “Lady Rollinson acknowledges the receipt of Captain Fyffe's letter, and begs to say that on the two occasions referred to by Captain Fyffe her instructions were accurately obeyed by her servant.”
That was all. There was not one word in explanation of this astonishing announcement. Violet and I were engaged to be married, with her father's warmest approval, and Lady Rollinson had, until that moment, shown nothing but the most enthusiastic favor for the match. And here, on a sudden, I was forbidden the house, without rhyme or reason.
For an hour I was like a man on whom a thunderbolt had fallen.
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Of course I had a right to an explanation, and equally, of course, I was determined to have it. But the question was how to get it, and I confess that for a long time I did not see my way. If one had been dealing with a man it would have been very different. But when a lady with whom you have been on terms of intimacy and friendship turns round upon you without any cause you can assign, and tells you she desires to have no more to do with you, it is not easy to see by what means you can force her to a recognition of your side of the business. What made the thing the more astonishing and bewildering was that Lady Rollinson had always been so warm in her friendship for me. Over and over again she had alluded to my services to her son, and she had introduced me to scores of people as the savior of his life, magnifying a very simple incident to such heroic proportions that she often put me to the blush about it, and almost tempted me to wish that I had let poor Jack take his chance without any interference of mine. To have seen a lady the day before yesterday, to have been hailed by her for the hundredth time as her son's preserver, to get a solemn “Not at home” thrown at you when next you called--it was an experience entirely new, and anything but agreeable.
If I may say so without bragging, I have been judged a fairly good officer in my time. I can give an order, I can obey an order, I can see that an order is obeyed; but outside the realms of discipline, and in the common complications of life, I have never felt myself to be very much at ease! The whole of this present business was so bewildering that if only Lady Rollinson herself had been concerned I should have retired from the consideration of the problem instantly. But then she stopped my access to. Violet, and that, for a young fellow who was ardently in love, put altogether another complexion on the affair. When I had got over my first amazement, I sat down and wrote a note, which, in the fervor of my feeling, bade fair to develop into a document which would have filled, say, a column of the _Times_. But when I had written, perhaps, a hundredth part of what I felt it in me to say, I tore up the paper and threw its fragments into the fire. Then I started afresh, determined to be extremely brief and business-like. Once more my feelings got the upper hand of me, and again I covered half a dozen closely-written pages before I discovered my mistake anew. Finally I sat down to a pipe and thought the matter over, until I decided on a definite line of action. The upshot of it all was that I wrote this note, and with my own hands bore it to her ladyship's house: “Dear Lady Rollinson,--I am utterly at a loss to understand the occurrences of yesterday and to-day. A moment's reflection will show you that an explanation is absolutely due to me. It is my right to demand it, and it is at once your duty and your right to give it.”
Armed with this document I set out. The same perturbed domestic greeted me with the formula to which I was by this time growing accustomed, and when I instructed him to carry the note within doors and deliver it to his mistress, he closed the door in my face and left me to await an answer on the steps. The position was anything but comfortable. It was a bright day, and a good many people were abroad, considering how quiet the street generally was. I felt as if everybody who passed was completely aware of my discomfiture. Not a nurse-maid went by with her charge who did not, to my distempered fancy, know my business, and look meaningly at me in appreciation of my position. By-and-by the door opened, and the servant asked me to step inside. I had been cooling my heels on the steps for full five minutes, and was by this time as little self-possessed as I have ever been in my life. I followed the man blindly into the familiar morning-room, and was there left alone for another ten minutes. Anger was taking the place of bewilderment, and I was striding rapidly up and down the room when Lady Rollinson entered. The weather was still cold, but she carried a fan in her hand, and moved it rapidly as she walked into the room and sank into a chair. I bowed with a stiff inclination of the head, but she made no return to my salute.
“I hope, Captain Fyffe,” she said, “that you will make this interview as brief as possible. It is likely to be painful to both of us, but you have insisted on it. I do not see what purpose it can serve, but it is just as well that you should understand that I am finally determined.”
It was plainly to be seen that she was painfully agitated; and though she had done her best to abolish the traces of the fact, I could see that she had been crying.
“You are finally determined!” I echoed, and I dare say my manner was foolish enough. “But what are you finally determined about?”
“I am finally determined,” she responded, “that everything is over between us; and until the count returns and learns the dreadful truth, everything, so far as my influence can go, is over between you and Violet.”
“What is the dreadful truth?” I asked. “I give you my word that I am utterly in the dark.”
Now Lady Rollinson was a dear old woman, and I had had a warm affection for her. On her side she had treated me from the beginning of our acquaintance almost as if I had been her son; and hitherto there had been nothing but the most friendly and affectionate sentiment between us. But I began to get angry, and I dare say I spoke in a tone to which she had been little accustomed. She cast an indignant glance at me, and fanned herself at a great rate for a full minute before she answered.
“Come,” I repeated more than once; “what is this dreadful truth? Surely I have a right to know it.”
“You _shall_ know it, Captain Fyffe,” she answered, in a voice of weeping menace such as women use when they are both wounded and angry; “you shall have it in a word.” She dropped her fan upon her knees, and asked me, with a lugubrious air of triumph and reproach, “Did you ever hear of Constance Pleyel?”
I was standing before her, and as she leaned forward suddenly to offer this surprising question I stepped back a little. A chair caught me at the back of the knees, and I dropped into it as if I had been shot. I have laughed in memory many a time over that ludicrous accident, but it was no laughing matter at the moment, for it sent a conviction to the old lady's mind which I do not think was altogether banished from it to her dying day. Of course the question in such a connection came upon me as a surprise. In all my searchings for the cause of her ladyship's distemper I had not lighted on the thought of Constance Pleyel. I was not so much amazed at it that the name alone could have bowled me over in that way; but Lady Rollinson's idea was that it had gone home instantly to a guilty conscience.
“That is enough,” she said, “and more than enough.” With these words she arose and walked towards the door, but I intercepted her.
“I beg your pardon, it is not enough, or nearly enough.”
“You know the name,” she answered. “You have shown me enough to tell me that.”
“I know the name, certainly,” I replied. “I have known the name and the person that owns the name for many years. But that fact affords a very partial explanation of your conduct. I must trouble you to sit down, Lady Rollinson, and listen to what I have to say.”
The stupid, good old woman had taken her side already, and if anything had been needed to confirm her own mistaken judgment of the case that ludicrous accident would have supplied it. She fanned herself in an emotion made up of wrath and grief and dignity, glancing at me from time to time, and looking away again with an expression of disdain, which was hard for an innocent man to bear.
“I suppose,” I said, as coolly as I could, “that whatever information you have upon this matter comes from the Baroness Bonnar?” I waited for an answer, but she gave no sign. “I must trouble you to tell me if that is so.”
“You know that well enough,” she answered. “The Baroness Bonnar is the only friend the poor creature has in London.”
“Do you know much of the Baroness Bonnar?” I asked. “Would it ever have occurred to you to guess that the Baroness Bonnar is neither more nor less than a paid Austrian spy, and that Miss Constance Pleyel is, in all probability, her confederate?”
She looked at me with an incredulity so open that I felt it to be an insult, and she preserved the same disdainful silence.
“I came here yesterday,” I continued, “to consult Violet--” She interrupted me almost with a shriek.
“Don't mention that poor girl's name!” she cried. “I won't have it mentioned! I won't listen to it in this connection!”
“Pardon me,” I said, “it has to be mentioned, and unless you are in the humor to permit yourself to be made the dupe and tool of as wicked a little adventuress as ever lived, you must listen to what I have to tell you. I came here yesterday to consult Violet as to what I should do with respect to a plot in which I have found the baroness to be engaged. You have often heard the count and myself speak of poor old Ruffiano. You know him as one of Violet's pensioners, and, indeed, I remember that twice or thrice I have met him in your house. He has been betrayed to the Austrians, and is at this minute in their hands. The prime mover in that matter is the Baroness Bonnar, and her tool was the Honorable George Brunow.”
Now surely one would have thought that a charge so plain and dreadful was at least worth investigation, and it had not entered my mind to conceive that even an angry woman could fail to take some sort of account of it. Lady Rollinson took it merely as a tissue of absurdities.
“It only shows,” she said, “how desperate your own case must be when you need to bolster it by a story like that--a story which could be proved to be false in half a minute.”
“Why should you suppose me,” I retorted, “to be so foolish as to bring you such a story if it could not be proved to be true? I ask nothing more or less than that you should inquire into the matter.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” she answered. “I know too much already.”
“I am sorry,” I answered, “to be so seriously at issue with you on such a theme, but I am compelled to insist upon my right.”
“I shall have nothing to say on the matter,” she answered, “until the count returns. He will be the final judge of what is to be done; but until he comes I shall do my duty, and it is no part of my duty to allow my niece to listen to the persuasions of a man who has only too clearly proved his powers in that way already.”
“Only a few weeks ago,” I said, desperately, “I had an interview with the Baroness Bonnar, in which I warned her not to intrude upon your society again.”
“I know all about it!” cried Lady Rollinson, with an indignant movement of her fan. “You tried to bully the poor thing into silence. You may save yourself any further trouble, Captain Fyffe. My mind is made up, and I shall do what I have decided to do. In my days,” she added, beginning to cry, which made the situation more intolerable than ever--“in my days, when a gentleman was told by a lady that his presence was unwelcome in her house he would never have intruded.”
“My dear Lady Rollinson,” I responded, controlling myself with a very considerable effort, “you must listen to reason. You have been made the dupe of a thoroughly heartless and unprincipled woman.”
“That appears to be your method!” She flashed back at me. “You can say what you please about my character, now that I know yours. Thank God I am too well known to fear your rancorous tongue!”
The position was actually maddening, and I had never dreamed until then that even a woman who was bent on revenging what she conceived to be a gross injury to one of her own sex could be so utterly unreasonable and deaf to argument.
“I repeat, madame,” I declared, “that the Count Ruffiano has been betrayed to the enemy by this woman whose lies you accept as if they were gospel. Brunow confessed to me barely six-and-thirty hours ago that he acted as her agent in that villainous transaction. Is that a woman whose bare word is to be taken against the overwhelming proof an honest man can bring?”
I know I was excited, and it is very likely that I was speaking in a louder voice than I was altogether aware of, but her answer gave me a new surprise.
“I am not in the least afraid of you, Captain Fyffe; my servants are in the house, and I can ring for them at any minute.”
This cooled me, even in the middle of my exasperation and the galling sense of impotence I felt.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Rollinson. I am bewildered by your manner. I am laboring under an accusation of a very dreadful sort, and you refuse to listen to me, though I can prove my innocence quite easily.”
“Why,” she exclaimed, “I haven't even told the man what the accusation is! But in spite of his innocence he knows all about it.”
“I know all about it,” I retorted, “because it has been brought against me before, and withdrawn by the very woman who brings it now. Will you listen to me, Lady Rollinson?”
“I will not willingly listen to another word.”
“Where is Violet?” I asked.
“That I shall not tell you,” she answered. “I have made up my mind I shall do nothing until the arrival of the count. When he comes back, if ever he does, poor man, the responsibility will be off my shoulders. Until then, I shall take very good care that you have nothing to do with Violet.”
This seemed to me to be carrying things with far too high a hand, and there, at least, I thought I had a right to speak with some show of authority.
“Violet,” I said, “is my promised wife, and I am not going to allow any folly of this kind to come between her and me. I shall insist upon my right to see her, and to clear myself of any accusation which may have been brought against me in my absence.”
“You may insist as much as you please, Captain Fyffe,” Lady Rollinson answered. “I have made up my mind as to what is my duty, and I shall do it, even at the risk of your most serious displeasure.”
“You tell me,” I said, “that she is not here?”
“I have told you already,” she replied, “that she is not here. I have made arrangements for her until the count returns.”
“And am I to understand,” I asked, “that you refuse to allow me to know her address?”
“You may understand that definitely,” said her ladyship.
It was all very disagreeable, but at least there was one ray of comfort in the middle of it.
“Violet knows my address,” I said, “and she is certain to write to me.”
“I might have something to thank you for there, Captain Fyffe,” said the old lady, with an almost comical increase of dignity, “if I had not already taken my precautions. I may tell you, however, that Violet is accompanied by a discreet person, who has my instructions as to the disposal of any letters she may write.”
This amounted to an open declaration of war, and I felt myself on the point of answering so hotly that I was wise in binding myself, for the moment at least, to silence.
“Pray let us thoroughly understand each other,” I said at length. “You, on your side, have resolved to place complete reliance on the statement of an exposed adventuress, without one word of corroboration, and to refuse the clear proof of my innocence, which I undertake to give you.” I waited for a moment, but she maintained an altogether obstinate silence. “Very well,” I resumed, “that is understood so far. You conceive it your duty to separate Violet and myself, and to attempt to widen any possible separation between us by suppressing my letters to her and hers to me. You must permit me to point out to you that you are adopting a very dangerous course, and I must warn you that I shall do my best to frustrate a design which seems to me so ureasonable and so cruel that I should never have thought you capable of forming it.”
“You will do your best, of course,” she answered, “and I shall do mine. I wish you good-morning, Captain Fyffe.”
What with perplexity, and what with grief and anger, I scarce knew what to do, but I turned to her with a final appeal.
“I am sure,” I said, “that you have your niece's interests at heart. It is not so very long since you professed to be my friend. Ever since I have known you I have had to tell you that you very much overestimated a chance service I have rendered to your son.”
“I have been waiting for that,” she answered. “That is just the sort of appeal I was expecting you to make. It is of no use for us to discuss this question any longer, for let me tell you I have seen your letters.”
“The letters!” I cried.
“The letters,” she repeated--“the letters to Miss Constance Pleyel.”
“Great Heaven, madam!” I cried, exasperated beyond patience, “I have never denied that I wrote to Miss Constance Pleyel, but the letters were written when I was a boy, and they are as absolutely harmless and blameless as any love-sick nonsense ever written in the world!”
“I have seen the letters,” she repeated, “and I have seen Miss Pleyel, and, once more, Captain Fyffe, and for the last time, I have made up my mind.”
With that she laid her hand upon the bell-pull, and sounded a peal at the bell which was so rapidly answered that I more than half suspected, and, indeed, do now more than half suspect, that the man who responded to it had been listening.
“Show Captain Fyffe out,” said her ladyship. And so, a definite end being put to the interview, I left the house as wrathful and as humiliated a man as any to be found that hour in London. So long as I live I shall not forget the smug alacrity with which the servant obeyed the behest of his mistress. I was in a state to wreak my own ill-humor upon anybody, and it was in my mind, and more than half in my heart, to kick that smug man in livery down the steps. I have suffered all my life from a certain Scotch vivacity of temperament which it has cost me many and many a hard struggle to control. It has not often been more unreasonable or more vigorous in its internal demonstrations than it was then, but I managed to reach the street and to walk away without exposing myself. As to where I went for the next few hours I never had the remotest idea. I must have walked a good many miles, for at last, when I pulled up, I found myself, at five o'clock in the evening, in a part of the town to which I was a complete stranger, and I had a confused remembrance of Oxford Street and the parks, and then of Highgate Archway. I made out, after a while, that I was at the East End, and, turning westward, I tramped back to my own lodgings with a return to self-possession which was partly due to the fact that bodily fatigue had dulled the sting of resentment.
Hinge had dinner ready when I reached home, but I had no appetite for it, and, to the good fellow's dismay, I sent it away untasted. I turned over a thousand schemes that evening, and rejected each in turn. But I decided, finally, to prepare an advertisement for the newspapers, Which might perhaps prevent further mischief. I concocted so many subterfuges, each of which in turn proved to reveal too much or to be too enigmatical, that at ten o'clock I found myself with a dozen sheets of closely-written paper before me. But at last I hit on this: “Dear Violet,--Distrust altogether anything you may hear to my disadvantage until I have found an opportunity to explain. Do not wonder at not hearing from me. Both your letters and mine are intercepted. When you next write, post letter with your own hand.”
After much consideration, I hit upon “John of Itzia” as a signature, and having made three clear copies, I drove round to the offices of the three great daily newspapers of that date, and at each secured the insertion of this advertisement for a week. A little comforted by that achievement, I went to bed, and, being dog tired, got to sleep.
The days that followed were among the dreariest I can remember. I spent them for the most part at home, sitting at the open window which looked upon the street, and waiting for the advent of the postman.
I was there in the morning an hour before his arrival could reasonably be expected, and I was there all day, and there still an hour after his last round had been made. Every time he came in sight my heart beat furiously; and as the short official note on the knocker came nearer and nearer, I strove in vain to resist the temptation to run down-stairs and await him at the front door. Every man on that beat got to know me, and I grew to be utterly ashamed of myself at last, for day after day went by, and there came no answer to my advertisement and no note from anywhere of Violet's existence. At last the week for which I had prepaid the advertisement expired. I had determined to renew my warning and entreaty if no answer came, and I waited the last part of that day with a throbbing heart. The minutes of the dull, rainy night--it was mid-April by this time--crawled slowly on, and at last I heard the belated knocker at the far end of the street, and hurried on my overcoat and hat in case I should be disappointed once again. Then I slipped down to the door, and waited in the portico. The postman knocked next door, and I was ashamed to show myself; but only a second or two later he appeared with a single letter in his hand.
“Captain Fyffe?” he asked, inquiringly, and I responding “Captain Fyffe,” he handed me the letter.
The superscription was in Violet's hand. I tore it open and read, in embossed letters at the top of the first page, “Scarfell House, Richmond.” Then came this: “My Dearest,--Is the strange advertisement addressed to Violet and signed 'John of Itzia' yours? I almost think it must be, and yet I am half afraid and half ashamed to say so. But since I left town, nine days ago, I have written to you every day, and have not received a line in answer. If you will look in either the Times or the Advertiser, if the advertisement should not have been put there by yourself, you will see what I mean. I shall obey its instructions, and shall post this letter with my own hands. So far I have given my letters to my maid, and I cannot think of any reason which could induce her to be wicked enough to destroy or suppress them. This, at least, will be sure to reach you, and if my fancy is absurd, I know you well enough to trust to your forgiveness. If you are not 'John of Itzia,' I can only fear that something dreadful has happened, for I do not believe that you could be so unkind as to leave eight consecutive letters of mine unanswered by a single word. I have only just seen the advertisement by chance, and if you are at home when this arrives it ought to reach you at about nine o'clock. It is very little over an hour's drive to Richmond, and I beg you to come down at once. If the whole thing is a mistake, you have still something to explain, and must have, I am sure a great deal to tell me.
“Yours always, “Violet.”
I had no sooner read this than, with the letter crumpled in my hand, I dashed into the street and made at full-speed for the nearest cab-stand. Half a dozen whips were waved at me at once, but I walked up and down the line inspecting the horses before I would choose a vehicle. A sorrier lot of screws I never saw, but I chose the one that looked the least unpromising, and gave the driver the word for Richmond.
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Overjoyed as I was at the receipt of Violet's letter, and at the prospect of seeing her again, I had not been many minutes on my way before I began to feel embarrassed at the prospect of the unavoidable explanation which lay before me. I felt malevolently disposed towards the ridiculous old lady who was the cause of all this needless trouble, but I soon forgot her in the contemplation of the difficulty she had created. It was a painful and difficult thing even to mention to Violet such a charge as that against which I had to defend myself, and as the vehicle bumped along I threw myself back in the seat and gave up my whole mind to the attempt to approach it delicately, and in the way which would make it least offensive and painful to her ears.
I have said that the hacks on the cab-stand were a sorry lot, and though I had chosen the brute which looked most promising in the whole contingent, I was not long in finding that I had no special reason to be proud of my choice. Since 1848 London has grown enormously, and in those days it was possible, even with such a beast as the one my cabman drove, to be in the country within half an hour of a West End street. I knew very little of the environs of the great city, and when I woke up to a recognition of my surroundings I was in a district altogether strange to me. There were fields on either hand, and here and there the twinkling of a distant light proclaimed a probable human habitation; but there were no lamps about the road as there are nowadays, and the scene looked altogether deserted and desolate. I pulled down the window, and, putting out my head, hailed the driver, who was apparently asleep upon his box. A thin, persistent drizzle was falling, the ill-kept road was wet with recent rain, and the wretched horse was jogging along at a shuffling trot at a rate of perhaps four miles an hour.
“Wake up there,” I cried, “and get along! I don't want to reach Richmond after midnight.”
“All right,” cabby responded, and applied the whip with such effect that for a hundred yards or so he contrived to get a decent pace out of the weary brute he drove. By this time I had fallen back once more into the perplexity of my own thoughts, but in a while I woke to the fact that we had fallen back to our old pace, and I made a new effort to stimulate the driver. He in turn made an effort to stimulate his steed, and so we went on, bumping in the shallow ruts of the road, occasionally standing still, and at our best scarcely exceeding the pace of a smart walk.
“I suppose,” I asked the cabman, “that at least you know where you are going to?”
“Richmond,” replied the driver. “I suppose it's Richmond, in Surrey, ain't it? There is a Richmond in Yorkshire, but you don't expect a man to drive there at this time of night?”
“When do you expect to get to the end of your journey at this rate?” I asked.
“The fact is, sir,” said the driver, leaning confidentially backward, “the 'orse is tired. He's a very good 'orse when he's fresh, but 'e's been in the shafts for sixteen hours at least, and whether he'll get there at all is more than I should like to swear to. 'Ows'ever,” said the cabman, “we'll do our best.”
Now I was certain that Violet was awaiting my answer to her letter in some anxiety, and I myself was on fire to see her, so that this dilatory method of progress made me feel altogether miserable. We went jogging on in a sad, mournful fashion, and I made up my mind that at the first inhabited place we came to I would discharge my driver, and find either a horse or a new conveyance; and with this resolve I controlled myself with patience. By-and-by, however, after a series of extraordinary jolts and bumpings, the vehicle came to a standstill, and once more lowering the glass and putting my head out into the drizzle, I demanded to know what was the matter.
“I'm afeard, sir,” said the cabman, “as I've lost my way. It's so blessed dark here, I've got off the road. All right,” he cried, a second later, “I see it! You 'old on, sir, I'll be right in a minute.” With this he stood up to flog the horse, and at that instant the vehicle overturned, slid rapidly down a slope, and stopped with a shock which for the moment not only drove all the breath out of my body, but all the sense out of my head. When I recovered I found my hat crushed over my eyes, and in struggling to find my feet made the unpleasant discovery that my right ankle was dislocated. I had sprained a wrist into the bargain, and under these circumstances I had great difficulty in extricating myself from the overturned vehicle. The horse was hammering with his hind-feet at the front of the carriage with a vigor surprising in a creature who had only lately shown himself so fatigued and feeble; and when at last I contrived to open one of the doors and call to the driver, I received no answer. I scrambled out painfully, and found myself scarcely able to stand. The darkness was intense; both the lamps had been broken and extinguished in the spill, and the rain was now falling with considerable violence. I called repeatedly to the driver, and groping about in the pitchy darkness on my hands and knees, I received a blow on the head from one of the frightened horse's feet, and lay for a little while quite sick and stunned. How long this sensation lasted I have no means of knowing, but when I recovered my senses I was wet through, and found myself lying among furze-bushes in a damp hollow. The horse had apparently resigned himself to the position, and lay quiet. As I struggled to my feet, with a thousand colored lights flashing before ray eyes, the darkness and silence of the night seemed filled with booming noises like those which are made by a heavy sea when the wind has fallen. I crawled about cautiously through the wet and prickly furze, and at last laid a hand upon the driver's sleeve. He was sitting with his head between his hands, and I could just make him out dimly, now that I was close upon him and certain of his presence.
“Are you hurt?” I asked. “You understand what I am saying?”
“Hurt!” he responded. “I'm as near killed as makes no matter. I thought you was done for, sir. I called out two or three times when I came to, but you never made a sign.”
“I got a kick on the head,” I explained. “It made me stupid for a time. Do you know where we are, or have you lost your way altogether?”
“I don't know,” the man responded, with a groan. “I never drove this road before, but it strikes me we're on Barnes Common.”
“Is there any house within reach?” I asked.
“How should I know?” he answered.
“Can you walk?” I asked. “I am dead lame, and cannot put one foot before another.”
“I'll try,” he answered, still groaning, and with an effort he scrambled to his feet. Once there he shook himself, and then began carefully to explore his person with both hands from head to foot; kneeling on the ground there I could see him more clearly against the lowering sky, and when, after a prolonged examination of himself, he drew up his figure and stretched his arms, I could see that he was fairly recovered from the shock his fall had given him.
“Can you walk?” I asked again, this time with a little touch of impatience. He answered that he thought he could, and began to stamp about the wet grass to assure himself that his limbs were still serviceable. “Mark this place well,” I told him. “Find the road again, and go for help. Don't leave me here all night.”
The man promised to be back as soon as possible, and set off at a stumbling walk. I shouted to him from time to time, he answering, and at length I learned that he had found the road.
“Keep your heart up, governor!” he called, finally. “I'll be back as soon as ever I can,” and with that he left me.
For a long time, or for what seemed a long time then, I could hear his heavy boots crunching on the gravel and loose pebbles of the roadway, and then, except for the low voices of the rain and wind, and the heavy breathing of the horse, complete silence reigned. I had been in worse case many a time, and have been since; and I set myself to make the best of things. The wind was rising and bringing the cold rain down in a fierce slant, and the first thing I did was to crawl to the lee side of the overturned four-wheeler, which lay wheels upward, securely wedged into a hollow. There was a little hillock, against one side of which it had rested, which was free from the prickly furze, and, all things considered, made no bad resting-place. The wrenched ankle pained me severely, but I was dazed by the blow on the head, and had more difficulty in fighting against an inclination to sleep or swoon than in enduring that discomfort. In spite of all my efforts, all knowledge of surrounding objects faded away at times, and I passed into a momentary oblivion, though a twinge from the injured ankle always swiftly recalled me to myself. In a while I remembered that I had my cigar-case in my pocket, together with a box of those old-fashioned brown paper fusees which were commonly used by smokers at that time. I had only one hand available, and it cost me a good deal of trouble to get at that bit of solace and companionship; but when I had lit a cigar, and had coiled myself into the most comfortable posture I could find, I felt more patient than before, and smoked away for half an hour or so in a tranquillity more or less enforced. I listened keenly all the time, and anybody who has ever tried the experiment knows how that act retards the slow passage of the moments at any time of anxiety and pain. If anybody thinks that an old campaigner is making much of a very slight accident, I shall ask him to remember the circumstances under which it occurred. I had been bitterly anxious the whole week, uncertain of the whereabouts of the lady who loved me, and whom I loved with all my soul, imagining, in a fashion which seemed contrary to my own nature, a hundred thousand misfortunes, and suffering more in mind than I can ever have the ability to express in words. And now, just as I had come to a knowledge of where to find her, with the note from her dear hand still near my heart, and with the knowledge in my mind that every fruitless minute spent there would be full of weariness and doubt to her, I was as effectually stopped by this trumpery overturn as if it had been the most serious disaster in the world. My cigar was smoked out, and, after a long pause, I lit another. Sometimes the mere act of listening as intently as I did made me imagine noises in my neighborhood, and I called out frequently on the mere chance of these sounds being real. Little by little the cold and wet began to take effect upon me. I grew more and more heavy with it, and at last, with the second cigar still alight between my lips, I fell fast asleep, and lay there unconscious of the wind and rain, and knowing nothing of my own bodily inconveniences. How long this lasted I never had an opportunity of knowing, but I was awakened at last by the grasp of a hand upon my shoulder, and tried to rise, half-blinded by the dazzling rays of a lantern, which was swinging close before me. There were a dozen men upon the ground, attracted by the story the driver had told, and among them was a local medical man, who had had the old-fashioned prescience to charge a big flask with brandy. I was glad enough to get a pull at its contents, and the doctor having gone carefully over me and pronounced that no bones were broken, I was lifted with a good deal of trouble into his dog-cart, and at my own request was driven on to Richmond. It was long after midnight when we got there, but after a good deal of knocking and ringing we made our way into the Talbot Hotel, where I secured a comfortable bedroom; and when my sprained wrist and dislocated ankle had been put into cold compasses by the doctor, I was got to bed. I passed an uneasy night, afflicted mainly by the thought of Violet's bewilderment about me, and in the morning I scrawled a note to her, telling her where I was, and asking her to send me word that she had received my message. I was more damaged than I had fancied, and the mere writing of the letter with my injured hand was a tough task. The messenger I despatched knew Scarfell House, and told me that it had been bought by General Sir Arthur Rollinson a dozen years ago, but had lately been very rarely used, though an old house-keeper and a general servant were always left in charge of the place. The man came back in an hour, and to my annoyance and surprise told me that Miss Rossano had left at an early hour that morning. Lady Rollinson had driven down from London in great apparent haste, and had taken the young lady back to town with her. I lay raging and helpless half the day, not knowing what to do in this unexpected posture of affairs; but at length, being myself unable to move, and unlikely, according to the doctor's statement, to leave my room for a week to come, I resolved, as a last resource, on sending a message to Hinge, on taking him completely into my confidence, and setting him to work to find out in what direction Lady Rollinson had spirited her ward.
It was late in the afternoon before he came, and the good fellow was full of sympathy about my accident, and was disposed to stop and nurse me through the effects of it. But when he had once learned the facts of the case he took up my business with an almost romantic fervor.
“You lay your life, sir,” said Hinge, “I'll find her. There's no go-betweens as 'll get any letter for the young lady out o' my hands. All right, sir; you write the letter, and you trust me to see as it gets to the proper quarter.”
Hinge's devotion and loyalty did me good, and when I had struggled through with the letter and had confided it to his care, I felt easier and more hopeful. Hinge's first movement was up to London, and thence he returned to me within half a dozen hours with the dispiriting intelligence that Lady Rollinson and Violet had left town together an hour before his arrival without leaving any instructions as to the forwarding of letters. Hinge, in his occasional visits to the house, had contrived to get on very excellent terms with a pretty parlor-maid, who had given him voluntarily all the information she had at her command. The only definite bit of news he brought was that the ladies had driven to Euston Station; and though that fact opened up, then, a vista of inquiry far less wide than it would to-day, it was still possible to go to so many places, and I had so little to guide me as to their intentions, that the news left me in a perfect fog of despair, However, Hinge, in obedience to my instructions, went to Euston, and attempted there to find out for what place tickets had been taken; but he came back next morning to report his complete non-success, and was evidently a good deal dashed and dispirited by his own failure.
“Never you mind, sir,” said Hinge, with outside stoutness, “we'll find 'em yet.”
The poor fellow did his best to keep me cheerful, but between bodily pain and suspense, and the sense of my own helplessness, I am afraid he found me rather difficult to manage.
A week had gone by, and I was so far recovered that I could limp about the room. The doctor had found it necessary to warn me more than once that I was retarding my recovery by my own eagerness, and that unless I would consent to absolute repose I might not improbably do myself a life-long injury; but I could feel the injured ankle growing firmer, and I was resolute to try the search next day myself.
Since the complete failure of his enterprise, Hinge had devoted himself entirely to nursing me; and he had been so assiduous in his attentions that I was surprised to find him absent when I called for him. At this time I was liable to be unduly excited by almost anything, and as his absence continued hour after hour, I lashed myself into a condition of wild anxiety. I was convinced that nothing but his interest for my welfare could have kept him away from me so long, and I was certain in my own mind that he had found a clew of some sort. It was seven o'clock in the evening when he came back at last, and my first glance at his face told me that something of importance had transpired.
“Where have you been all day?” I asked.
“Do you think, sir,” Hinge returned, with a face and voice of mystery--“do you think, sir, as you'll be able to get about to-morrow? If you can, I'll show you something.”
“Speak out plainly and at once, there's a good fellow,” I responded.
“Well, sir,” said Hinge, “I've found out something.” He was like a narrow-necked bottle whenever he had anything which he was eager to communicate, and I knew by experience that it was worse than useless to try to hasten the stream he had to give.
“Give me my pipe,” I said, “and get on as fast as you can.”
“I've found out something,” Hinge repeated. “I've been surprised in my time, sir, but I never was knocked so much of a heap as I have been this afternoon.” I lit my pipe and waited for him, controlling impatience as best I might. “Now who in the name of wonder, sir,” said Hinge, “do you think is down here colloguing together?”
“How should I know?” I asked, groaning with impatience.
“I was a-walking up the 'ill, sir,” said Hinge, “towards the Star and Garter this morning, just to get a breath of fresh air, when you told me as I might go out for half an hour. You remember as you'd given me leave, sir?”
“Yes, yes!” I answered. “Go on with your story.”
“Well, sir,” said Hinge, “you might have knocked me over with a feather, for coming down the 'ill arm in arm I see the Honorable Mr. Brunow and that there Sacovitch. They was talking together that interested they didn't notice me. Now Mr. Brunow, 'e knows me, sir, if Sacovitch doesn't, and I thought, after all as had happened, it might be worth my while to see what they was up to and not to be seen myself; so I just slips off the roadway behind a house as is a-build-ing on the right-'and side, and right in front of me they stops. I could hear 'em talking, but I couldn't make out what they was a-saying, till all of a sudden Mr. Brunow says, ''Ere she is,' 'e says, just like that, sir--' 'Ere she is,' as if they was a-waiting for somebody. In 'arf a minute up drives the Baroness Bonnar in a carriage, with a lady a-sitting beside her. The two gentlemen takes off their 'ats, and they all shakes hands together, and then Mr. Brunow and Mr. Sacovitch gets into the carriage, and they all drives off together.” He stopped there with such an air of triumph and perspicacity that I was angry with him. Certainly the news that Brunow was about again was interesting, and might perhaps be useful. But that, being at large, he should be in the companionship of the baroness and the Austrian police spy was not at all by itself surprising, and Hinge had the air of one who had discovered a wonder.
“Is that all?” I asked him.
“No, sir,” said Hinge, “that's only the beginning. They drives off through the park, turning the carriage round directly the gentlemen gets into it. They drove as slow as slow could be, just at a lazy kind of walk, sir; and when they was a little bit of a distance off I ventures to follow 'era. Their four heads was that close together you might have covered them with one hat, but of course I never dare venture near enough to find out what they was a-talking about. They drove about for two or three hours, and I kep' 'em in sight all the while-At one time the Baroness Bonnar and the other lady, they gets down to feed the deer from a paper-bag of biscuits, and the gentlemen strolled about smoking cigars. Then they all four gets together again just as eager and as busy as ever. I could see 'em a-talking and a-arguing like mad, and I was just wild myself to know what it was all about, sir, but of course I couldn't get a-nigh of 'em. Finally,” said Hinge, “after two or three hours, they drives back to the Star and Garter, and goes in there. I found out, sir,” he went on, with a growing air of importance which, considering the triviality of the intelligence he had so far brought me, was hard to bear with--“I found out, sir, as they'd ordered lunch; but I didn't likes to leave 'em without knowing what they was up to, and so I 'ung about, sir. That comes easy, sir,” said Hinge, “to a man as 'as been used to barrack life. I 'ung about, and in the course of an hour or more they comes out very jolly, and drives into the park again, and all the morning's business over again. Well, sir, having gone on so long, I didn't like to be put off; and I determined, as a man might say, to see the finish of it. It come, sir, and it come sooner than I expected. They drives back about four o'clock, just as it was beginning to get towards dusk, and they leaves the carriage at the Star and Garter, and they all walks down the 'ill together, the two ladies in front and the two gentlemen behind. I followed, sir, at a respectful distance, and they roams on quite gay and easy for a good mile and a 'arf, and at last they drops down by the river-side on a little cottage. The dusk was falling fast, sir, and I was able to get nearer to them than I had been. I was within twenty yards of them when they all went in together. If you can get out to-morrow, sir, you can see the cottage, and you'll see where I got to. It's just right over the river, and there's a bit of what they used to call a veranda when I was in Bombay, sir. It's right over the river, the veranda is, and I clomb onto it, and through the Venetian blind I see the 'ole party. I was just a-peeping in when Sacovitch comes along and throws the window open, just as if he'd wanted me to hear what they was a-saying. 'And now,' says he, 'it's all ready, ain't it?'”
I suppose I shifted in my chair at this, and turned round with a look of some eagerness and interest, for Hinge, in his excitement, laid his hand upon my shoulder and begged me not to hurry him.
“Don't you 'urry me, sir, if you please. I'm a coming to it now, and I think before I've done you'll say, sir, as I've got it. 'And now,' says Sacovitch, 'it's all ready, ain't it.' The baroness was standing there close by the table. There was decanters on the table, and a lot of soda-water bottles. She 'elps herself and the other lady to a brandy-and-soda, and says she, just as she let the cork fly, 'Yes,' she says, 'I think you've got it.' I'd 'ave give a guinea at that minute,” said Hinge, “to know what they'd got, but I never thought I should till Mr. Brunow gets up and says, just at that minute, 'Let's see exactly where we stand,' 'e says. 'Very well,' says Sacovitch; 'it's like this. Now listen, all of you,' 'e says, 'for these is the final instructions.'”
I moved again, half rising from my seat, but Hinge waved a protesting hand against me.
“For God's sake, sir, don't 'urry me! I'm at it now, and you shall have it all in half a minute, sir. 'It's like this,' says Sacovitch; 'we know,' he says, 'that Miss Rossano has drawn that forty thousand pounds. What that forty thousand pounds is for,' he says, 'is thoroughly well beknown to all of you. There's Colonel Quorn,' he says--Did you ever 'ear of Colonel Quorn, sir?”
“Yes, yes!” I answered. “Go on with your story.”
“'There's Colonel Quorn,' 'e says, 'lying off Civita Vecchia with the count on board 'is ship with the arms and ammunition.' Now I'm a-coming to it, sir; don't you stop me. Such a wicked plot you never heard in all your life. 'The count's on board,' he says, 'and the arms is on board. The count won't land until he gets both arms and ammunition. Colonel Quorn won't 'hand over neither arms nor ammunition,' he says, 'until he gets that forty thousand pounds. The very minute he gets that money he hands it over to Colonel Quorn, he gets the arms, and he lands. But now, mind you,' says Sacovitch, 'there's this to be considered: the count won't trust his foot on Italian soil, arms or no arms,' he says, 'after what's happened to him, unless he's sure of meeting his friends when he get's there. Now what's got to be done,' says he, 'is to time the delivery of the money. That money mustn't be paid until we've got our people ready. The count won't land until he thinks he's safe, and we must take jolly good care,' says Sacovitch, ''e don't land until we're ready,' he says. 'To be a day too soon on the one side, or a day too late on the other,' he says, 'would wreck us all. And mind you,' he says, 'the Austrian government puts more importance onto this affair than anything else as is happening just at present. They'd sooner pay a million pounds,' he says (I'm giving you his very words, sir)--' they'd sooner pay a million pounds,' he says, 'than miss the Count Rossano.”
In spite of my lame foot I was pacing about the room by this time, altogether too eager to control myself longer to physical quietude.
“And then,” said Hinge, “this come out, and this is what I want to tell you. Says Sacovitch to the other lady: 'You bring your messenger,' says he, 'at this time to-morrow here, and I'll give him his last instructions.'”
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{
"id": "22205"
}
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19
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My story until now has dragged a lingering length along, but from this point onward it moves swiftly to its close. In the haste I feel to reach that close I strive to obliterate from my mind whatever came between the hour of Hinge's revelation and the hour of the appointment. The task is not easy, for the four-and-twenty hours that intervened were filled with a suspense and anxiety of no common sort. The night passed, as even the most anxious of nights will pass; the day succeeding it crawled on, as even the dreariest of days will crawl; and at last the hour arrived. When, aided by Hinge on one side and by a stout walking-stick on the other, I left the hotel, the night was already dark, and once more a heavy rain was falling. Hinge had secured a vehicle, which carried us to within a hundred yards of our destination, and was there discharged. There was a lamp at either end of the brief lane in which the river-side cottage stood, and we could see that the road was diverted. There was still a chance that the traitors who were plotting against us might keep watch, and we slipped into the garden with some little trepidation. Once within the gate, I made a circuit of the house to assure myself that there was no chance of our being observed, and finding the whole field clear, I climbed, with Hinge's aid, onto the balcony. We had found the whole land in front of the house in darkness, and only a single room on the river-side was illuminated. Hinge touched me on the elbow, and with a forward finger indicated the lighted window, and motioned me on. I went crouching with a stealthy step until I came on a level with the window, and then, kneeling on the wet boards of the veranda, I found within eyeshot Brunow, the baroness, Sacovitch, and Constance Pleyel. The two men were smoking, wine was set out upon the table, and four glasses were filled. The whole party had an air of Bohemian ease and jollity. They were talking together, and I could see Sacovitch pacing the room with great vehemence of gesture; but though I could hear the deep murmur of his voice, and could even ascertain that he was speaking in English with a foreign accent, I could not succeed, strain my ears as I might, in making out the burden of a consecutive sentence. Hinge was crouching at my side, his shoulder touching mine. The rain dripped from the upper part of the house onto the shelving roof of the veranda with a monotonous and incessant noise which drowned the voices within at critical moments, so that we caught no more than detached words. All of a sudden I felt Hinge's hand on my wrist, and at that second a step crunched on the gravel between the gate and the door of the house. Then a bell tinkled faintly, and we both saw the whole quartet turn with varying expressions of waiting and attention. Then the door of the room opened and a servant appeared, explaining in dumb show, so far as we were concerned, but to our perfect understanding, that a visitor had arrived. I saw Brunow wave permission to the visitor to enter, and understood quite clearly what was going on, though at this moment the pattering of the rain and the sudden sigh of the wind robbed my ears of even the murmur of his voice. The servant retired, leaving the door open, and the quartet of conspirators bent towards each other while Sacovitch spoke. I watched the movement of his forefinger and the motion of his lips. The glint of his eye, the elevation of his brow, and the inclination of his head towards the open door all meant caution, and I could tell as clearly as if I had heard his words that he was taking upon himself the burden and responsibility of an approaching interview. An instant later the servant reappeared, laying a needless hand upon the door and swaying it open by a superfluous inch or two as he introduced the visitor.
“Roncivalli!” whispered Hinge, in a tone of unutterable amazement as the man came in.
I thought myself prepared for anything; but the presence of such a man in such company astonished me profoundly. Roncivalli was one of the most trusted of our committee, an Italian _pur sang_, a man whose family had suffered from Austrian misrule for half a century back. He represented a house which had been rich and noble, and had been persecuted into nothingness. No man had been louder in denunciation of the Austrian cruelty, no man apparently more sincere. There never lived a man who had more reason for sincerity. My first impression was that he must be spying upon the spies, for my opinion of his patriotism had been so lofty, that next to the Count Rossano and poor old Ruffiano, whom Brunow had betrayed, I should have counted him the last man in all the Italian ranks to be bought by Austrian gold.
He came in, hat in hand, with a sweeping salute to the ladies, and tossing his sombrero on the sofa, dripping wet as it was, unbuttoned with both hands a paletot shining with rain, and displayed himself in evening-dress, with a big jewel shining in the centre of his shirt-front, after a fashion which became popular a score of years later. Sacovitch stepped forward to help him divest himself of his cloak; and when it was slipped from his shoulders he held it with one hand, groping in the pockets from one side to the other, and in the meantime nodded round with a smiling air, with an allusion which I understood a second later when he held up a long Virginian cigar. Miss Pleyel and the baroness bowed, and Roncivalli set his cigar over the lamp until one end of it became incandescent. Then he began to smoke, and at a wave from Miss Pleyel's hand took an arm-chair close to the window. The baroness rose from her seat and poured out wine for him. Motions of hand and eye, change of feature, and movement of lip indicated an animated social converse, but not a word of it all reached my ears. I was just meditating on Hinge's luck in the fact that on the occasion of his watch the conspirators had thrown open the window as if on purpose that he should secure a hearing of their deliberations, when the baroness put her hand to her round white throat, with an exaggerated gesture of oppression, and then waved it towards the window. Sacovitch bowed and rose from his place. I laid a hand on Hinge, impelling him downward as the Austrian police spy walked towards the window. We each glued ourselves to the wall, and prostrated ourselves on the rainy wood-work of the veranda walk. We heard the grating sound of the window as it rose; and the mingled voices of the people inside--all _five_ speaking together--came out with a gush, and brought such anticipatory joy and triumph to my heart as I had never felt before.
“Let us make sure,” said Roncivalli, in a laughing tone. “We have important business to discuss--at least, I am advised so--and it would be just as well to be certain that we are not overheard.” He raised the Venetian blind by the cord, and for a moment the rattle sounded as disturbing to the nerves as anything I can remember. But I heard Sacovitch say: “The veranda looks upon the river. There is nobody within hearing.”
“We will see, in any case,” Roncivalli responded, and with that he thrust his head between the window-sill and the blind, and peeped out into the river. The lamplight took him from behind and illuminated the tips and edges of his hair, his beard, and his mustache, so that they shone bright gold, though he was a man of darkish complexion. As he turned his head sideways the white of his eye gleamed like an opal, and bending suddenly he looked downward, seeming to stare me in the face so intently that I did not even dare to breathe. I was so absolutely certain that he would give an alarm that it came upon me with a shock of relief beyond description when he drew his head back into the room, and said that everything was clear.
“That is a relief,” said the baroness; “but with all you gentlemen smoking, I was afraid that I should faint.”
“So?” said Sacovitch, with an altogether insolent disregard in his inquiry. “Let us get to business.”
“I am ready,” Roncivalli answered, throwing himself anew into the arm-chair.
“A moment,” said a voice, which I recognized as Constance Pleyel's; “it is very well to have the window open, but all the same we need not catch our death of cold. Will you be good enough, Signor Roncivalli, to lower the blind.”
The signor arose and obeyed her, and as he did so I could see his long figure between me and the whitewashed, lamplit ceiling of the room. Before another word was spoken Hinge touched me again upon the elbow, and I knew at once the meaning of his signal. We rose, both of us, silently to our knees, and each found a crevice through which he could command a view of the occupants of the room.
“The first thing, I take it,” said Sacovitch, “is to decide that the negotiations we are about to conclude are not likely to be broken by any betrayal on either side.”
“So far as I am concerned,” said Roncivalli, “my being here is guarantee enough. I am not risking my life for nothing, or, if I am, I shall know the reason why.”
At this moment Brunow broke in with an Italian-sounding phrase, and the baroness interrupted him.
“Speak English,” she said. “Herr Sacovitch has no Italian, and Miss Pleyel no German. English is the one language which is understood by all of us, and we may just as well have everything open and above-board.”
With one eye glued to the lower interstice of the Venetian blind, I saw the quintet all bowing and bobbing to each other at this with a Judas politeness which was altogether charming to look at. Roncivalli, with his back half turned towards me, was so near that I could have taken him by the hair. A little removed from him, on the right, sat the baroness, in a captivating little bonnet and gloves of pearl gray, smoothing one hand over the other on her silk-clad knees with a purring satisfaction in the charm of her own attire. At her side sat poor Constance Pleyel with a wineglass in her left hand, looking into its last spot or two as drearily as if she contemplated the dregs of her own wasted and weary life. Beyond her again, and almost facing me, just seen across Roncivalli's shoulders, sat Brunow, smoking at his ease, and toying with his eyeglass with the fingers of both hands. Sacovitch stood upright, his cigar balanced between his first and second fingers, dominating, or seeking to dominate, the whole party.
“I especially desire,” he said, in his strong German accent, and ticking off on his left forefinger every important syllable, with such emphasis that he scattered the ashes of his cigar into his own wineglass--“I especially desire that Signor Roncivalli should understand with extreme definiteness that there is no escape from the position which he has elected to assume.”
“No fear of me, my friend,” Roncivalli answered. The liquid Italian played against the German guttural like the warble of a flute answering the snarl of a violoncello. “I am doing what I know. Until our friend Rossano came to England I had a place from which he was good enough to depose me. You may say what you like, Herr Sacovitch, but the independence of my country is secure. Italy wins; and I desire Italy to win. I will help you to your Count Rossano if you want him, and if you will pay me for it, because I hate him, and because he is in my way. But Italy wins, all the same.”
There was a candor about this which I could appreciate, but Sacovitch turned upon his purchased traitor with something very like a snarl.
“Understand,” he said, in his thick German-English, “that I buy you or I do not buy you. Whether I buy you or not, you are sold already. Our last talk was overheard by a fellow-committeeman of yours, who is in my pay, and who will go back to his old patriotism, or come to me, exactly as I tell him.”
“I am here for a service,” responded Roncivalli “I will do one thing for you, as I have told you all along, and I will do no more. I will give you the Count Rossano, who is in my way, and I will not give you any real chance over Italy for anything you may offer me. I will take your money because I want it, and I will serve your turn because it suits me. How I reconcile these matters with my own conscience is my own affair.”
“Your conscience is your own,” Sacovitch answered; “the question of your conduct is our consideration. I want you only to understand that a single false move on either side--” He took a deep pull at his cigar there, and made a purposed pause for effect. “I think, ladies and gentlemen, you will agree with me that I do not exaggerate. Swerve an inch to right or left,” he added, “and you lose your life.”
Roncivalli's flute-like voice followed the troubled grumble of the German's threat.
“I know my business, Herr Sacovitch, as well as you know yours. I can serve your turn and I can serve my own. Give me what I ask, and you may have the Count Rossano. But if you think that in betraying the man who has usurped my place I betray my cause, you are very much mistaken. So long as Count Rossano is at liberty, it is not worth your while to trap so inconsiderable a person as myself. When once he is in your hands I shall be a great deal too wise to give you the chance of seizing me. When I fight, I shall fight openly--against Austria,” he added, with a laugh.
“Miss Rossano,” said Sacovitch, “drew the forty thousand pounds yesterday, and it now lies in the hands of Lady Rollinson. You will go to Southampton by the first train in the morning, accompanied by the Baroness Bonnar, who will introduce you to her English ladyship. Lady Rollinson is in direct communication with the Count Rossano, and will be able to give you a meeting-place at which you will hand over the money to the count. Mr. Brunow and the baroness will accompany you, and will undertake to see that the money is delivered. Any one of you may act as intermediaries between the Count Rossano and the forces on shore; but it must be definitely understood that the count is, under no circumstances, to be allowed to land until our own side is ready.”
“That is clear enough,” answered Roncivalli.
“Let me be clearer still,”--said Sacovitch, turning upon him with a menacing look. “In a case like this, many things have to be provided for. It is quite possible that it may seem worth your while to play for forty thousand pounds.”
“Not at all,” said Roncivalli, tranquilly.
“It is assuredly not worth your while,” the Austrian returned. “This enterprise is in my hands, and it has never been my practice to leave any of my agents unwatched. I shall not tell you who will watch you, or who in turn will watch him; but it will save possible trouble if you should understand that from the moment at which you leave, until the Count Rossano is in our hands, you will be under my observation and control as definitely as you are at this moment.”
“All this,” replied Roncivalli, “is a waste of words. I have undertaken this piece of work for my own purpose, and for my own purpose I shall carry it through. When the work is done I shall go my own way, as I have always told you. I am to have the pleasure of your society, madame,” he continued, turning to the baroness. “That is charming, and will beguile a journey which might otherwise be tedious. What is the hour of the train's departure?”
Sacovitch drew out a pocket-book, and, extracting a loose leaf from it, handed it to him.
“You will find all your instructions there: the train, the hotel at which Lady Rollinson is staying, and the boat. Mr. Brunow has my certificate to the captain of the boat, who will place himself at your service at any hour.”
“_Buono! _” said the Italian, folding the paper with a flourish, and bestowing it in his breast-pocket. “Is there anything more?”
“That is all,” said Sacovitch. “I think we understand each other, and we could do no more than that if we talked till midnight.”
“In that case,” said Roncivalli, rising, “until tomorrow, madame. Until to-morrow, Mr. Brunow.” He took up his paletot from the chair onto which he had thrown it on his entrance, and threw it over his shoulder. Then he took his hat, and with a half-theatrical bow all round, and a smile at Sacovitch, he left the room. The hall-door banged a few seconds later, and his footstep sounded on the gravel of the path and then died away.
“I am not quite sure that I trust that fellow,” Sacovitch said a minute later. “It will be your business to keep a strict eye upon him.”
“Have no fear,” said the baroness. “He shall be well watched.”
There was more talk, but it had no interest for me, though I still listened intently in the hope of learning more. In a quarter of an hour or thereabouts the servant was called in, and received instructions to bring the baroness's carriage, which appeared to be put up at a hotel while the conference was being held. She and Brunow and Constance were, it appeared, going back to town together, and I learned incidentally that the cottage had been rented by Sacovitch for his own purposes, as affording a more convenient and secret meeting-place than any he could find in London. Directly the servant had received his orders I gave Hinge a sign, and with infinite precautions we climbed from the veranda to the garden, and thence made our way on tip-toe, like a pair of thieves, to the roadway.
“They're a nice old lot, sir, ain't they?” said Hinge, when we had walked a hundred yards in silence.
I quieted him by returning no answer, and we walked on without another word until I had reached my own chamber. By this time I had quite made up my mind as to the line it was my duty to adopt, and wheresoever it led me I was resolved to follow. I gave Hinge my purse, and instructed him to pay the bill, to pack up my belongings, and to be ready to catch the first train into town. He was full of wonderment and conjecture, but, like the old soldier he was, he obeyed without inquiry. When I arrived at my own rooms I sat down and wrote a statement of the whole truth, as brief and concise as I could make it, and copied it four or five times over; and armed with these documents, I drove to the addresses of such men as I knew where to find among our _sociétaires_. Under ordinary circumstances, since the count's departure and the betrayal of poor old Ruffiano, I should have gone to Roncivalli; but now that he was turned traitor I had to rely upon my own limited information, which served me very awkwardly. I had calculated beforehand on the chance that I might not find any one of the men I sought at home, and my worst forebodings were fulfilled. I left in each case my written statement, and before I returned to my own rooms I had delivered them all. The unfortunate part of the business was, as I knew full well, that hardly a man among them could read English, and in almost every case the recipient of my letter would have to seek a translator before he could find me. I knew, on the other hand, that if once the statement I had made reached the intelligence of any one Italian patriot, the news would spread like wildfire, and that, if I needed them, a hundred men would be at my disposal to check the treason meditated by Roncivalli and Brunow. In each epistle I besought the receiver to follow me without delay to Southampton, and I undertook to wire to each the address at which I might be found, and begged him, in case he should follow immediately, to make arrangements to have that address rewired.
All this being done, I sat down and wrote out a fuller statement of the case for Violet's reading, if ever I should again be so happy as to find the chance of placing it in her hands. This occupied me until an hour after midnight. I went to bed, leaving with Hinge the responsibility of awaking me in time for the first train next morning to Southampton. When we reached the railway station I caught a glimpse of Roncivalli and Brunow and the baroness; but this was no more than I had expected, and it cost me but little trouble to evade them. We reached Southampton without adventure, and I kept my place in the railway carriage until Hinge reported to me that they had left the platform. Then I ventured after them in a fly, and having seen them all enter a hotel together, I made a note of its name and position in my mind, and took a little drive into the country before returning. When I got back and procured rooms, my heart leaped as I signed the visitors' book, for at the top of the page on which I wrote I saw the names of Lady Rollinson, Miss Rossano and maid. It cost me an effort to put the question with untroubled face and voice, but I asked the servant who conducted me to my room if Miss Rossano were still staying in the house. He answered uninterestedly that he did not know the lady. But when I mentioned her as Lady Rollinson's companion, he recalled her to mind.
“No, sir,” he said; “the lady stayed in the house the night before last, but she went away with her maid yesterday morning.”
As to when she would return, or as to the direction she had taken at the time of her departure, he could tell me nothing. And so, as fate would have it, I was left in the ignorance and uncertainty which had perplexed me from the first. A minute's interview with Violet would, of course, have put an end to the danger of the situation, but in her absence I felt as powerless here as I had been in London. I was on the scene of action, but so long as Lady Rollinson retained her absurd suspicions, I could not approach the actors and actresses in the scene of tragedy which grew every moment more threatening and more imminent.
Hinge was so far in my confidence already that I had not much difficulty in laying before him all my hopes and fears. I wrote an urgent note to Lady Rollinson, and sent it by his hand, instructing him to deliver it to her ladyship personally. I read it over to him when it was completed, and at the end of every sentence he nodded assent to it.
“Dear Lady Rollinson,” I wrote, “you have engaged to pay into the hands of Signor Roncivalli a sum of forty thousand pounds, to be handed to Count Rossano. Before you do this I beseech you solemnly to give me a moment's interview. The payment of that money will result in the count's betrayal to the Austrians. You know what he has suffered already, and you know how little mercy he can look for at their hands if they should once more succeed in getting hold of him. I beg you, for his sake, and for the sake of Violet, whom I know you love, to give me an interview of five minutes only. You may question the bearer of this note, who will tell you everything, and you may rely upon his knowledge and discretion. If you are still determined not to see me, I shall be quite content that you should learn the truth from him. But I beg you, by everything you hold dear, not to disregard my warning. Count Rossano is in peril of the gravest sort, and if you should hand Miss Ros-sano's gift to him without inquiry, you may sign his death-warrant, and will certainly give yourself grounds for the bitterest self-reproaches you have ever known.”
Hinge undertook, with a full sense of the responsibility which rested upon him, to deliver this letter, and went away with it; but in ten minutes he came back with the envelope unopened.
“_I_ got to 'er ladyship,” he said; “but the minute I told 'er where I came from she threw the letter on the table and told me to bring it back again. I tried my best, sir, but she wouldn't listen to me. She ordered me out of the room, sir; and when I tried to tell 'er what the matter was, she rung the bell and walked out. You can't follow a lady into 'er bedroom, sir; and say what I would I couldn't get 'er to let me get a word in edgeways. A servant comes up in answer to the ring, and 'er ladyship, from inside 'er bedroom, says, 'Waiter, request that man to leave my room, and see as 'e don't trouble me no more.'”
“Where are Lady Rollinson's rooms?” I asked him, desperately.
“They're in this corridor, sir,” Hinge answered; “at the far end, numbers 38, 39, and 40.”
I snatched up the letter, strode along the corridor, and knocked at the middle door of the suite. Lady Rollinson herself answered my summons, and before I could speak a word slammed the door indignantly in my face and turned the key. I heard the bolt shoot in the lock, and a second later an angry peal at the bell sounded. I stood there, altogether irresolute and disconsolate. A waiter came flying up the stairs, and, bustling past me, knocked at the door.
“Who's there?” cried her ladyship's voice from within. “Send the manager to me. Tell him that I am being persecuted, and that I demand his protection.”
What was a man to do in a case of that kind? I could simply retire to my own apartments; but I did it in such a passion of wrath and impotence that I could have taken that stupid and credulous old woman by the shoulders and shaken her to reason. I was too angry and disheartened to speak a word; but while I was pacing up and down the room, and wondering what my next move should be, the manager of the hotel presented himself, with a message from Lady Rollinson.
“It is no affair of mine, sir,” said the man, who was extremely polite and business-like; “but the lady declares that she will not see you on any account, or receive any communication from you. I am to tell you that if you persist in attempting to see her she will leave the hotel. I can't afford to have my customers troubled in this way, and I must ask you to go.”
I told him I should decline to go. I asked him to sit down, and I related to him the whole story, so far as it was necessary that any outside person should hear it, in order that he might judge of the situation. The man became interested, and even in a way sympathetic.
“It's a very curious case; sir,” he admitted; “but I can't allow my customers to be disturbed, all the same. If I were in your place, sir,” he added, “I should appeal to the police.”
This advice was so hopelessly astray from the point that I dismissed the man, though I had to promise him that Lady Rollinson should suffer no further annoyance. Hinge was hard to pacify, for in his loyalty to me and the affection that had grown up between us, he was almost as much interested as I was, and he kept breaking in with a “Look 'ere, sir, this is Captain Fyffe, my master. It was him as rescued Count Rossano from the fortress of Itzia--you must have seen it in the papers.” The man was got rid of at last, and the promise was given. And now there was nothing to be done but to await the arrival of some one or two of the patriotic _sociétaires_ from London. Even in the extremity at which things had arrived, I more than half dreaded their coming. If they came at all, they would come with a full knowledge of the facts, and their arrival meant nothing less than murder. It would have been the wildest of dreams to suppose for an instant that any one of them would allow his beloved chief to be handed over to the Austrians at any cost; and though I was willing to pay almost any price to save the count, I had a horror of bloodshed in a case like that.
“Let us leave no stone unturned,” I said to Hinge.
“I will go to the railway station to meet any friends of mine that may arrive, and in the meantime you can go to the docks and ascertain what vessels sail for any Italian port to-morrow. Find out if it is possible for me to get berths aboard the boat by which Brunow and Roncivalli sail.”
“You trust me, sir,” Hinge returned; “I'll do my best.”
We parted for an hour or so. My waiting at the station came to nothing, and when Hinge returned he had no news worth the telling. The regular liners were all known, and had been easy enough to find. He had learned by cunning inquiry that luggage had been taken that evening aboard a craft whose destination v was unknown, and he had had her pointed out to him. When he had pulled out into the harbor to speak the craft, he had been warned away by a man who either could not understand him or refused to do so. It was not in itself a suspicious or remarkable thing that a stranger should not have been allowed to board a foreign craft after dark, but in the circumstances it was enough to make me believe that this was the ship by which the traitorous party was to sail. To be so near, to know so much, and yet to be so helpless was downright maddening.
“Once the money is in the hands of those wretches,” I said, “once they are away, the count is doomed. That headstrong old woman is throwing away her niece's fortune to betray her niece's father; and if she knew what she was doing she would sooner put her own right hand in the fire.”
“If I was you, sir,” Hinge responded, “I shouldn't let her do it.”
“You wouldn't?” I responded.
“No, sir,” said Hinge; “I wouldn't.”
“And how would you prevent it?” I asked. I spoke eagerly, for I could not help thinking he had some scheme in mind.
“I don't know, sir,” said Hinge; “but I shouldn't let 'er do it. I'd rouse the town agen 'em. Do you mean to tell me, sir, as any set of English people 'ud let a lot of scoundrels like them go off to sell the life of an innocent gentleman? I don't believe it. I should rouse the town.”
I bade him hold his tongue and go, and for two or three hours I sat by myself, raging at my own helplessness. There is nothing so intolerable to an active mind as the sense of urgent duty confronted by impotence. And if ever circumstance in the whole history of the world yet justified a man, sane and sober, in a madman's act, I felt myself justified when the last desperate resort occurred to me.
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I said not a word; but I sat by myself, and I matured, I think, the maddest scheme that ever entered a sane man's head. Desperate diseases, as everybody knows, ask for desperate remedies, and here I do not know how it was possible for anybody to overestimate the urgency of the case. Count Rossano has gone peacefully to his rest now this many a year, but I had learned to love the man with a loyal affection and esteem, the like of which I never felt for any human creature, except my wife and my own children. It made for a good deal in my affection for him that I had been instrumental in rescuing him from that living death he had suffered for so many years, for I have found over and over again in my own experience that one of the surest ways of learning to love a man is to do him a good turn. And apart from my own affection for him, he was the very apple of Violet's eye, and my affection for her I have never been able to find words for. That her money should be employed to lure her father to destruction was a thing altogether hideous and intolerable; and when I hit upon the only method I could see to prevent so dreadful a consummation, I accepted my own madness with a tranquillity which has surprised me very often in remembering it. I thought it well, before starting on the enterprise I had in hand, to set down my purpose in writing, so that if it miscarried I might at least escape the mischief of misconstruction. So I sat down and wrote deliberately that it was my intention to rob Lady Rollinson of the sum of forty thousand pounds, intrusted to her by Miss Violet Rossano for transmission to her father. If I could have seen any other way out of it I would not have taken this; but I had searched everywhere in my own mind, and until this one extraordinary proposition disclosed itself I had been able to find no road at all. I set down in the document I wrote my purpose in this strange proceeding; I signed and sealed it in an envelope, and put it in my pocket. Then I waited until the house was quite silent, and the last waiter had shuffled along the corridor. It was one o'clock in the morning before I was satisfied that the whole house had sunk to slumber, and then I marched straight to the room in which Lady Rollinson had last decisively refused to grant me a moment's interview. I remember very well that there were three pairs of boots outside the door, that they were all new and neat and fashionable, and that I thought, as I looked at them, that in contrast with my own heavy and mud-stained footgear they looked marvellously small and delicate. I turned the handle of the door, and, to my surprise, it yielded. I found myself within a dimly-lighted room, where the main illumination was refracted in a ghostly fashion from the white ceiling, and came from the street-lamps in the square below. I closed the door behind me, and found that I had light enough to make my way about without difficulty. The room was furnished in hotel fashion, and at one wall of it stood a ghostly piano, its form revealed by mere hints of polish on its surface here and there. On the opposite side was an escritoire with writing implements, and a few scattered sheets of paper. In the centre of the room was a table, and two or three disordered chairs were scattered about the apartment. Faint as the light was, a cursory glance about the place made it evident to me that so large an amount of money as the sum I meant to steal was hardly likely to be there. There were two doors opening out of the room apart from the one by which I had entered, and I was compelled to trust to chance in my choice of the one to be next opened. I cannot in the least tell why, but I walked without hesitation to the one on my left. I tried the handle, and the door resisted me. I tried again more strenuously, and I heard a voice from the other side cry out in sleepy tones, asking who was there. I knew the voice for Lady Rollinson's.
I know very well that I am telling a queer story, but I must tell it plainly. I set my sound knee against that door and threw my whole weight with it, and in a second, with a horrible wrench at the injured wrist and ankle, I stood inside the room. A faint scream greeted me, and I saw a white figure in the act of scrambling upright in the bed.
“You will do well to be quiet,” I said, and the figure sank back with a sort of moan and gurgle of astonishment. My own nerves were so overstrung already that I discerned a comedy in a situation sufficiently serious, and if I had given way to the impulse which assailed me I should have broken into a shout of unreasoning laughter. This was only a surface current, however, and I was as conscious of the serious import of my business as I am now in recalling the incidents of that incredible adventure.
“Your ladyship,” I said, with that odd sense of comedy still uppermost, “will regard this as rather a curious intrusion. You have forty thousand pounds belonging to Miss Rossano, and I am here to rob you of it. I propose to do it with all delicacy; but if your ladyship will be good enough to understand me, I mean to have the money.”
That she heard me I am sure, but the sole answer I received came in the shape of a muffled scream from underneath the bedclothes.
“The money,” I said, “is Violet's property, and to her I shall be perfectly willing to account for it. You must tell me where it is, and I shall take it, and shall keep it until she comes to claim it.” I waited, and no answer came at all. I was bubbling with subdued laughter, and fully alive at the same time to the serious side of my own position. “Where is the money?” I asked, in a voice as stern as I could make it. “Tell me, and tell me without delay!”
The blinds of the room were drawn, and even that faint illumination which had guided my steps in the sitting-room was missing here. I could see nothing but the dull gray gleam of the white counterpane and the hangings of the bed.
“Tell me at once,” I said. “You may ask me for any explanation in the morning, and I will give it Where is the money?”
I waited, and a dead silence reigned. I repeated my question once, and twice, and thrice: “Where is the money?” Then I heard a muffled voice say: “Here!” I groped forward in the darkness until my hand encountered hers, and took from her grasp a chamois-leather bag, which was all crisp to the touch above and solid below.
“That will do,” I said. “You have forced me to do this. You can raise an alarm if you will; I am willing to defend myself, and I have taken the only step that was left me to save the life of Violet's father.”
With that I withdrew, stumbling here and there against the furniture in the thick darkness of the room. The sitting-room beyond seemed light by comparison, and the corridor, with its solitary sickly gleam of gas, was as clear as it would have been in broad daylight. I ran to my own room, and flung the bag upon the table. Then I untied the cord which bound it at the neck, and counted its contents. There were twenty notes of the Bank of England for one thousand pounds each, tied up in one little ladylike bundle with a bit of narrow pink silk ribbon. There were thirty-eight notes of five hundred pounds each, tied in the same delicate and feminine fashion. Then there were notes of one hundred and of fifty, to the value of seven hundred pounds. And at the bottom of the bag was a great loose handful of gold, all in bright sovereigns and half-sovereigns, fresh from the Mint. I estimated this little mass of coined gold at three hundred pounds; but just as I was in the act of counting it, the ring of a bell in violent motion tingled through the midnight silence of the house, and I paused. I heard a door thrown open, and an urgent voice at an incredible pitch shrieked, “Thieves!” “Murder!” Then the bell sounded again and yet again, until I heard it fall with a crash upon the stone floor of the corridor below. The wild voice, once loosed, went on shrieking, “Murder!” “Thieves!” I hurried the money I had stolen back into the bag, tied it as I had found it, and awaited the result with perfect equanimity. In less than half a minute doors were banging all over the house, and hurrying feet charged up-stairs and down-stairs. The voice of alarm never ceased for a moment. I stepped out into the corridor, and faced the manager, who was the first man to arrive upon the field.
“Lady Rollinson is alarmed,” I said; “you had better send some of your women to her. I have just robbed her of forty thousand pounds, and the money is in my room.”
The man glared at me with an expression of profound astonishment. Words were utterly beyond him, and he could only gasp at me.
“Tell Lady Rollinson,” I continued, “that the money is quite safe. I shall surrender it to Miss Rossano, to whom it belongs, but to no other person. Now go!”
The corridor by this time was full of half-clad people, who were staring in each other's faces with the bewilderment natural to startled sleep. I returned to my own room, closing the door behind me, and awaited the progress of events. I heard excited voices outside, but could make out nothing of their purport. Thirty or forty people made a very babel of noise outside my door; but by-and-by Hinge came in, wide-eyed, in a very short night-shirt.
“I have saved the count,” I said, very quietly. “There is the money which was to have betrayed him.”
“Good Lord, sir,” Hinge cried, “how did you get hold of it?”
“I stole it,” I responded; “it was the only thing to do.” While Hinge still stared at me in wordless amazement the outer door was flung open, and the manager appeared, ushering in a policeman.
“This is the man!” he cried.
“Yes,” I answered, “I have not the slightest doubt that I am the man you want. You are an officer of the police?” The man said “Yes,” bustling forward with a brace of handcuffs in his hand. “I claim this money,” I said, laying my hand upon the bag which rested on the table. “There need be no doubt about the matter, officer. I have become illegally possessed of this, but I claim it, and I shall surrender it only to the hands of your inspector. He will keep it until its rightful owner comes to receive it.”
“Lady Rollinson claims it!” cried the manager.
“Lady Rollinson,” I answered, “has no more right to it than I have. This money is the property of Miss Rossano. It must be handed to her, and I have taken it in order that it may be put into the hands of the legal authorities until such time as she appears to claim it.”
“I must trouble you to go with me, sir,” said the officer, advancing with the handcuffs in his hand.
“I will go with you,” I answered, “and I will go quite quietly on one condition: you will take charge of this.”
“You bet I will!” the officer answered, facetiously; and I saw a glance pass between him and the manager which said “madman,” as plainly as the spoken word itself.
I had done too much already to permit myself to be foiled at the end. I took the bag of money in both hands, and held out my wrists towards the officer.
“You will handcuff me,” I said, “if you think that necessary. I shall submit to anything which you conceive to be within the limits of your duty. But I shall not part with this until I meet your inspector.”
The man answered nothing, but he fettered me clumsily enough, keeping so wary an eye upon my face meanwhile that he manipulated the handcuffs without guidance, and pinched me in fixing them. I winced at this, and he got back from me as if he thought I was about to strike him.
“Ha! would ye?” he said, and laid a hand upon his truncheon. I stood still, with the handcuffs still dangling from my wrists, and the man, reassured by my manner, completed his task. The door was open, and any number of dishevelled heads and staring eyes crowded in at us.
“Let somebody find a cab,” I said. “Lady Rollinson is naturally a good deal disturbed, and will not wish to make a charge to-night. She can appear against me in the morning, and in the meantime we can see that the money is made safe.”
“Make no mistake about that,” said the officer. “We'll see that the money is kept safe. You hand that bag over to me; I'll take charge of that.”
“No,” I answered; “it goes into your inspector's hands. You can send for him, if you like, or you can take me to him.”
On a sudden I looked up, and there, among the faces at the door, I caught sight of Roncivalli and Brunow.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “I take you to witness why I have done this thing. Here is the money which was to have been handed to you to-morrow. I have told the Brotherhood. I spared you once,” I added, to Brunow; “you may go now and take your chance in earnest.”
Roncivalli was a man of daring, and had more than once given proofs of courage; but he turned white at my words, and Brunow shrank back in the crowd with a face all ghastly gray, with his teeth gleaming behind his trembling lips. Through all the hurry and bustle of the scene the hotel manager was vainly urging the startled occupants of the house to return to their own chambers. Then, with a sudden leap of the heart, I heard a voice outside: “Be good enough to make way for me.”
“Come along!” cried the officer; “hand me that bag, and have done with it. I know my duty, and I've got force enough behind me.”
“Wait a moment,” I answered; “here is the owner of the money. Make way for Miss Rossano, and drive all those curious people away.”
I saw the crowd divide, and Violet came in, looking about her wonderingly. I stood there manacled, holding out the stolen money in my extended hands. She gave one swift glance of astonishment, and closed the door, leaving us alone, except for the officer and the hotel manager. Hinge, conscious of his dishabille, had retreated at the moment of her entrance.
“My aunt has been robbed, John,” she said, looking at me with wondering eyes-- “robbed of forty thousand pounds!”
“And I,” I answered, “am the thief, and here is the money.”
“You the thief!” She fixed me with her eyes that have always seemed like stars of fate to me, and I saw a shadow of dreadful pain and wonder on her face. “You the thief!” she repeated.
“Yes,” I answered; “I stole this money from Lady Rollinson five minutes ago.” What with the certainty of triumph in my purpose, the surety of being immediately understood, and the joy of seeing her so unexpectedly again, I laughed outright. “I hand you back your own, dear. Take charge of it till you have heard my story. Sit down, and I will tell you everything.”
“Is this your property, mum?” the officer asked, setting both hands on the bag as I set it on the table.
“I believe so,” said Violet. “I gave the sum of forty thousand pounds into the charge of my aunt, Lady Rollinson, yesterday morning?”
“Then of course,” said the policeman, “you give the person in charge?”
Violet looked at me with dancing eyes, and never in all my life have I known such pride and joy as that glance afforded me. There I stood before her, taken red-handed in the act, handcuffed, and openly confessing with my own lips my own deed; but any doubt of me was impossible to her true heart. I sounded at that moment the superb loyalty of her nature, and my pride in her seemed to lift me into heaven.
“In charge?” she asked, with a little tender, mirthful tremor in her voice. “No, I shall not give the gentleman in charge. Tell me what it means, John.”
I told her first, briefly and rapidly, the story of poor old Ruffiano's betrayal, and how I had let Brunow go. Then I told her of Hinge's recognition of Sacovitch, of the meeting in Richmond Park, of what Hinge had heard at the cottage; and, finally, of what we had both heard together. I had called for Hinge at the very beginning of my narrative, and by the time I came to his share in it he was present, hastily muffled in an overcoat, and divided between a desire to stand immovably at attention and a contradictory attempt furtively to smooth his hair, which rayed out all round his head in disorderly spikes, and gave him a look of having been frightened out of his life.
“But why,” she asked me, “did you take such an extraordinary action? Why not communicate with me?”
Then I had to tell her the story of that wretched Constance, which would have been an awkward thing to do under any circumstances, but was made more awkward still by the presence of the hotel manager and the constable. I went through it, however, without flinching, and I told her most of what has been set down in the latter part of these pages, though of course with less detail than I have given here. She scarcely interrupted me by a word, and when I had done she drew her purse from her pocket, and taking from it a sovereign, tendered the coin to the constable.
“You have done your duty, officer,” she said. “But you understand that your services will not be required any longer.”
The constable took the coin and pouched it.
“Do I understand, mum,” he asked, with a droll stolidity, “that you're satisfied with the prisoner's story?”
“Yes,” returned Violet; “I am quite satisfied. You will not be wanted any more.”
The man took out a key from his pocket, and unlocked the handcuffs which confined my wrists. He said not a word, but looked at me in a mute admiration and wonder which spoke volumes. He and the hotel manager withdrew together, and I sent Hinge to bed.
“Suppose,” said Violet, “that I had been away, as you thought I was, you would have gone to prison.”
“Not for long,” I answered. “I should have told my story, and you would have believed it all the same.”
“I should have believed it all the same,” she said. “Do you know, John, I should think myself and the whole world all mad together rather than believe that you were not true and honest.” A second later she laughed and blushed divinely. “As if there were any need of saying that!” she cried, and then and there she gave me the first kiss I had not had to pray for.
She had endured the whole strange position until then with the pluck and steadfastness of a man, but there she broke down and cried a little, realizing all the perils which had beset her father, and his strange escape from it.
“We will take the money ourselves,” she said, when she had recovered from this natural emotion. “There shall be no further danger of the poor darling being trapped by those wicked Austrians if we can help it.”
And there I saw an inspiration, and hailed it with delight, and took immediate advantage of it.
“My darling,” I said, “we can't travel together by ourselves, and Lady Rollinson, I am afraid, is hardly likely to consent to be my fellow-traveller for some time to come.”
“I hadn't thought of that,” she answered. “Of course we can't travel together. But will you go alone, or shall I? I could take my maid, and I am used to travelling.”
“Let us go together, my dear,” I urged her. “Let us never be parted again. Let us give no more chances to well-meaning but foolish old ladies to divide us.”
She put me aside, and found a host of reasons; but though I am not strong in argument, I managed to combat and confute them all, and she said “Yes” at last. And so I not only turned burglar in her cause, but won my wife by it; for within five days we were married by special license.
Thus this queer story comes to an end, or, rather, like all the stories I have read and heard, glides off into a new one. Everybody knows the history of the last glorious war for Italian independence. I was in the thick of it, I thank Heaven, and so was the Count Rossano, and so was good old Hinge; and while we marched and fought, my dear Violet took her share; for there was no ministering hand in the camp hospitals more constant or more tender, no voice and face better loved and known than hers. We are old folks now, and have lived to prove each other as only married people can; but the greatest pride I have is that at this hour she is no more assured of the righteousness of my intent than she was at the instant when she found me with confession on my lips and every sign of guilt openly displayed about me.
Love is a great treasure. Truth and loyalty are among man's greatest possessions. But the truest solace to the human soul is perfect trust.
THE END By DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY.
Mr. Christie Murray is a kindly satirist who evidently delights in the analysis of character, and who deals shrewdly but gently with the frailties of our nature.... There is a spontaneity in his pen which is extremely fascinating. --Saturday Review, London.
IN DIREST PERIL. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (Just Published.)
TIME'S REVENGES. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25.
A DANGEROUS CATSPAW. 8vo, Paper, 30 cents.
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{
"id": "22205"
}
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1
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AFTER A STORMY LIFE.
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To hear people talking about North Devon, and the savage part called Exmoor, you might almost think that there never was any place in the world so beautiful, or any living men so wonderful. It is not my intention to make little of them, for they would be the last to permit it; neither do I feel ill will against them for the pangs they allowed me to suffer; for I dare say they could not help themselves, being so slow-blooded, and hard to stir even by their own egrimonies. But when I look back upon the things that happened, and were for a full generation of mankind accepted as the will of God, I say, that the people who endured them must have been born to be ruled by the devil. And in thinking thus I am not alone; for the very best judges of that day stopped short of that end of the world, because the law would not go any further. Nevertheless, every word is true of what I am going to tell, and the stoutest writer of history cannot make less of it by denial.
My father was Sylvester Ford of Quantock, in the county of Somerset, a gentleman of large estate as well as ancient lineage. Also of high courage and resolution not to be beaten, as he proved in his many rides with Prince Rupert, and woe that I should say it! in his most sad death. To this he was not looking forward much, though turned of threescore years and five; and his only child and loving daughter, Sylvia, which is myself, had never dreamed of losing him. For he was exceeding fond of me, little as I deserved it, except by loving him with all my heart and thinking nobody like him. And he without anything to go upon, except that he was my father, held, as I have often heard, as good an opinion of me.
Upon the triumph of that hard fanatic, the Brewer, who came to a timely end by the justice of high Heaven--my father, being disgusted with England as well as banished from her, and despoiled of all his property, took service on the Continent, and wandered there for many years, until the replacement of the throne. Thereupon he expected, as many others did, to get his states restored to him, and perhaps to be held in high esteem at court, as he had a right to be. But this did not so come to pass. Excellent words were granted him, and promise of tenfold restitution; on the faith of which he returned to Paris, and married a young Italian lady of good birth and high qualities, but with nothing more to come to her. Then, to his great disappointment, he found himself left to live upon air--which, however distinguished, is not sufficient--and love, which, being fed so easily, expects all who lodge with it to live upon itself.
My father was full of strong loyalty; and the king (in his value of that sentiment) showed faith that it would support him. His majesty took both my father's hands, having learned that hearty style in France, and welcomed him with most gracious warmth, and promised him more than he could desire. But time went on, and the bright words faded, like a rose set bravely in a noble vase, without any nurture under it.
Another man had been long established in our hereditaments by the Commonwealth; and he would not quit them of his own accord, having a sense of obligation to himself. Nevertheless, he went so far as to offer my father a share of the land, if some honest lawyers, whom he quoted, could find proper means for arranging it. But my father said: “If I cannot have my rights, I will have my wrongs. No mixture of the two for me.” And so, for the last few years of his life, being now very poor and a widower, he took refuge in an outlandish place, a house and small property in the heart of Exmoor, which had come to the Fords on the spindle side, and had been overlooked when their patrimony was confiscated by the Brewer. Of him I would speak with no contempt, because he was ever as good as his word.
In the course of time, we had grown used to live according to our fortunes. And I verily believe that we were quite content, and repined but little at our lost importance. For my father was a very simple-minded man, who had seen so much of uproarious life, and the falsehood of friends, and small glitter of great folk, that he was glad to fall back upon his own good will. Moreover he had his books, and me; and as he always spoke out his thoughts, he seldom grudged to thank the Lord for having left both of these to him. I felt a little jealous of his books now and then, as a very poor scholar might be; but reason is the proper guide for women, and we are quick enough in discerning it, without having to borrow it from books.
At any rate now we were living in a wood, and trees were the only creatures near us, to the best of our belief and wish. Few might say in what part of the wood we lived, unless they saw the smoke ascending from our single chimney; so thick were the trees, and the land they stood on so full of sudden rise and fall. But a little river called the Lynn makes a crooked border to it, and being for its size as noisy a water as any in the world perhaps, can be heard all through the trees and leaves to the very top of the Warren Wood. In the summer all this was sweet and pleasant; but lonely and dreary and shuddersome, when the twigs bore drops instead of leaves, and the ground would not stand to the foot, and the play of light and shadow fell, like the lopping of a tree, into one great lump.
Now there was a young man about this time, and not so very distant from our place--as distances are counted there--who managed to make himself acquainted with us, although we lived so privately. To me it was a marvel, both why and how he did it; seeing what little we had to offer, and how much we desired to live alone. But Mrs. Pring told me to look in the glass, if I wanted to know the reason; and while I was blushing with anger at that, being only just turned eighteen years, and thinking of nobody but my father, she asked if I had never heard the famous rhymes made by the wise woman at Tarrsteps: “Three fair maids live upon Exymoor, The rocks, and the woods, and the dairy-door. The son of a baron shall woo all three, But barren of them all shall the young man be.”
Of the countless things I could never understand, one of the very strangest was how Deborah Pring, our only domestic, living in the lonely depths of this great wood, and seeming to see nobody but ourselves, in spite of all that contrived to know as much of the doings of the neighbourhood as if she went to market twice a week. But my father cared little for any such stuff; coming from a better part of the world, and having been mixed with mighty issues and making of great kingdoms, he never said what he thought of these little combings of petty pie crust, because it was not worth his while. And yet he seemed to take a kindly liking to the young De Wichehalse; not as a youth of birth only, but as one driven astray perhaps by harsh and austere influence. For his father, the baron, was a godly man,--which is much to-the credit of anyone, growing rarer and rarer, as it does,--and there should be no rasp against such men, if they would only bear in mind that in their time they had been young, and were not quite so perfect then. But lo! I am writing as if I knew a great deal more than I could know until the harrow passed over me.
No one, however, need be surprised at the favour this young man obtained with all who came into his converse. Handsome, and beautiful as he was, so that bold maids longed to kiss him, it was the sadness in his eyes, and the gentle sense of doom therein, together with a laughing scorn of it, that made him come home to our nature, in a way that it feels but cannot talk of. And he seemed to be of the past somehow, although so young and bright and brave; of the time when greater things were done, and men would die for women. That he should woo three maids in vain, to me was a stupid old woman's tale.
“Sylvia,” my father said to me, when I was not even thinking of him, “no more converse must we hold with that son of the Baron de Wichehalse. I have ordered Pring to keep the door; and Mistress Pring, who hath the stronger tongue, to come up if he attempted to dispute; the while I go away to catch our supper.”
He was bearing a fishing rod made by himself, and a basket strapped over his shoulders.
“But why, father? Why should such a change be? How hath the young gentleman displeased thee?” I put my face into his beard as I spoke, that I might not appear too curious.
“Is it so?” he answered, “then high time is it. No more shall he enter this “--_house_ he would have said, but being so truthful changed it into--“hut. I was pleased with the youth. He is gentle and kind; but weak--my dear child, remember that. Why are we in this hut, my dear? and thou, the heiress of the best land in the world, now picking up sticks in the wilderness? Because the man who should do us right is weak, and wavering, and careth but for pleasure. So is this young Marwood de Wichehalse. He rideth with the Doones. I knew it not, but now that I know, it is enough.”
My father was of tall stature and fine presence, and his beard shone like a cascade of silver. It was not the manner of the young as yet to argue with their elders, and though I might have been a little fluttered by the comely gallant's lofty talk and gaze of daring melancholy, I said good-bye to him in my heart, as I kissed my noble father. Shall I ever cease to thank the Lord that I proved myself a good daughter then?
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{
"id": "22315"
}
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2
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BY A QUIET RIVER.
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Living as we did all by ourselves, and five or six miles away from the Robbers' Valley, we had felt little fear of the Doones hitherto, because we had nothing for them to steal except a few books, the sight of which would only make them swear and ride away. But now that I was full-grown, and beginning to be accounted comely, my father was sometimes uneasy in his mind, as he told Deborah, and she told me; for the outlaws showed interest in such matters, even to the extent of carrying off young women who had won reputation thus. Therefore he left Thomas Pring at home, with the doors well-barred, and two duck guns loaded, and ordered me not to quit the house until he should return with a creel of trout for supper. Only our little boy Dick Hutchings was to go with him, to help when his fly caught in the bushes.
My father set off in the highest spirits, as anglers always seem to do, to balance the state in which they shall return; and I knew not, neither did anyone else, what a bold stroke he was resolved upon. When it was too late, we found out that, hearing so much of that strange race, he desired to know more about them, scorning the idea that men of birth could ever behave like savages, and forgetting that they had received no chance of being tamed, as rough spirits are by the lessons of the battlefield. No gentleman would ever dream of attacking an unarmed man, he thought; least of all one whose hair was white. And so he resolved to fish the brook which ran away from their stronghold, believing that he might see some of them, and hoping for a peaceful interview.
We waited and waited for his pleasant face, and long, deliberate step upon the steep, and cheerful shout for his Sylvia, to come and ease down his basket, and say--“Well done, father!” But the shadows of the trees grew darker, and the song of the gray-bird died out among them, and the silent wings of the owl swept by, and all the mysterious sounds of night in the depth of forest loneliness, and the glimmer of a star through the leaves here and there, to tell us that there still was light in heaven--but of an earthly father not a sign; only pain, and long sighs, and deep sinking of the heart.
But why should I dwell upon this? All women, being of a gentle and loving kind,--unless they forego their nature,--know better than I at this first trial knew, the misery often sent to us. I could not believe it, and went about in a dreary haze of wonder, getting into dark places, when all was dark, and expecting to be called out again and asked what had made such a fool of me. And so the long night went at last, and no comfort came in the morning. But I heard a great crying, sometime the next day, and ran back from the wood to learn what it meant, for there I had been searching up and down, not knowing whither I went or why. And lo, it was little Dick Hutchings at our door, and Deborah Pring held him by the coat-flap, and was beating him with one of my father's sticks.
“I tell 'ee, they Doo-uns has done for 'un,” the boy was roaring betwixt his sobs; “dree on 'em, dree on 'em, and he've a killed one. The squire be layin' as dead as a sto-un.”
Mrs. Pring smacked him on the mouth, for she saw that I had heard it. What followed I know not, for down I fell, and the sense of life went from me.
There was little chance of finding Thomas Pring, or any other man to help us, for neighbours were none, and Thomas was gone everywhere he could think of to look for them. Was I likely to wait for night again, and then talk for hours about it? I recovered my strength when the sun went low; and who was Deborah Pring, to stop me? She would have come, but I would not have it; and the strength of my grief took command of her.
Little Dick Hutchings whistled now, I remember that he whistled, as he went through the wood in front of me. Who had given him the breeches on his legs and the hat upon his shallow pate? And the poor little coward had skiddered away, and slept in a furze rick, till famine drove him home. But now he was set up again by gorging for an hour, and chattered as if he had done a great thing.
There must have been miles of rough walking through woods, and tangles, and craggy and black boggy hollows, until we arrived at a wide open space where two streams ran into one another.
“Thic be Oare watter,” said the boy, “and t'other over yonner be Badgefry. Squire be dead up there; plaise, Miss Sillie, 'ee can goo vorrard and vaind 'un.”
He would go no further; but I crossed the brook, and followed the Badgery stream, without knowing, or caring to know, where I was. The banks, and the bushes, and the rushing water went by me until I came upon--but though the Lord hath made us to endure such things, he hath not compelled us to enlarge upon them.
In the course of the night kind people came, under the guidance of Thomas Pring, and they made a pair of wattles such as farmers use for sheep, and carried home father and daughter, one sobbing and groaning with a broken heart, and the other that should never so much as sigh again. Troubles have fallen upon me since, as the will of the Lord is always; but none that I ever felt like that, and for months everything was the same to me.
But inasmuch as it has been said by those who should know better, that my father in some way provoked his merciless end by those vile barbarians, I will put into plainest form, without any other change, except from outlandish words, the tale received from Dick Hutchings, the boy, who had seen and heard almost everything while crouching in the water and huddled up inside a bush.
“Squire had catched a tidy few, and he seemed well pleased with himself, and then we came to a sort of a hollow place where one brook floweth into the other. Here he was a-casting of his fly, most careful, for if there was ever a trout on the feed, it was like to be a big one, and lucky for me I was keeping round the corner when a kingfisher bird flew along like a string-bolt, and there were three great men coming round a fuzz-bush, and looking at squire, and he back to them. Down goes I, you may say sure enough, with all of me in the water but my face, and that stuck into a wutts-clump, and my teeth making holes in my naked knees, because of the way they were shaking.
“'Ho, fellow!' one of them called out to squire, as if he was no better than father is, 'who give thee leave to fish in our river?'
“'Open moor,' says squire, 'and belongeth to the king, if it belongeth to anybody. Any of you gentlemen hold his majesty's warrant to forbid an old officer of his?'
“That seemed to put them in a dreadful rage, for to talk of a warrant was unpleasant to them.
“'Good fellow, thou mayest spin spider's webs, or jib up and down like a gnat,' said one, 'but such tricks are not lawful upon land of ours. Therefore render up thy spoil.'
“Squire walked up from the pebbles at that, and he stood before the three of them, as tall as any of them. And he said, 'You be young men, but I am old. Nevertheless, I will not be robbed by three, or by thirty of you. If you be cowards enough, come on.'
“Two of them held off, and I heard them say, 'Let him alone, he is a brave old cock.' For you never seed anyone look more braver, and his heart was up with righteousness. But the other, who seemed to be the oldest of the three, shouted out something, and put his leg across, and made at the squire with a long blue thing that shone in the sun, like a looking-glass. And the squire, instead of turning round to run away as he should have, led at him with the thick end of the fishing rod, to which he had bound an old knife of Mother Pring's for to stick it in the grass, while he put his flies on. And I heard the old knife strike the man in his breast, and down he goes dead as a door-nail. And before I could look again almost, another man ran a long blade into squire, and there he was lying as straight as a lath, with the end of his white beard as red as a rose. At that I was so scared that I couldn't look no more, and the water came bubbling into my mouth, and I thought I was at home along of mother.
“By and by, I came back to myself with my face full of scratches in a bush, and the sun was going low, and the place all as quiet as Cheriton church. But the noise of the water told me where I was; and I got up, and ran for the life of me, till I came to the goyal. And then I got into a fuzz-rick, and slept all night, for I durstn't go home to tell Mother Pring. But I just took a look before I began to run, and the Doone that was killed was gone away, but the squire lay along with his arms stretched out, as quiet as a sheep before they hang him up to drain.”
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{
"id": "22315"
}
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3
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WISE COUNSEL.
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Some pious people seem not to care how many of their dearest hearts the Lord in heaven takes from them. How well I remember that in later life, I met a beautiful young widow, who had loved her husband with her one love, and was left with twin babies by him. I feared to speak, for I had known him well, and thought her the tenderest of the tender, and my eyes were full of tears for her. But she looked at me with some surprise, and said: “You loved my Bob, I know,” for he was a cousin of my own, and as good a man as ever lived, “but, Sylvia, you must not commit the sin of grieving for him.”
It may be so, in a better world, if people are allowed to die there; but as long as we are here, how can we help being as the Lord has made us? The sin, as it seems to me, would be to feel or fancy ourselves case-hardened against the will of our Maker, which so often is--that we should grieve. Without a thought how that might be, I did the natural thing, and cried about the death of my dear father until I was like to follow him. But a strange thing happened in a month or so of time, which according to Deborah saved my life, by compelling other thoughts to come. My father had been buried in a small churchyard, with nobody living near it, and the church itself was falling down, through scarcity of money on the moor. The Warren, as our wood was called, lay somewhere in the parish of Brendon, a straggling country, with a little village somewhere, and a blacksmith's shop and an ale house, but no church that anyone knew of, till you came to a place called Cheriton. And there was a little church all by itself, not easy to find, though it had four bells, which nobody dared to ring, for fear of his head and the burden above it. But a boy would go up the first Sunday of each month, and strike the liveliest of them with a poker from the smithy. And then a brave parson, who feared nothing but his duty, would make his way in, with a small flock at his heels, and read the Psalms of the day, and preach concerning the difficulty of doing better. And it was accounted to the credit of the Doones that they never came near him, for he had no money.
The Fords had been excellent Catholics always; but Thomas and Deborah Pring, who managed everything while I was overcome, said that the church, being now so old, must have belonged to us, and therefor might be considered holy. The parson also said that it would do, for he was not a man of hot persuasions. And so my dear father lay there, without a stone, or a word to tell who he was, and the grass began to grow.
Here I was sitting one afternoon in May, and the earth was beginning to look lively; when a shadow from the west fell over me, and a large, broad man stood behind it. If I had been at all like myself, a thing of that kind would have frightened me; but now the strings of my system seemed to have nothing like a jerk in them, for I cared not whither I went, nor how I looked, nor whether I went anywhere.
“Child! poor child!” It was a deep, soft voice of distant yet large benevolence. “Almost a woman, and a comely one, for those who think of such matters. Such a child I might have owned, if Heaven had been kind to me.”
Low as I was of heart and spirit, I could not help looking up at him; for Mother Pring's voice, though her meaning was so good, sounded like a cackle in comparison to this. But when I looked up, such encouragement came from a great benign and steadfast gaze that I turned away my eyes, as I felt them overflow. But he said not a word, for his pity was too deep, and I thanked him in my heart for that.
“Pardon me if I am wrong,” I said, with my eyes on the white flowers I had brought and arranged as my father would have liked them; “but perhaps you are the clergyman of this old church.” For I had lain senseless and moaning on the ground when my father was carried away to be buried.
“How often am I taken for a clerk in holy orders! And in better times I might have been of that sacred vocation, though so unworthy. But I am a member of the older church, and to me all this is heresy.”
There was nothing of bigotry in our race, and we knew that we must put up with all changes for the worst; yet it pleased me not a little that so good a man should be also a sound Catholic.
“There are few of us left, and we are persecuted. Sad calumnies are spread about us,” this venerable man proceeded, while I gazed on the silver locks that fell upon his well-worn velvet coat. “But of such things we take small heed, while we know that the Lord is with us. Haply even you, young maiden, have listened to slander about us.”
I told him with some concern, although not caring much for such things now, that I never had any chance of listening to tales-about anybody, and was yet without the honour of even knowing who he was.
“Few indeed care for that point now,” he answered, with a toss of his glistening curls, and a lift of his broad white eyebrows. “Though there has been a time when the noblest of this earth--but vanity, vanity, the wise man saith. Yet some good I do in my quiet little way. There is a peaceful company among these hills, respected by all who conceive them aright. My child, perhaps you have heard of them?”
I replied sadly that I had not done so, but hoped that he would forgive me as one unacquainted with that neighbourhood. But I knew that there might be godly monks still in hiding, for the service of God in the wilderness.
“So far as the name goes, we are not monastics,” he said, with a sparkle in his deep-set eyes; “we are but a family of ancient lineage, expelled from our home in these irreligious times. It is no longer in our power to do all the good we would, and therefore we are much undervalued. Perhaps you have heard of the Doones, my child?”
To me it was a wonder that he spoke of them thus, for his look was of beautiful mildness, instead of any just condemnation. But his aspect was as if he came from heaven; and I thought that he had a hard job before him, if he were sent to conduct the Doones thither.
“I am not severe; I think well of mankind,” he went on, as I looked at him meekly; “perhaps because I am one of them. You are very young, my dear, and unable to form much opinion as yet. But let it be your rule of life ever to keep an open mind.”
This advice impressed me much, though I could not see clearly what it meant. But the sun was going beyond Exmoor now, and safe as I felt with so good an old man, a long, lonely walk was before me. So I took up my basket and rose to depart, saying, “Good-bye, sir; I am much in your debt for your excellent advice and kindness.”
He looked at me most benevolently, and whatever may be said of him hereafter, I shall always believe that he was a good man, overcome perhaps by circumstances, yet trying to make the best of them. He has now become a by-word as a hypocrite and a merciless self-seeker. But many young people, who met him as I did, without possibility of prejudice, hold a larger opinion of him. And surely young eyes are the brightest.
“I will protect thee, my dear,” he said, looking capable in his great width and wisdom of protecting all the host of heaven. “I have protected a maiden even more beautiful than thou art. But now she hath unwisely fled from us. Our young men are thoughtless, but they are not violent, at least until they are sadly provoked. Your father was a brave man, and much to be esteemed. My brother, the mildest man that ever lived, hath ridden down hundreds of Roundheads with him. Therefore thou shalt come to no harm. But he should not have fallen upon our young men as if they were rabble of the Commonwealth.”
Upon these words I looked at him I know not how, so great was the variance betwixt my ears and eyes. Then I tried to say something, but nothing would come, so entire was my amazement.
“Such are the things we have ever to contend with,” he continued, as if to himself, with a smile of compassion at my prejudice. “Nay, I am not angry; I have seen so much of this. Right and wrong stand fast, and cannot be changed by any facundity. But time is short, and will soon be stirring. Have a backway from thy bedroom, child. I am Councillor Doone; by birthright and in right of understanding, the captain of that pious family, since the return of the good Sir Ensor to the land where there are no lies. So long as we are not molested in our peaceful valley, my will is law; and I have ordered that none shall go near thee. But a mob of country louts are drilling in a farmyard up the moorlands, to plunder and destroy us, if they can. We shall make short work of them. But after that, our youths may be provoked beyond control, and sally forth to make reprisal. They have their eyes on thee, I know, and thy father hath assaulted us. An ornament to our valley thou wouldst be; but I would reproach myself if the daughter of my brother's friend were discontented with our life. Therefore have I come to warn thee, for there are troublous times in front. Have a back-way from thy bedroom, child, and slip out into the wood if a noise comes in the night.”
Before I could thank him, he strode away, with a step of no small dignity, and as he raised his pointed hat, the western light showed nothing fairer or more venerable than the long wave of his silver locks.
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{
"id": "22315"
}
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4
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A COTTAGE HOSPITAL.
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Master Pring was not much of a man to talk. But for power of thought he was considered equal to any pair of other men, and superior of course to all womankind. Moreover, he had seen a good deal of fighting, not among outlaws, but fine soldiers well skilled in the proper style of it. So that it was impossible for him to think very highly of the Doones. Gentlemen they might be, he said, and therefore by nature well qualified to fight. But where could they have learned any discipline, any tactics, any knowledge of formation, or even any skill of sword or firearms? “Tush, there was his own son, Bob, now serving under Captain Purvis, as fine a young trooper as ever drew sword, and perhaps on his way at this very moment, under orders from the Lord Lieutenant, to rid the country of that pestilent race. Ah, ha! We soon shall see!”
And in truth we did see him, even sooner than his own dear mother had expected, and long before his father wanted him, though he loved him so much in his absence. For I heard a deep voice in the kitchen one night (before I was prepared for such things, by making a backway out of my bedroom), and thinking it best to know the worst, went out to ask what was doing there.
A young man was sitting upon the table, accounting too little of our house, yet showing no great readiness to boast, only to let us know who he was. He had a fine head of curly hair, and spoke with a firm conviction that there was much inside it. “Father, you have possessed small opportunity of seeing how we do things now. Mother is not to be blamed for thinking that we are in front of what used to be. What do we care how the country lies? We have heared all this stuff up at Oare. If there are bogs, we shall timber them. If there are rocks, we shall blow them up. If there are caves, we shall fire down them. The moment we get our guns into position----” “Hush, Bob, hush! Here is your master's daughter. Not the interlopers you put up with; but your real master, on whose property you were born. Is that the position for your guns?”
Being thus rebuked by his father, who was a very faithful-minded man, Robert Pring shuffled his long boots down, and made me a low salutation. But, having paid little attention to the things other people were full of, I left the young man to convince his parents, and he soon was successful with his mother.
Two, or it may have been three days after this, a great noise arose in the morning. I was dusting my father's books, which lay open just as he had left them. There was “Barker's Delight” and “Isaac Walton,” and the “Secrets of Angling by J. D.” and some notes of his own about making of flies; also fish hooks made of Spanish steel, and long hairs pulled from the tail of a gray horse, with spindles and bits of quill for plaiting them. So proud and so pleased had he been with these trifles, after the clamour and clash of life, that tears came into my eyes once more, as I thought of his tranquil and amiable ways.
“'Tis a wrong thing altogether to my mind,” cried Deborah Pring, running in to me. “They Doones was established afore we come, and why not let them bide upon their own land? They treated poor master amiss, beyond denial; and never will I forgive them for it. All the same, he was catching what belonged to them; meaning for the best no doubt, because he was so righteous. And having such courage he killed one, or perhaps two; though I never could have thought so much of that old knife. But ever since that, they have been good, Miss Sillie, never even coming anigh us; and I don't believe half of the tales about them.”
All this was new to me; for if anybody-had cried shame and death upon that wicked horde, it was Deborah Pring, who was talking to me thus! I looked at her with wonder, suspecting for the moment that the venerable Councillor--who was clever enough to make a cow forget her calf--might have paid her a visit while I was away. But very soon the reason of the change appeared.
“Who hath taken command of the attack?” she asked, as if no one would believe the answer; “not Captain Purvis, as ought to have been, nor even Captain Dallas of Devon, but Spy Stickles by royal warrant, the man that hath been up to Oare so long! And my son Robert, who hath come down to help to train them, and understandeth cannon guns----” “Captain Purvis? I seem to know that name very well. I have often heard it from my father. And your son under him! Why, Deborah, what are you hiding from me?”
Now good Mrs. Pring was beginning to forget, or rather had never borne properly in mind, that I was the head of the household now, and entitled to know everything, and to be asked about it. But people who desire to have this done should insist upon it at the outset, which I had not been in proper state to do. So that she made quite a grievance of it, when I would not be treated as a helpless child. However, I soon put a stop to that, and discovered to my surprise much more than could be imagined.
And before I could say even half of what I thought, a great noise arose in the hollow of the hills, and came along the valleys, like the blowing of a wind that had picked up the roaring of mankind upon its way. Perhaps greater noise had never arisen upon the moor; and the cattle, and the quiet sheep, and even the wild deer came bounding from unsheltered places into any offering of branches, or of other heling from the turbulence of men. And then a gray fog rolled down the valley, and Deborah said it was cannon-smoke, following the river course; but to me it seemed only the usual thickness of the air, when the clouds hang low. Thomas Pring was gone, as behooved an ancient warrior, to see how his successors did things, and the boy Dick Hutchings had begged leave to sit in a tree and watch the smoke. Deborah and I were left alone, and a long and anxious day we had.
At last the wood-pigeons had stopped their cooing,--which they kept up for hours, when the weather matched the light,--and there was not a tree that could tell its own shadow, and we were contented with the gentle sounds that come through a forest when it falls asleep, and Deborah Pring, who had taken a motherly tendency toward me now, as if to make up for my father, was sitting in the porch with my hands in her lap, and telling me how to behave henceforth, as if the whole world depended upon that, when we heard a swishing sound, as of branches thrust aside, and then a low moan that went straight to my heart, as I thought of my father when he took the blow of death.
“My son, my Bob, my eldest boy!” cried Mistress Pring, jumping up and falling into my arms, like a pillow full of wire, for she insisted upon her figure still. But before I could do anything to help her---- “Hit her on the back, ma'am; hit her hard upon the back. That is what always brings mother round,” was shouted, as I might say, into my ear by the young man whom she was lamenting.
“Shut thy trap, Braggadose. To whom art thou speaking? Pretty much thou hast learned of war to come and give lessons to thy father! Mistress Sylvia, it is for thee to speak. Nothing would satisfy this young springal but to bring his beaten captain here, for the sake of mother's management. I told un that you would never take him in, for his father have taken in you pretty well! Captain Purvis of the Somerset I know not what--for the regiments now be all upside down. _Raggiments_ is the proper name for them. Very like he be dead by this time, and better die out of doors than in. Take un away, Bob. No hospital here!”
“Thomas Pring, who are you,” I said, for the sound of another low groan came through me, “to give orders to your master's daughter? If you bring not the poor wounded gentleman in, you shall never come through this door yourself.”
“Ha, old hunks, I told thee so!” The young man who spoke raised his hat to me, and I saw that it had a scarlet plume, such as Marwood de Wichehalse gloried in. “In with thee, and stretch him that he may die straight. I am off to Southmolton for Cutcliffe Lane, who can make a furze-fagot bloom again. My filly can give a land-yard in a mile to Tom Faggus and his Winnie. But mind one thing, all of you; it was none of us that shot the captain, but his own good men. Farewell, Mistress Sylvia!” With these words he made me a very low bow, and set off for his horse at the corner of the wood--as reckless a gallant as ever broke hearts, and those of his own kin foremost; yet himself so kind and loving.
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{
"id": "22315"
}
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5
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MISTAKEN AIMS.
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Captain Purvis, now brought to the Warren in this very sad condition, had not been shot by his own men, as the dashing Marwood de Wichehalse said; neither was it quite true to say that he had been shot by anyone. What happened to him was simply this: While behaving with the utmost gallantry and encouraging the militia of Somerset, whose uniforms were faced with yellow, he received in his chest a terrific blow from the bottom of a bottle. This had been discharged from a culveria on the opposite side of the valley by the brave but impetuous sons of Devon, who-wore the red facings, and had taken umbrage at a pure mistake on the part of their excellent friends and neighbours, the loyal band of Somerset. Either brigade had three culverins; and never having seen such things before, as was natural with good farmers' sons, they felt it a compliment to themselves to be intrusted with such danger, and resolved to make the most of it. However, when they tried to make them go, with the help of a good many horses, upon places that had no roads for war, and even no sort of road at all, the difficulty was beyond them. But a very clever blacksmith near Malmesford, who had better, as it proved, have stuck to the plough, persuaded them that he knew all about it, and would bring their guns to bear, if they let him have his way. So they took the long tubes from their carriages, and lashed rollers of barked oak under them, and with very stout ropes, and great power of swearing, dragged them into the proper place to overwhelm the Doones.
Here they mounted their guns upon cider barrels, with allowance of roll for recoil, and charged them to the very best of their knowledge, and pointed them as nearly as they could guess at the dwellings of the outlaws in the glen; three cannons on the north were of Somerset and the three on the south were of Devonshire; but these latter had no balls of metal, only anything round they could pick up. Colonel Stickles-was in command, by virtue of his royal warrant, and his plan was to make his chief assault in company with some chosen men, including his host, young farmer Ridd, at the head of the valley where the chief entrance was, while the trainbands pounded away on either side. And perhaps this would have succeeded well, except for a little mistake in firing, for which the enemy alone could be blamed with justice. For while Captain Purvis was-behind the line rallying a few men who-showed fear, and not expecting any combat yet, because Devonshire was not ready, an elderly gentleman of great authority-appeared among the bombardiers. On his breast he wore a badge of office, and in his hat a noble plume of the sea eagle, and he handed his horse to a man in red clothes.
“Just in time,” he shouted; “and the Lord be thanked for that! By order of His Majesty, I take supreme command. Ha, and high time, too, for it! You idiots, where are you pointing your guns? What allowance have you made for windage? Why, at that elevation, you'll shoot yourselves. Up with your muzzles, you yellow jackanapes! Down on your bellies! Hand me the linstock! By the Lord, you don't even know how to touch them off!”
The soldiers were abashed at his rebukes, and glad to lie down on their breasts for fear of the powder on their yellow facings. And thus they were shaken by three great roars, and wrapped in a cloud of streaky smoke. When this had cleared off, and they stood up, lo! the houses of the Doones were the same as before, but a great shriek arose on the opposite bank, and two good horses lay on the ground; and the red men were stamping about, and some crossing their arms, and some running for their lives, and the bravest of them stooping over one another. Then as Captain Purvis rushed up in great wrath, shouting: “What the devil do you mean by this?” another great roar arose from across the valley, and he was lying flat, and two other fine fellows were rolling in a furze bush without knowledge of it. But of the general and his horse there was no longer any-token.
This was the matter that lay so heavily on the breast of Captain Purvis, sadly-crushed as it was already by the spiteful stroke bitterly intended for him. His own men had meant no harm whatever, unless to the proper enemy; although they appear to have been deluded by a subtle device of the Councillor, for which on the other hand none may blame him. But those redfaced men, without any inquiry, turned the muzz'l's of their guns upon Somerset, and the injustice rankled for a generation between two equally honest counties. Happily they did not fight it out through scarcity of ammunition, as well as their mutual desire to go home and attend to their harvest business.
But Anthony Purvis, now our guest and patient, became very difficult to manage; not only because: of his three broken ribs, but the lowness of the heart inside them. Dr. Cutcliffe Lane, a most cheerful man from that cheerful town Southmolton, was able (with the help of Providence) to make the bones grow again without much anger into their own embraces. It is useless, however, for the body to pretend that it is doing wonders on its own account, and rejoicing and holiday making, when the thing that sits inside it and holds the whip, keeps down upon the slouch and is out of sorts. And truly this was the case just now with the soul of Captain Purvis. Deborah Pring did her very best, and was in and out of his room every minute, and very often seemed to me to run him down when he deserved it, not; on purpose that I might be started to run him up. But nothing of that sort told at all according to her intention. I kept myself very much to myself; feeling that my nature was too kind, and asking at some little questions of behaviour, what sort of returns my dear father had obtained for supposing other people as good as himself.
Moreover, it seemed an impossible thing that such a brave warrior, and a rich man too--for his father, Sir Geoffrey, was in full possession now of all the great property that belonged by right to us--that an officer who should have been in command of this fine expedition, if he had his dues, could be either the worse or the better of his wound, according to his glimpses of a simple maid like me. It was useless for Deborah Pring, or even Dr. Cutcliffe Lane himself, to go on as they did about love at first sight, and the rising of the heart when, the ribs were broken, and a quantity of other stuff too foolish to repeat. “I am neither a plaster nor a poultice,” I replied to myself, for I would not be too cross to them--and beyond a little peep at him, every afternoon, I kept out of the sight of Captain Purvis.
But these things made it very hard for me to be quite sure how to conduct myself, without father and mother to help me, and with Mistress Pring, who had always been such a landmark, becoming no more than a vane for the wind to blow upon as it listed; or, perhaps, as she listed to go with it. And remembering how she used to speak of the people who had ousted us, I told her that I could not make it out. Things were in this condition, and Captain Purvis, as it seemed to me, quite fit to go and make war again upon some of His Majesty's subjects, when a thing, altogether out of reason, or even of civilisation, happened; and people who live in lawful parts will accuse me of caring too little for the truth. But even before that came about, something less unreasonable--but still unexpected--befell me. To wit, I received through Mistress Pring an offer of marriage, immediate and pressing, from Captain Anthony Purvis! He must have been sadly confused by that blow on his heart to think mine so tender, or that this was the way to deal with it, though later explanations proved that Deborah, if she had been just, would have taken the whole reproach upon herself. The captain could scarcely have seen me, I believe more than half a dozen times to speak of; and generally he had shut his eyes, gentle as they were and beautiful; not only to make me feel less afraid, but to fill me with pity for his weakness. Having no knowledge of mankind as yet, I was touched to the brink of tears at first; until when the tray came out of his room soon after one of these pitiful moments, it was plain to the youngest comprehension that the sick man had left very little upon a shoulder of Exmoor mutton, and nothing in a bowl of thick onion sauce.
For that I would be the last to blame him, and being his hostess, I was glad to find it so. But Deborah played a most double-minded part; leading him to believe that now she was father and mother in one to me; while to me she went on, as if I was most headstrong, and certain to go against anything she said, though for her part she never said anything. Nevertheless he made a great mistake, as men always do, about our ways; and having some sense of what is right, I said, “Let me hear no more of Captain Purvis.”
This forced him to leave us; which he might have done, for aught I could see to the contrary, a full week before he departed. He behaved very well when he said goodbye,--for I could not deny him that occasion,--and, perhaps, if he had not assured me so much of his everlasting gratitude, I should have felt surer of deserving it. Perhaps I was a little disappointed also, that he expressed no anxiety at leaving our cottage so much at the mercy of turbulent and triumphant outlaws. But it was not for me to speak of that; and when I knew the reason of his silence, it redounded tenfold to his credit. Nothing, however, vexed me so much as what Deborah Pring said afterward: that he could not help feeling in the sadness of his heart that I had behaved in that manner to him just because his father was in possession of our rightful home and property. I was not so small as that; and if he truly did suppose it, there must have been some fault on my part, for his nature was good to everybody, and perhaps al! the better for not descending through too many high generations.
There is nothing more strange than the way things work in the mind of a woman, when left alone, to doubt about her own behaviour. With men it can scarcely be so cruel; because they can always convince themselves that they did their best; and if it fail, they can throw the fault upon Providence, or bad luck, or something outside their own power. But we seem always to be denied this happy style of thinking, and cannot put aside what comes into our heart more quickly, and has less stir of outward things, to lead it away and to brighten it. So that I fell into sad, low spirits; and the glory of the year began to wane, and the forest grew more and more lonesome.
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{
"id": "22315"
}
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6
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OVER THE BRIDGE.
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The sound of the woods was with me now, both night and day, to dwell upon. Exmoor in general is bare of trees, though it hath the name of forest; but in the shelter, where the wind flies over, are many thick places full of shade. For here the trees and bushes thrive, so copious with rich moisture that, from the hills on the opposite side, no eye may pick holes in the umbrage; neither may a foot that gets amid them be sure of getting out again. And now was the fullest and heaviest time, for the summer had been a wet one, after a winter that went to our bones; and the leaves were at their darkest tone without any sense of autumn. As one stood beneath and wondered at their countless multitude, a quick breathing passed among them, not enough to make them move, but seeming rather as if they wished, and yet were half ashamed to sigh. And this was very sad for one whose spring Comes only once for all.
One night toward the end of August I was lying awake thinking of the happier times, and wondering what the end would be--for now we had very little money left, and I would rather starve than die in debt--when I heard our cottage door smashed in and the sound of horrible voices. The roar of a gun rang up the stairs, and the crash of someone falling and the smoke came through my bedroom door, and then wailing mixed with curses. “Out of the way, old hag!” I heard, and then another shriek; and then I stood upon the stairs-and looked down at them. The moon was shining through the shattered door, and the bodies and legs of men went to and fro, like branches in a tempest. Nobody seemed to notice me, although I had cast over my night-dress--having no more sense in the terror--a long silver coat of some animal shot by my father in his wanderings, and the light upon the stairs glistened round it. Having no time to think, I was turning to flee and jump out of my bedroom window, for which I had made some arrangements, according to the wisdom of the Councillor, when the flash of some light or the strain of my eyes showed me the body of Thomas Pring, our faithful old retainer, lying at the foot of the broken door, and beside it his good wife, creeping up to give him the last embrace of death. And lately she had been cross to him. At the sight of this my terror fled, and I cared not what became of me. Buckling the white skin round my waist, I went down the stairs as steadily as if it were breakfast time, and said: “Brutes, murderers, cowards! you have slain my father; now slay me!”
Every one of those wicked men stood up and fixed his eyes on me; and if it had been a time to laugh, their amazement might have been laughed at. Some of them took me for a spirit--as I was told long afterward--and rightly enough their evil hearts were struck with dread of judgment. But even so, to scare them long in their contemptuous, godless vein was beyond the power of Heaven itself; and when one of my long tresses fell, to my great vexation, down my breast, a shocking sneer arose, and words unfit for a maiden's ear ensued.
“None of that! This is no farmhouse wench, but a lady of birth and breeding. She shall be our queen, instead of the one that hath been filched away. Sylvia, thou shalt come with me.”
The man who spoke with this mighty voice was a terror to the others, for they fell away before him, and he was the biggest monster there--Carver Doone, whose name for many a generation shall be used to frighten unruly babes to bed. And now, as he strode up to me and bowed,--to show some breeding,--I doubt if the moon, in all her rounds of earth and sky and the realms below, fell ever upon another face so cold, repulsive, ruthless.
To belong to him, to feel his lips, to touch him with anything but a dagger! Suddenly I saw my father's sword hanging under a beam in the scabbard. With a quick spring I seized it, and, leaping up the stairs, had the long blade gleaming in the moonlight. The staircase would not hold two people abreast, and the stairs were as steep as narrow. I brought the point down it, with the hilt against my breast, and there was no room for another blade to swing and strike it up.
“Let her alone!” said Carver Doone, with a smile upon his cold and corpselike face. “My sons, let the lady have her time. She is worthy to be the mother of many a fine Doone.”
The young men began to lounge about in a manner most provoking, as if I had passed from their minds altogether; and some of them went to the kitchen for victuals, and grumbled at our fare by the light of a lantern which they had found upon a shelf. But I stood at my post, with my heart beating, so that the long sword quivered like a candle. Of my life they might rob me, but of my honour, never!
“Beautiful maiden! Who hath ever seen the like? Why, even Lorna hath not such eyes.”
Carver Doone came to the foot of the stairs and flashed the lantern at me, and, thinking that he meant to make a rush for it, I thrust my weapon forward; but at the same moment a great pair of arms was thrown around me from behind by some villain who must have scaled my chamber window, and backward I fell, with no sense or power left.
When my scattered wits came back I felt that I was being shaken grievously, and the moon was dancing in my eyes through a mist of tears, half blinding them. I remember how hard I tried to get my fingers up to wipe my eyes, so as to obtain some knowledge; but jerk and bump and helpless wonder were all that I could get or take; for my hands were strapped, and my feet likewise, and I seemed like a wave going up and down, without any judgment, upon the open sea.
But presently I smelled the wholesome smell which a horse of all animals alone possesses, though sometimes a cow is almost as good, and then I felt a mane coming into my hair, and then there was the sound of steady feet moving just under me, with rise and fall and swing alternate, and a sense of going forward. I was on the back of a great, strong horse, and he was obeying the commands of man. Gradually I began to think, and understood my awful plight. The Doones were taking me to Doone Glen to be some cut-throat's light-of-love; perhaps to be passed from brute to brute--me, Sylvia Ford, my father's darling, a proud and dainty and stately maiden, of as good birth as any in this English realm. My heart broke down as I thought of that, and all discretion vanished. Though my hands were tied my throat was free, and I sent forth such a scream of woe that the many-winding vale of Lynn, with all its wild waters could not drown, nor with all its dumb foliage smother it; and the long wail rang from crag to crag, as the wrongs of men echo unto the ears of God.
“Valiant damsel, what a voice thou hast! Again, and again let it strike the skies. With them we are at peace, being persecuted here, according to the doom of all good men. And yet I am loth to have that fair throat strained.”
It was Carver Doone who led my horse; and his horrible visage glared into my eyes through the strange, wan light that flows between the departure of the sinking moon and the flutter of the morning when it cannot see its way. I strove to look at him; but my scared eyes fell, and he bound his rank glove across my poor lips. “Let it be so,” I thought; “I can do no more.”
Then, when my heart was quite gone in despair, and all trouble shrank into a trifle, I heard a loud shout, and the trample of feet, and the rattle of arms, and the clash of horses. Contriving to twist myself a little, I saw that the band of the Doones were mounting a saddle-backed bridge in a deep wooded glen, with a roaring water under them. On the crown of the bridge a vast man stood, such as I had never descried before, bearing no armour that I could see, but wearing a farmer's hat, and raising a staff like the stem of a young oak tree. He was striking at no one, but playing with his staff, as if it were a willow in the morning breeze.
“Down with him! Ride him down! Send a bullet through him!” several of the Doones called out, but no one showed any hurry to do it. It seemed as if they knew him, and feared his mighty strength, and their guns were now slung behind their backs on account of the roughness of the way.
“Charlie, you are not afraid of him,” I heard that crafty Carver say to the tallest of his villains, and a very handsome young man he was; “if the girl were not on my horse, I would do it. Ride over him, and you shall have my prize, when I am tired of her.”
I felt the fire come into my eyes, to be spoken of so by a brute; and then I saw Charlie Doone spur up the bridge, leaning forward and swinging a long blade round his head.
“Down with thee, clod!” he shouted; and he showed such strength and fury that I scarce could look at the farmer, dreading to see his great head fly away. But just as the horse rushed at him, he leaped aside with most wonderful nimbleness, and the rider's sword was dashed out of his grasp, and down he went, over the back of the saddle, and his long legs spun up in the air, as a juggler tosses a two-pronged fork.
“Now for another!” the farmer cried, and his deep voice rang above the roar of Lynn; “or two at once, if it suits you better. I will teach you to carry off women, you dogs!”
But the outlaws would not try another charge. On a word from their leader they all dismounted, and were bringing their long guns to bear, and I heard the clink of their flints as they fixed the trigger. Carver Doone, grinding his enormous teeth, stood at the head of my horse, who was lashing and plunging, so that I must have been flung if any of the straps had given way. In terror of the gun flash I shut my eyes, for if I had seen that brave man killed, it would have been the death of me as well. Then I felt my horse treading on something soft. Carver Doone was beneath his feet, and an awful curse came from the earth.
“Have no fear!” said the sweetest voice that ever came into the ears of despair. “Sylvia, none can harm you now. Lie still, and let this protect your face.”
“How can I help lying still?” I said, as a soft cloak was thrown over me, and in less than a moment my horse was rushing through branches and brushwood that swept his ears. At his side was another horse, and my bridle rein was held by a man who stooped over his neck in silence. Though his face was out of sight, I knew that Anthony Purvis was leading me.
There was no possibility of speaking now, but after a tumult of speed we came to an open glade where the trees fell back, and a gentle brook was gurgling. Then Captain Purvis cut my bonds, and lifting me down very softly, set me upon a bank of moss, for my limbs would not support me; and I lay there unable to do anything but weep.
When I returned to myself, the sun was just looking over a wooded cliff, and Anthony, holding a horn of water, and with water on his cheeks, was regarding me.
“Did you leave that brave man to be shot?” I asked, as if that were all my gratitude.
“I am not so bad as that,” he answered, without any anger, for he saw that I was not in reason yet. “At sight of my men, although we were but five in all, the robbers fled, thinking the regiment was there; but it is God's truth that I thought little of anyone's peril compared with thine. But there need be no fear for John Ridd; the Doones are mighty afraid of him since he cast their culverin through their door.”
“Was that the John Ridd I have heard so much of? Surely I might have known it, but my wits were shaken out of me.”
“Yes, that was the mighty man of Exmoor, to whom thou owest more than life.”
In horror of what I had so narrowly escaped, I fell upon my knees and thanked the Lord, and then I went shyly to the captain's side and said: “I am ashamed to look at thee. Without Anthony Purvis, where should I be? Speak of no John Ridd to me.”
For this man whom I had cast forth, with coldness, as he must have thought--although I knew better, when he was gone--this man (my honoured husband now, who hath restored me to my father's place, when kings had no gratitude or justice), Sir Anthony Purvis, as now he is, had dwelled in a hovel and lived on scraps, to guard the forsaken orphan, who had won, and shall ever retain, his love.
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{
"id": "22315"
}
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1
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None
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On the very day when Charles I. was crowned with due rejoicings--Candlemasday, in the year of our Lord 1626--a loyalty, quite as deep and perhaps even more lasting, was having its beer at Ley Manor in the north of Devon. A loyalty not to the king, for the old West-country folk knew little and cared less about the house that came over the Border; but to a lord who had won their hearts by dwelling among them, and dealing kindly, and paying his way every Saturday night. When this has been done for three generations general and genial respect may almost be relied upon.
The present Baron de Wichehalse was fourth in descent from that Hugh de Wichehalse, the head of an old and wealthy race, who had sacrificed his comfort to his resolve to have a will of his own in matters of religion. That Hugh de Wichehalse, having an eye to this, as well as the other world, contrived to sell his large estates before they were confiscated, and to escape with all the money, from very sharp measures then enforced, by order of King Philip II., in the unhappy Low Countries. Landing in England, with all his effects and a score of trusty followers, he bought a fine property, settled, and died, and left a good name behind him. And that good name had been well kept up, and the property had increased and thriven, so that the present lord was loved and admired by all the neighbourhood.
In one thing, however, he had been unlucky, at least in his own opinion. Ten years of married life had not found issue in parental life. All his beautiful rocks and hills, lovely streams and glorious woods, green meadows and golden corn lands, must pass to his nephew and not to his child, because he had not gained one. Being a good man, he did his best to see this thing in its proper light. Children, after all, are a plague, a risk, and a deep anxiety. His nephew was a very worthy boy, and his rights should be respected. Nevertheless, the baron often longed to supersede them. Of this there was every prospect now. The lady of the house had intrusted her case to a highly celebrated simple-woman, who lived among rocks and scanty vegetation at Heddon's Mouth, gathering wisdom from the earth and from the sea tranquillity. De Wichehalse was naturally vexed a little when all this accumulated wisdom culminated in nothing grander than a somewhat undersized, and unhappily female child--one, moreover, whose presence cost him that of his faithful and loving wife. So that the heiress of Ley Manor was greeted, after all, with a very brief and sorry welcome. “Jennyfried,” for so they named her, soon began to grow into a fair esteem and good liking. Her father, after a year or two, plucked up his courage and played with her; and the more he played the more pleased he was, both with her and his own kind self. Unhappily, there were at that time no shops in the neighbourhood; unhappily, now there are too many. Nevertheless, upon the whole, she had all the toys that were good for her; and her teeth had a fair chance of fitting themselves for life's chief operation in the absence of sugared allurements.
A brief and meagre account is this of the birth, and growth, and condition of a maiden whose beauty and goodness still linger in the winter tales of many a simple homestead. For, sharing her father's genial nature, she went about among the people in her soft and playful way; knowing all their cares, and gifted with a kindly wonder at them, which is very soothing. All the simple folk expected condescension from her; and she would have let them have it, if she had possessed it.
At last she was come to a time of life when maidens really must begin to consider their responsibilities--a time when it does matter how the dress sits and what it is made of, and whether the hair is well arranged for dancing in the sunshine and for fluttering in the moonlight; also that the eyes convey not from that roguish nook the heart any betrayal of “hide and seek”; neither must the risk of blushing tremble on perpetual brinks; neither must--but, in a word, 'twas the seventeenth year of a maiden's life.
More and more such matters gained on her motherless necessity. Strictly anxious as she was to do the right thing always, she felt more and more upon every occasion (unless it was something particular) that her cousin need not so impress his cousinly salutation.
Albert de Wichehalse (who received that name before it became so inevitable) was that same worthy boy grown up as to whom the baron had felt compunctions, highly honourable to either party, touching his defeasance; or rather, perhaps, as to interception of his presumptive heirship by the said Albert, or at least by his mother contemplated. And Albert's father had entrusted him to his uncle's special care and love, having comfortably made up his mind, before he left this evil world, that his son should have a good slice of it.
Now, therefore, the baron's chief desire was to heal all breaches and make things pleasant, and to keep all the family property snug by marrying his fair Jennyfried (or “Frida,” as she was called at home) to her cousin Albert, now a fine young fellow of five-and-twenty. De Wichehalse was strongly attached to his nephew, and failed to see any good reason why a certain large farm near Martinhoe, quite a huge cantle from the Ley estates, which by a prior devise must fall to Albert upon his own demise, should be allowed to depart in that way from his posthumous control.
However, like most of our fallible race, he went the worst possible way to work in pursuit of his favourite purpose. He threw the young people together daily, and dinned into the ears of each perpetual praise of the other. This seemed to answer well enough in the case of the simple Albert. He could never have too much of his lively cousin's company, neither could he weary of sounding her sweet excellence. But with the young maid it was not so. She liked the good Albert well enough, and never got out of his way at all. Moreover, sometimes his curly hair and bright moustache, when they came too near, would raise not a positive flutter, perhaps, but a sense of some fugitive movement in the unexplored distances of the heart. Still, this might go on for years, and nothing more to come of it. Frida loved her father best of all the world, at present.
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There happened to be at this time an old fogy--of course it is most distressing to speak of anyone disrespectfully; but when one thinks of the trouble he caused, and not only that, but he was an old fogy, essentially and pre-eminently--and his name was Sir Maunder Meddleby. This worthy baronet, one of the first of a newly invented order, came in his sled stuffed with goose-feathers (because he was too fat to ride, and no wheels were yet known on the hill tracks) to talk about some exchange of land with his old friend, our De Wichehalse. The baron and the baronet had been making a happy day of it. Each knew pretty well exactly what his neighbour's little rashness might be hoped to lead to, and each in his mind was pretty sure of having the upper hand of it. Therefore both their hearts were open--business being now dismissed, and dinner over--to one another. They sat in a beautiful place, and drew refreshment of mind through their outward lips by means of long reeden tubes with bowls at their ends, and something burning.
Clouds of delicate vapour wandered round and betwixt them and the sea; and each was well content to wonder whether the time need ever come when he must have to think again. Suddenly a light form flitted over the rocks, as the shadows flit; and though Frida ran away for fear of interrupting them, they knew who it was, and both, of course, began to think about her.
The baron gave a puff of his pipe, and left the baronet to begin. In course of time Sir Maunder spoke, with all that breadth and beauty of the vowels and the other things which a Devonshire man commands, from the lord lieutenant downward.
“If so be that 'ee gooth vor to ax me, ai can zay wan thing, and wan oney.”
“What one thing is it, good neighbour? I am well content with her as she is.”
“Laikely enough. And 'e wad be zo till 'e zeed a zummut fainer.”
“I want to see nothing finer or better than what we have seen just now, sir.”
“There, you be like all varthers, a'most! No zort o' oose to advaise 'un.”
“Nay, nay! Far otherwise. I am not by any means of that nature. Sir Maunder Meddleby, I have the honour of craving your opinion.”
Sir Maunder Meddleby thought for a while, or, at any rate, meant to be thinking, ere ever he dared to deliver himself of all his weighty judgment.
“I've a-knowed she, my Lord Witcher, ever since her wore that haigh. A purty wanch, and a peart one. But her wanteth the vinish of the coort. Never do no good wi'out un, whan a coomth, as her must, to coorting.”
This was the very thing De Wichehalse was afraid to hear of. He had lived so mild a life among the folk who loved him that any fear of worry in great places was too much for him. And yet sometimes he could not help a little prick of thought about his duty to his daughter. Hence it came that common sense was driven wild by conscience, as forever happens with the few who keep that gadfly. Six great horses, who knew no conscience but had more fleshly tormentors, were ordered out, and the journey began, and at last it ended.
Everything in London now was going almost anyhow. Kind and worthy people scarcely knew the way to look at things. They desired to respect the king and all his privilege, and yet they found his mind so wayward that they had no hold of him.
The court, however, was doing its best, from place to place in its wanderings, to despise the uproar and enjoy itself as it used to do. Bright and beautiful ladies gathered round the king, when the queen was gone, persuading him and one another that they must have their own way.
Of the lords who helped these ladies to their strong opinions there was none in higher favour with the queen and the king himself than the young Lord Auberley. His dress was like a sweet enchantment, and his tongue was finer still, and his grace and beauty were as if no earth existed. Frida was a new thing to him, in her pure simplicity. He to her was such a marvel, such a mirror of the skies, as a maid can only dream of in the full moon of St. John.
Little dainty glance, and flushing, and the fear to look too much, and the stealthy joy of feeling that there must be something meant, yet the terror of believing anything in earnest and the hope that, after all, there may be nought to come of it; and when this hope seems over true, the hollow of the heart behind it, and the longing to be at home with anyone to love oneself--time is wasted in recounting this that always must be.
Enough that Frida loved this gallant from the depths of her pure heart, while he admired and loved her to the best of his ability.
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The worthy baron was not of a versatile complexion. When his mind was quite made up he carried out the whole of it. But he could not now make up his mind upon either of two questions. Of these questions one was this--should he fight for the king or against him, in the struggle now begun? By hereditary instincts he was stanch for liberty, for letting people have their own opinions who could pay for them. And about religious matters and the royal view of them, he fell under sore misgiving that his grandfather on high would have a bone to pick with him.
His other difficulty was what to say, or what to think, about Lord Auberley. To his own plain way of judging, and that human instinct which, when highly cultivated, equals that of the weaker dogs, also to his recollection of what used to be expected in the time when he was young, Viscount Auberley did not give perfect satisfaction.
Nevertheless, being governed as strong folk are by the gentle ones, the worthy baron winked at little things which did not please him, and went so far as to ask that noble spark to flash upon the natives of benighted Devon. Lord Auberley was glad enough to retire for a season, both for other reasons and because he saw that bitter fighting must be soon expected. Hence it happened that the six great Flemish horses were buckled to, early in September of the first year of the civil war, while the king was on his westward march collecting men and money. The queen was not expected back from the Continent for another month; there had scarcely been for all the summer even the semblance of a court fit to teach a maiden lofty carriage and cold dignity; so that Lord de Wichehalse thought Sir Maunder Meddleby an oaf for sending him to London.
But there was someone who had tasted strong delight and shuddering fear, glowing hope and chill despair, triumph, shame, and all confusion of the heart and mind and will, such as simple maidens hug into their blushing chastity by the moonlight of first love. Frida de Wichehalse knew for certain, and forever felt it settled, that in all the world of worlds never had been any body, any mind, or even soul, fit to think of twice when once you had beheld Lord Auberley.
His young lordship, on the whole, was much of the same opinion. Low fellows must not have the honour to discharge their guns at him. He liked the king, and really meant no harm whatever to his peace of mind concerning his Henrietta; and, if the worst came to the worst, everyone knew that out of France there was no swordsman fit to meet, even with a rapier, the foil of Aubyn Auberley. Neither was it any slur upon his loyalty or courage that he was now going westward from the world of camps and war. It was important to secure the wavering De Wichehalse, the leading man of all the coast, from Mine-head down to Hartland; so that, with the full consent of all the king's advisers, Lord Auberley left court and camp to press his own suit peacefully. What a difference he found it to be here in mid-September, far away from any knowledge of the world and every care; only to behold the manner of the trees disrobing, blushing with a trembling wonder at the freedom of the winds, or in the wealth of deep wood browning into rich defiance; only to observe the colour of the hills, and cliffs, and glens, and the glory of the sea underneath the peace of heaven, when the balanced sun was striking level light all over them! And if this were not enough to make a man contented with his littleness and largeness, then to see the freshened Pleiads, after their long dip of night, over the eastern waters twinkling, glad to see us all once more and sparkling to be counted.
These things, and a thousand others, which (without a waft of knowledge or of thought on our part) enter into and become our sweetest recollections, for the gay young lord possessed no charm, nor even interest. “Dull, dull, how dull it is!” was all he thought when he thought at all; and he vexed his host by asking how he could live in such a hole as that. And he would have vexed his young love, too, if young love were not so large of heart, by asking what the foreign tongue was which “her people” tried to speak. “Their native tongue and mine, my lord!” cried Frida, with the sweetness of her smile less true than usual, because she loved her people and the air of her nativity.
However, take it altogether, this was a golden time for her. Golden trust and reliance are the well-spring of our nature, and that man is the happiest who is cheated every day almost. The pleasure is tenfold as great in being cheated as to cheat. Therefore Frida was as happy as the day and night are long. Though the trees were striped with autumn, and the green of the fields was waning, and the puce of the heath was faded into dingy cinnamon; though the tint of the rocks was darkened by the nightly rain and damp, and the clear brooks were beginning to be hoarse with shivering floods, and the only flowers left were but widows of the sun, yet she had the sovereign comfort and the cheer of trustful love. Lord Auberley, though he cared nought for the Valley of Rocks or Watersmeet, for beetling majesty of the cliffs or mantled curves of Woody Bay, and though he accounted the land a wilderness and the inhabitants savages, had taken a favourable view of the ample spread of the inland farms and the loyalty of the tenants, which naturally suggested the raising of the rental. Therefore he grew more attentive to young Mistress Frida; even sitting in shady places, which it made him damp to think of when he turned his eyes from her. Also he was moved a little by her growing beauty, for now the return to her native hills, the presence of her lover, and the home-made bread and forest mutton, combining with her dainty years, were making her look wonderful. If Aubyn Auberley had not been despoiled of all true manliness, by the petting and the froward wit of many a foreign lady, he might have won the pure salvation of an earnest love. But, when judged by that French standard which was now supreme at court, this poor Frida was a rustic, only fit to go to school. There was another fine young fellow who thought wholly otherwise. To him, in his simple power of judging for himself, and seldom budging from that judgment, there was no one fit to dream of in comparison with her. Often, in this state of mind, he longed to come forward and let them know what he thought concerning the whole of it. But Albert could not see his way toward doing any good with it, and being of a bashful mind, he kept his heart in order.
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The stir of the general rising of the kingdom against the king had not disturbed these places yet beyond what might be borne with. Everybody liked to talk, and everybody else was ready to put in a word or two; broken heads, however, were as yet the only issue. So that when there came great news of a real battle fought, and lost by Englishmen against Englishmen, the indignation of all the country ran against both parties.
Baron de Wichehalse had been thinking, after his crop of hay was in,--for such a faithful hay they have that it will not go from root to rick by less than two months of worrying,--from time to time, and even in the middle of his haycocks, this good lord had not been able to perceive his proper course. Arguments there were that sounded quite as if a baby must be perfectly convinced by them; and then there would be quite a different line of reason taken by someone who knew all about it and despised the opposite. So that many of a less decided way of thinking every day embraced whatever had been last confuted.
This most manly view of matters and desire to give fair play was scorned, of course, by the fairer (and unfairer) half of men. Frida counted all as traitors who opposed their liege the king.
“Go forth, my lord; go forth and fight,” she cried to Viscount Auberley, when the doubtful combat of Edgehill was firing new pugnacity; “if I were a man, think you that I would let them do so?”
“Alas, fair mistress! it will take a many men to help it. But since you bid me thus away--hi, Dixon! get my trunks packed!” And then, of course, her blushing roses faded to a lily white; and then, of course, it was his duty to support her slender form; neither were those dulcet murmurs absent which forever must be present when the female kind begin to have the best of it.
So they went on once or twice, and would have gone on fifty times if fortune had allowed them thus to hang on one another. All the world was fair around them; and themselves, as fair as any, vouched the whole world to attest their everlasting constancy.
But one soft November evening, when the trees were full of drops, and gentle mists were creeping up the channels of the moorlands, and snipes (come home from foreign parts) were cheeping at their borings, and every weary man was gladdened by the glance of a bright wood fire, and smell of what was over it, there happened to come, on a jaded horse, a man, all hat, and cape, and boots, and mud, and sweat, and grumbling. All the people saw at once that it was quite impossible to make at all too much of him, because he must be full of news, which (after victuals) is the greatest need of human nature. So he had his own way as to everything he ordered; and, having ridden into much experience of women, kept himself as warm as could be, without any jealousy.
This stern man bore urgent order for the Viscount Auberley to join the king at once at Oxford, and bring with him all his gathering. Having gathered no men yet, but spent the time in plucking roses and the wild myrtles of Devonshire love, the young lord was for once a little taken aback at this order. Moreover, though he had been grumbling, half a dozen times a day--to make himself more precious--about the place, and the people, and the way they cooked his meals, he really meant it less and less as he came to know the neighbourhood. These are things which nobody can understand without seeing them.
“I grieve, my lord,” said the worthy baron, “that you must leave us in this high haste.” On the whole, however, this excellent man was partly glad to be quit of him.
“And I am deeply indebted to your lordship for the grievance; but it must be so. _Que voulez-vous? _ You talk the French, _mon baron? _” “With a Frenchman, my lord; but not when I have the honour to speak with an Englishman.”
“Ah, there Foreign again! My lord, you will never speak English.”
De Wichehalse could never be quite sure, though his race had been long in this country, whether he or they could speak born English as it ought to be.
“Perhaps you will find,” he said at last, with grief as well as courtesy, “many who speak one language Striving to silence one another.”
“He fights best who fights the longest. You will come with us, my lord?”
“Not a foot, not half an inch,” the baron answered sturdily. “I've a-laboured hard to zee my best, and 'a can't zee head nor tail to it.”
Thus he spoke in imitation of what his leading tenant said, smiling brightly at himself, but sadly at his subject.
“Even so!” the young man answered; “I will forth and pay my duty. The rusty-weathercock, my lord, is often too late for the oiling.”
With this conceit he left De Wichehalse, and, while his grooms were making ready, sauntered down the zigzag path, which, through rocks and stubbed oaks, made toward the rugged headland known, far up and down the Channel, by the name of Duty Point. Near the end of this walk there lurked a soft and silent bower, made by Nature, and with all of Nature's art secluded. The ledge that wound along the rock-front widened, and the rock fell back and left a little cove, retiring into moss and ferny shade. Here the maid was well accustomed every day to sit and think, gazing down at the calm, gray sea, and filled with rich content and deep capacity of dreaming.
Here she was, at the present moment, resting in her pure love-dream, believing all the world as good, and true, and kind as her own young self. Round her all was calm and lovely; and the soft brown hand of autumn, with the sun's approval, tempered every mellow mood of leaves.
Aubyn Auberley was not of a sentimental cast of mind. He liked the poets of the day, whenever he deigned to read them; nor was he at all above accepting the dedication of a book. But it was not the fashion now--as had been in the noble time of Watson, Raleigh, and Shakspere--for men to look around and love the greater things they grow among.
Frida was surprised to see her dainty lord so early. She came here in the morning always, when it did not rain too hard, to let her mind have pasture on the landscape of sweet memory. And even sweeter hope was always fluttering in the distance, on the sea, or clouds, or flitting vapour of the morning. Even so she now was looking at the mounting glory of the sun above the sea-clouds, the sun that lay along the land, and made the distance roll away.
“Hard and bitter is my task,” the gallant lord began with her, “to say farewell to all I love. But so it ever must be.”
Frida looked at his riding-dress, and cold fear seized her suddenly, and then warm hope that he might only be riding after the bustards.
“My lord,” she said, “will you never grant me that one little prayer of mine--to spare poor birds, and make those cruel gaze-hounds run down one another?”
“I shall never see the gaze-hounds more,” he answered petulantly; “my time for sport is over. I must set forth for the war to-day.”
“To-day!” she cried; and then tried to say a little more for pride's sake; “to go to the war to-day, my lord!”
“Alas! it is too true. Either I must go, or be a traitor and a dastard.”
Her soft blue eyes lay full on his, and tears that had not time to flow began to spread a hazy veil between her and the one she loved.
He saw it, and he saw the rise and sinking of her wounded heart, and how the words she tried to utter fell away and died within her for the want of courage; and light and hard, and mainly selfish as his nature was, the strength, and depth, and truth of love came nigh to scare him for the moment even of his vanities.
“Frida!” he said, with her hand in his, and bending one knee on the moss; “only tell me that I must stay; then stay I will; the rest of the world may scorn if you approve me.”
This, of course, sounded very well and pleased her, as it was meant to do; still, it did not satisfy her--so exacting are young maidens, and so keen is the ear of love.
“Aubyn, you are good and true. How very good and true you are! But even by your dear voice now I know what you are thinking.”
Lord Auberley, by this time, was as well within himself again as he generally found himself; so that he began to balance chances very knowingly. If the king should win the warfare and be paramount again, this bright star of the court must rise to something infinitely higher than a Devonshire squire's child. A fine young widow of a duke, of the royal blood of France itself, was not far from being quite determined to accept him, if she only could be certain how these things would end themselves. Many other ladies were determined quite as bravely to wait the course of events, and let him have them, if convenient. On the other hand, if the kingdom should succeed in keeping the king in order--which was the utmost then intended--Aubyn Auberley might be only too glad to fall back upon Frida.
Thinking it wiser, upon the whole, to make sure of this little lamb, with nobler game in prospect, Lord Auberley heaved as deep a sigh as the size of his chest could compass. After which he spoke as follows, in a most delicious tone: “Sweetest, and my only hope, the one star of my wanderings; although you send me forth to battle, where my arm is needed, give me one dear pledge that ever you will live and die my own.”
This was just what Frida wanted, having trust (as our free-traders, by vast amplitude of vision, have in reciprocity) that if a man gets the best of a woman he is sure to give it back. Therefore these two sealed and delivered certain treaties (all unwritten, but forever engraven upon the best and tenderest feelings of the lofty human nature) that nothing less than death, or even greater, should divide them.
Is there one, among the many who survive such process, unable to imagine or remember how they parted? The fierce and even desperate anguish, nursed and made the most of; the pride and self-control that keep such things for comfort afterward; the falling of the heart that feels itself the true thing after all. Let it be so, since it must be; and no sympathy can heal it, since in every case it never, never, was so bad before!
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Lovers come, and lovers go; ecstasies of joy and anguish have their proper intervals; and good young folk, who know no better, revel in high misery. But the sun ascends the heavens at the same hour of the day, by himself dictated; and if we see him not, it is our earth that spreads the curtain. Nevertheless, these lovers, being out of rule with everything, heap their own faults on his head, and want him to be setting always, that they may behold the moon.
Therefore it was useless for the wisest man in the north of Devon, or even the wisest woman, to reason with young Frida now, or even to let her have the reason upon her side, and be sure of it. She, for her part, was astray from all the bounds of reason, soaring on the wings of faith, and hope, and high delusion. Though the winter-time was coming, and the wind was damp and raw, and the beauty of the valleys lay down to recover itself; yet with her the spring was breaking, and the world was lifting with the glory underneath it. Because it had been firmly pledged--and who could ever doubt it? --that the best and noblest lover in this world of noble love would come and grandly claim and win his bride on her next birthday.
At Christmas she had further pledge of her noble lover's constancy. In spite of difficulties, dangers, and the pressing need of men, he contrived to send her by some very valiant messengers (none of whom would ride alone) a beautiful portrait of himself, set round with sparkling diamonds; also a necklace of large pearls, as white and pure as the neck whose grace was to enhance their beauty.
Hereupon such pride and pleasure mounted into her cheeks and eyes, and flushed her with young gaiety, that all who loved her, being grafted with good superstition, nearly spoiled their Christmas-time by serious sagacity. She, however, in the wealth of all she had to think of, heeded none who trod the line of prudence and cold certainty.
“It is more than I can tell,” she used to say, most prettily, to anybody who made bold to ask her about anything; “all things go so in and out that I am sure of nothing else except that I am happy.”
The baron now began to take a narrow, perhaps a natural, view of all the things around him. In all the world there was for him no sign or semblance of any being whose desires or strictest rights could be thought of more than once when set against his daughter's. This, of course, was very bad for Frida's own improvement. It could not make her selfish yet, but it really made her wayward. The very best girls ever seen are sure to have their failings; and Frida, though one of the very best, was not above all nature. People made too much of this, when she could no more defend herself.
Whoever may have been to blame, one thing at least is certain--the father, though he could not follow all his child's precipitance, yet was well contented now to stoop his gray head to bright lips, and do his best toward believing some of their soft eloquence. The child, on the other hand, was full of pride, and rose on tiptoe, lest anybody might suppose her still too young for anything. Thus between them they looked forward to a pleasant time to come, hoping for the best, and judging everyone with charity.
The thing that vexed them most (for always there must, of course, be something) was the behaviour of Albert, nephew to the baron, and most loving cousin of Frida. Nothing they could do might bring him to spend his Christmas with them; and this would be the first time ever since his long-clothed babyhood that he had failed to be among them, and to lead or follow, just as might be required of him. Such a guest has no small value in a lonely neighbourhood, and years of usage mar the circle of the year without him.
Christmas passed, and New Year's Day, and so did many other days. The baron saw to his proper work, and took his turn of hunting, and entertained his neighbours, and pleased almost everybody. Much against his will, he had consented to the marriage of his daughter with Lord Auber-ley--to make the best of a bad job, as he told Sir Maunder Meddleby. Still, this kind and crafty father had his own ideas; for the moment he was swimming with the tide to please his daughter, even as for her dear sake he was ready to sink beneath it. Yet, these fathers have a right to form their own opinions; and for the most part they believe that they have more experience. Frida laughed at this, of course, and her father was glad to see her laugh. Nevertheless, he could not escape some respect for his own opinion, having so rarely found it wrong; and his own opinion was that something was very likely to happen.
In this he proved to be quite right. For many things began to happen, some on the-right and some on the left hand of the-baron's auguries. All of them, however, might be reconciled exactly with the very thing he had predicted. He noticed this, and it pleased him well, and inspired him so that he started anew for even truer prophecies. And everybody round the place was-born so to respect him that, if he missed the mark a little, they could hit it for him.
Things stood thus at the old Ley Manor--and folk were content to have them so, for fear of getting worse, perhaps--toward the end of January, a. d. 1643. De Wichehalse had vowed that his only child--although so clever for her age, and prompt of mind and body--should not enter into marriage until she was in her eighteenth year. Otherwise, it would, no doubt, have all been settled long ago; for Aubyn Auberley sometimes had been in the greatest hurry. However, hither he must come now, as everybody argued, even though the fate of England hung on his stirrup-leather. Because he had even sent again, with his very best intentions, fashionable things for Frida, and the hottest messages; so that, if they did not mean him to be quite beside himself, everything must be smoking for his wedding at the Candlemas.
But when everything and even everybody else--save Albert and the baron, and a few other obstinate people--was and were quite ready and rejoicing for a grand affair, to be celebrated with well-springs of wine and delightfully cordial Watersmeet, rocks of beef hewn into valleys, and conglomerate cliffs of pudding; when ruddy dame and rosy damsel were absorbed in “what to wear,” and even steady farmers were in “practice for the back step”; in a word, when all the country was gone wild about Frida's wedding--one night there happened to come a man.
This man tied his horse to a gate and sneaked into the back yard, and listened in a quiet corner, knowing, as he did, the ins and outs and ways of the kitchen. Because he was that very same man who understood the women so, and made himself at home, by long experience, in new places. It had befallen this man, as it always befell any man of perception, to be smitten with the kindly loveliness of Frida. Therefore, now, although he was as hungry as ever he had been, his heart was such that he heard the sound of dishes, yet drew no nearer. Experience of human nature does not always spoil it.
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When the baron at last received the letter which this rider had been so abashed to deliver, slow but lasting wrath began to gather in his gray-lashed eyes. It was the inborn anger of an honest man at villany mixed with lofty scorn and traversed by a dear anxiety. Withal he found himself so helpless that he scarce knew what to do. He had been to Frida both a father and a mother, as she often used to tell him when she wanted something; but now he felt that no man could administer the velvet touches of the female sympathy.
Moreover, although he was so kind, and had tried to think what his daughter thought, he found himself in a most ungenial mood for sweet condolement. Any but the best of fathers would have been delighted with the proof of all his prophecies and the riddance of a rogue. So that even he, though dwelling in his child's heart as his own, read this letter (when the first emotions had exploded) with a real hope that things, in the long run, would come round again.
“To my most esteemed and honoured friend, the Lord de Wichehalse, these from his most observant and most grateful Aubya Auberley,--Under command of his Majesty, our most Royal Lord and King, I have this day been joined in bands of holy marriage with her Highness, the Duchess of B----, in France. At one time I had hope of favour with your good Lordship's daughter, neither could I have desired more complete promotion. But the service of the kingdom and the doubt of my own desert have forced me, in these troublous times, to forego mine own ambition. Our lord the King enjoins you with his Royal commendation, to bring your forces toward Bristowe by the day of St. Valentine. There shall I be in hope to meet your Lordship, and again find pleasure in such goodly company. Until then I am your Lordship's poor and humble servant, “AUBYN AUBERLEY.”
Lord de Wichehalse made his mind up not to let his daughter know until the following morning what a heavy blow had fallen on her faith and fealty. But, as evil chance would have it, the damsels of the house--and most of all the gentle cook-maid--could not but observe the rider's state of mind toward them. He managed to eat his supper in a dark state of parenthesis; but after that they plied him with some sentimental mixtures, and, being only a man at best, although a very trusty one, he could not help the rise of manly wrath at every tumbler. So, in spite of dry experience and careworn discretion, at last he let the woman know the whole of what himself knew. Nine good females crowded round him, and, of course, in their kind bosoms every word of all his story germinated ninety-fold.
Hence it came to pass that, after floods of tears in council and stronger language than had right to come from under aprons, Frida's nurse (the old herb-woman, now called “Mother Eyebright”) was appointed to let her know that very night the whole of it. Because my lord might go on mooning for a month about it, betwixt his love of his daughter and his quiet way of taking things; and all that while the dresses might be cut, and trimmed, and fitted to a size and fashion all gone by before there came a wedding.
Mother Eyebright so was called both from the brightness of her eyes and her faith in that little simple flower, the euphrasia. Though her own love-tide was over, and the romance of life had long relapsed into the old allegiance to the hour of dinner, yet her heart was not grown tough to the troubles of the young ones; therefore all that she could do was done, but it was little.
Frida, being almost tired with the blissful cares of dress, happened to go up that evening earlier than her wont to bed. She sat by herself in the firelight, with many gorgeous things around her--wedding presents from great people, and (what touched her more) the humble offerings of her cottage friends. As she looked on these and thought of all the good will they expressed, and how a little kindness gathers such a heap of gratitude, glad tears shone in her bright eyes, and she only wished that all the world could be as blessed as she was.
To her entered Mother Eyebright, now unworthy of her name; and sobbing, writhing, crushing anguish is a thing which even Frida, simple and open-hearted one, would rather keep to her own poor self.
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{
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Upon the following day she was not half so wretched and lamentable as was expected of her. She even showed a brisk and pleasant air to the chief seamstress, and bade her keep some pretty things for the time of her own wedding. Even to her father she behaved as if there had been nothing more than happens every day. The worthy baron went to fold her in his arms, and let her cry there; but she only gave him a kiss, and asked the maid for some salt butter. Lord de Wichehalse, being disappointed of his outlet, thought (as all his life he had been forced to think continually) that any sort of woman, whether young or old, is wonderful. And so she carried on, and no one well could understand her.
She, however, in her own heart, knew the ups and downs of it. She alone could feel the want of any faith remaining, the ache of ever stretching forth and laying hold on nothing. Her mind had never been encouraged--as with maidens nowadays--to-magnify itself, and soar, and scorn the heart that victuals it. All the deeper was her trouble, being less to be explained.
For a day or two the story is that she contrived to keep her distance, and her own opinion of what had been done to her. Child and almost baby as her father had considered her, even he was awed from asking what she meant to do about it. Something seemed to keep her back from speaking of her trouble, or bearing to have it spoken of. Only to her faithful hound, with whom she now began again to wander in the oak-wood, to him alone had she the comfort of declaring anything. This was a dog of fine old English breed and high connections, his great-grandmother having owned a kennel at Whitehall itself--a very large and well-conducted dog, and now an old one, going down into his grave without a stain upon him. Only he had shown such foul contempt of Aubyn Auberley, proceeding to extremes of ill-behaviour toward his raiment, that for months young Frida had been forced to keep him chained, and take her favourite walks without him.
“Ah, Lear!” now she cried, with sense of long injustice toward him; “you were right, and I was wrong; at least--at least it seems so.”
“Lear,” so called whether by some man who had heard of Shakspere, or (as seems more likely) from his peculiar way of contemplating the world at his own angle, shook his ears when thus addressed, and looked too wise for any dog to even sniff his wisdom.
Frida now allowed this dog to lead the way, and she would follow, careless of whatever mischief might be in the road for them. So he led her, without care or even thought on her part, to a hut upon the beach of Woody Bay; where Albert had set up his staff, to think of her and watch her. This, her cousin and true lover, had been grieving for her sorrow to the utmost power of a man who wanted her himself. It may have been beyond his power to help saying to himself sometimes, “How this serves her right, for making such a laughing-stock of me!” Nevertheless, he did his utmost to be truly sorrowful.
And now, as he came forth to meet her, in his fishing dress and boots (as different a figure as could be from Aubyn Auberley), memories of childish troubles and of strong protection thrilled her with a helpless hope of something to be done for her. So she looked at him, and let him see the state her eyes were in with constant crying, when there was not anyone to notice it. Also, she allowed him to be certain what her hands were like, and to be surprised how much she had fallen away in her figure. Neither was she quite as proud as might have been expected, to keep her voice from trembling or her plundered heart from sobbing. Only, let not anybody say a word to comfort her. Anything but that she now could bear, as she bore everything. It was, of course, the proper thing for everyone to scorn her. That, of course, she had fully earned, and met it, therefore, with disdain. Only, she could almost hate anybody who tried to comfort her.
Albert de Wichehalse, with a sudden start of intuition, saw what her father had been unable to descry or even dream. The worthy baron's time of life for fervid thoughts was over; for him despairing love was but a poet's fiction, or a joke against a pale young lady. But Albert felt from his own case, from burning jealousy suppressed, and cold neglect put up with, and all the other many-pointed aches of vain devotion, how sad must be the state of things when plighted faith was shattered also, and great ridicule left behind, with only a young girl to face it, motherless, and having none to stroke dishevelled hair, and coax the troubles by the firelight. However, this good fellow did the utmost he could do for her. Love and pity led him into dainty loving kindness; and when he could not find his way to say the right thing, he did better--he left her to say it. And so well did he move her courage, in his old protective way, without a word that could offend her or depreciate her love, that she for the moment, like a woman, wondered at her own despair. Also, like a woman, glancing into this and that, instead of any steadfast gazing, she had wholesome change of view, winning sudden insight into Albert's thoughts concerning her. Of course, she made up her mind at once, although her heart was aching so for want of any tenant, in a moment to extinguish any such presumption. Still, she would have liked to have it made a little clearer, if it were for nothing else than to be sure of something.
Albert saw her safely climb the steep and shaly walk that led, among retentive oak trees, or around the naked gully, all the way from his lonely cottage to the light, and warmth, and comfort of the peopled Manor House. And within himself he thought, the more from contrast of his own cold comfort and untended state: “Ah! she will forget it soon; she is so young. She will soon get over that gay frippard's fickleness. To-morrow I will start upon my little errand cheerfully. After that she will come round; they cannot feel as we do.”
Full of these fond hopes, he started on the following morning with set purpose to compel the man whom he had once disliked, and now despised unspeakably, to render some account of despite done to such a family. For, after all, the dainty viscount was the grandson of a goldsmith, who by brokerage for the Crown had earned the balls of his coronet. In quest of this gay fellow went the stern and solid Albert, leaving not a word about his purpose there behind him, but allowing everybody to believe what all found out. All found out, as he expected, that he was gone to sell his hay, perhaps as far as Taunton; and all the parish, looking forward to great rise of forage, felt indignant that he had not doubled his price, and let them think.
Alack-a-day and all the year round! that men perceive not how the women differ from them in the very source of thought Albert never dreamed that his cousin, after doing so long without him, had now relapsed quite suddenly into her childish dependence upon him. And when she heard, on the following day, that he was gone for the lofty purpose of selling his seven ricks of hay, she said not a word, but only felt her cold heart so much colder.
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{
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She had nothing now to do, and nobody to speak to; though her father did his utmost, in his kind and clumsy way, to draw his darling close to him. But she knew that all along he had disliked her idol, and she fancied, now and then, that this dislike had had something perhaps to do with what had befallen her. This, of course, was wrong on her part. But when youth and faith are wronged, the hurt is very apt to fly to all the tender places. Even the weather also seemed to have taken a turn against her. No wholesome frost set in to brace the slackened joints and make her walk until she began to tingle; neither was there any snow to spread a new cast on the rocks and gift the trees with airiness; nor even what mild winters, for the most part, bring in counterpoise--soft, obedient skies, and trembling pleasure of the air and earth. But--as over her own love--over all the country hung just enough of mist and chill to shut out cheerful prospect, and not enough to shut folk in to the hearth of their own comfort.
In her dull, forlorn condition, Frida still, through force of habit or the love of solitude, made her daily round of wood and rock, seashore and moorland. Things seemed to come across her now, instead of her going to them, and her spirit failed at every rise of the hilly road against her. In that dreary way she lingered, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, showing neither sigh nor tear, only seeking to go somewhere and be lost from self and sorrow in the cloudy and dark day.
Often thus the soft, low moaning of the sea encompassed her, where she stood, in forgotten beauty, careless of the wind and wave. The short, uneasy heave of waters in among the kelpy rocks, flowing from no swell or furrow on the misty glass of sea, but like a pulse of discontent, and longing to go further; after the turn, the little rattle of invaded pebbles, the lithe relapse and soft, shampooing lambency of oarweed, then the lavered boulders pouring gritty runnels back again, and every basined outlet wavering toward another inlet; these, and every phase of each innumerable to-and-fro, made or met their impress in her fluctuating misery.
“It is the only rest,” she said; “the only chance of being quiet, after all that I have done, and all that people say of me.”
None had been dastard enough to say a syllable against her; neither had she, in the warmest faith of love, forgotten truth; but her own dejection drove her, not to revile the world (as sour natures do consistently), but to shrink from sight, and fancy that the world was reviling her.
While she fluttered thus and hovered over the cold verge of death, with her sore distempered spirit, scarcely sure of anything, tidings came of another trouble, and turned the scale against her. Albert de Wichehalse, her trusty cousin and true lover, had fallen in a duel with that recreant and miscreant Lord Auberley. The strictest orders were given that this should be kept for the present from Frida's ears; but what is the use of the strictest orders when a widowed mother raves? Albert's mother vowed that “the shameless jilt” should hear it out, and slipped her guards and waylaid Frida on the morn of Candlemas, and overbore her with such words as may be well imagined.
“Auntie!” said the poor thing at last, shaking her beautiful curls, and laying one little hand to her empty heart, “don't be cross with me to-day. I am going home to be married, auntie. It is the day my Aubyn always fixed, and he never fails me.”
“Little fool!” her aunt exclaimed, as Frida kissed her hand and courtesied, and ran round the corner; “one comfort is to know that she is as mad as a mole, at any rate.”
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Frida, knowing--perhaps more deeply than that violent woman thought--the mischief thus put into her, stole back to her bedroom, and, without a word to anyone, tired her hair in the Grecian snood which her lover used to admire so, and arrayed her soft and delicate form in all the bridal finery. Perhaps, that day, no bride in England--certainly none of her youth and beauty--treated her favourite looking-glass with such contempt and ingratitude. She did not care to examine herself, through some reluctant sense of havoc, and a bitter fear that someone might be disappointed in her. Then at the last, when all was ready, she snatched up her lover's portrait (which for days had been cast aside and cold), and, laying it on her bosom, took a snatch of a glance at her lovely self.
After some wonder she fetched a deep sigh--not from clearly thinking anything, but as an act of nature--and said, “Good-by!” forever, with a little smile of irony, to her looking-glass, and all the many pretty things that knew her.
It was her bad luck, as some people thought thereafter--or her good luck, as herself beheld it--to get down the stairs and out of the house without anyone being the wiser. For the widow De Wichehalse, Albert's mother, had not been content with sealing the doom of this poor maiden, but in that highly excited state, which was to be expected, hurried into the house, to beard the worthy baron in his den. There she found him; and, although he said and did all sympathy, the strain of parental feelings could not yield without “hysterics.”
All the servants, and especially Mother Eyebright (whose chief duty now was to watch Frida), were called by the terrified baron, and with one unanimous rush replied; so that the daughter of the house left it without notice, and before any glances was out of sight, in the rough ground where the deer were feeding, and the umber oak-leaves hung.
It was the dainty time when first the year begins to have a little hope of meaning kindly--when in the quiet places often, free from any haste of wind, or hindrances of pattering thaw, small and unimportant flowers have a little knack of dreaming that the world expects them. Therefore neither do they wait for leaves to introduce them, nor much weather to encourage, but in shelfy corners come, in a day, or in a night--no man knows quite which it is; and there they are, as if by magic, asking, “Am I welcome?” And if anybody sees them, he is sure to answer “Yes.”
Frida, in the sheltered corners and the sunny nooks of rock, saw a few of these little things delicately trespassing upon the petulance of spring. Also, though her troubles wrapped her with an icy mantle, softer breath of Nature came, and sighed for her to listen to it, and to make the best of all that is not past the sighing. More than once she stopped to listen, in the hush of the timid south wind creeping through the dishevelled wood; and once, but only once, she was glad to see her first primrose and last, and stooped to pluck, but, on second thoughts, left it to outblossom her.
So, past many a briered rock, and dingle buff with littered fern, green holly copse where lurked the woodcock, and arcades of zigzag oak, Frida kept her bridal robe from spot, or rent, or blemish. Passing all these little pleadings of the life she had always loved, at last she turned the craggy corner into the ledge of the windy cliff.
Now below her there was nothing but repose from shallow thought; rest from all the little troubles she had made so much of; deep, eternal satisfaction in the arms of something vast. But all the same, she did not feel quite ready for the great jump yet.
The tide was in, and she must wait at least until it began to turn, otherwise her white satin velvet would have all its pile set wrong, if ever anybody found her. There could be no worse luck than that for any bride on her wedding-day; therefore up the rock-walk Frida kept very close to the landward side.
All this way she thought of pretty little things said to her in the early days of love. Many things that made her smile because they had gone so otherwise, and one or two that would have fetched her tears, if she had any. Filled with vain remembrance thus, and counting up the many presents sent to her for this occasion, but remaining safe at home, Frida came to the little coving bower just inside the Point, where she could go no further. Here she had received the pledges, and the plight, and honour; and here her light head led her on to look for something faithful.
“When the tide turns I shall know it. If he does not come by that time, there will be no more to do. It will be too late for weddings, for the tide turns at twelve o'clock. How calm and peaceful is the sea! How happy are the sea gulls, and how true to one another!”
She stood where, if she had cared for life, it would have been certain death to stand, so giddy was the height, and the rock beneath her feet so slippery. The craggy headland, Duty Point, well known to every navigator of that rock-bound coast, commands the Channel for many a league, facing eastward the Castle Rock and Countisbury Foreland, and westward High-veer Point, across the secluded cove of Leymouth. With one sheer fall of a hundred fathoms the stern cliff meets the baffled sea--or met it then, but now the level of the tide is lowering. Air and sea were still and quiet; the murmur of the multitudinous wavelets could not climb the cliff; but loops and curves of snowy braiding on the dark gray water showed the set of tide and shift of current in and out the buried rocks.
Standing in the void of fear, and gazing into the deep of death, Frida loved the pair of sea gulls hovering halfway between her and the soft gray sea. These good birds had found a place well suited for their nesting, and sweetly screamed to one another that it was a contract. Frida watched how proud they were, and how they kept their strong wings sailing and their gray backs flat and quivering, while with buoyant bosom each made circles round the other.
As she watched, she saw the turning of the tide below them. The streaky bends of curdled water, lately true as fairy-rings, stopped and wavered, and drew inward on their flowing curves, and outward on the side toward the ebb. Then the south wind brought the distant toll of her father's turret-clock, striking noon with slow deliberation and dead certainty.
Frida made one little turn toward her bower behind the cliff, where the many sweet words spoken drew her to this last of hope. All was silent. There was no one Now was the time to go home at last.
Suddenly she felt a heavy drag upon her velvet skirt. Ancient Lear had escaped from the chain she had put on him, and, more trusty than mankind, was come to keep his faith with her.
“You fine old dog, it is too late! The clock has struck. The tide has turned. There is no one left to care for me; and I have ruined everyone. Good-by, you only true one!”
Submissive as he always was, the ancient dog lay down when touched, and drew his grizzled eyelids meekly over his dim and sunken eyes. Before he lifted them again Frida was below the sea gulls, and beneath the waves they fished.
Lear, with a puzzled sniff, arose and shook his head, and peered, with his old eyes full of wistful wonder, down the fearful precipice. Seeing something, he made his mind, up, gave one long re-echoed howl, then tossed his mane, like a tawny wave, and followed down the death-leap.
Neither body was ever found; and the whole of this might not have been known so clearly as it is known, unless it had happened that Mother Eyebright, growing uneasy, came round the corner just in time to be too late. She, like a sensible woman, never dreamed of jumping after them, but ran home so fast that she could not walk to church for three months afterward; and when her breath came back was enabled to tell tenfold of all she had seen.
One of the strangest things in life is the way in which we mortals take the great and fatal blows of life.
For instance, the baron was suddenly told, while waiting for Frida to sit beside him, at his one o'clock dinner: “Plaize, my lard, your lardship's darter hath a been and jumped off Duty Point.”
“What an undutiful thing to do!” was the first thing Lord de Wichehalse said; and those who knew no better thought that this was how he took it.
Aubyn Auberley, however, took a different measure of a broken-hearted father's strength. For the baron buckled on the armour of a century ago, which had served his grandsire through hard blows in foreign battles, and, with a few of his trusty servants, rode to join the Parliament. It happened so that he could not make redress of his ruined life until the middle of the summer. Then, at last, his chance came to him, and he did not waste it. Viscount Auberley, who had so often slipped away and laughed at him, was brought to bay beneath a tree in the famous fight of Lansdowne.
The young man offered to hold parley, but the old man had no words. His snowy hair and rugged forehead, hard-set mouth and lifted arm, were enough to show his meaning. The gallant, being so skilled of fence, thought to play with this old man as he had with his daughter; but the Gueldres ax cleft his curly head, and split what little brain it takes to fool a trusting maiden.
So, in early life, deceiver and deceived were quit of harm; and may ere now have both found out whether it is better to inflict the wrong or suffer it.
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{
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When I was a young man, and full of spirits, some forty years ago or more, I lost my best and truest friend in a very sad and mysterious way. The greater part of my life has been darkened by this heavy blow and loss, and the blame which I poured upon myself for my own share in the matter.
George Bowring had been seven years with me at the fine old school of Shrewsbury, and trod on my heels from form to form so closely that, when I became at last the captain of the school, he was second to me. I was his elder by half a year, and “sapped” very hard, while he laboured little; so that it will be plain at a glance, although he never acknowledged it, that he was the better endowed of the two with natural ability. At that time we of Salop always expected to carry everything, so far as pure scholarship was concerned, at both the universities. But nowadays I am grieved to see that schools of quite a different stamp (such as Rugby and Harrow, and even Marlborough, and worse of all peddling Manchester) have been running our boys hard, and sometimes almost beating them. And how have they done it? Why, by purchasing masters of our prime rank and special style.
George and myself were at one time likely, and pretty well relied upon, to keep up the fame of Sabrina's crown, and hold our own at Oxford. But suddenly it so fell out that both of us were cut short of classics, and flung into this unclassic world. In the course of our last half year at school and when we were both taking final polish to stand for Balliol scholarships, which we were almost sure to win, as all the examiners were Shrewsbury men,--not that they would be partial to us, but because we knew all their questions,--within a week, both George and I were forced to leave the dear old school, the grand old town, the lovely Severn, and everything but one another.
He lost his father; I lost my uncle, a gentleman in Derbyshire, who had well provided my education; but, having a family of his own, could not be expected to leave me much. And he left me even less than could, from his own point of view, have been rational. It is true that he had seven children; but still a man of,£15,000 a year might have done, without injustice--or, I might say, with better justice--something more than to leave his nephew a sum which, after much pushing about into divers insecurities, fetched £72 10s. per annum.
Nevertheless, I am truly grateful; though, perhaps, at the time I had not that knowledge of the world which enlarges the grateful organs. It cannot matter what my feelings were, and I never was mercenary. All my sentiments at that period ran in Greek senarii; and perhaps it would show how good and lofty boys were in that ancient time, though now they are only rude Solecists, if I were to set these verses down--but, after much consideration, I find it wiser to keep them in.
George Bowring's father had some appointment well up in the Treasury. He seems to have been at some time knighted for finding a manuscript of great value that went in the end to the paper mills. How he did it, or what it was, or whether he ever did it at all, were questions for no one to meddle with. People in those days had larger minds than they ever seem to exhibit now. The king might tap a man, and say, “Rise, Sir Joseph,” and all the journals of the age, or, at least, the next day, would echo “Sir Joseph!” And really he was worthy of it. A knight he lived, and a knight he died; and his widow found it such a comfort!
And now on his father's sudden death, George Bowring was left not so very well off. Sir Joseph had lived, as a knight should do, in a free-handed, errant, and chivalrous style; and what he left behind him made it lucky that the title dropped. George, however, was better placed, as regards the world, than I was; but not so very much as to make a difference between us. Having always held together, and being started in life together, we resolved to face the world (as other people are always called) side by side, and with a friendship that should make us as good as one.
This, however, did not come out exactly as it should have done. Many things arose between us--such as diverse occupation, different hours of work and food, and a little split in the taste of trowsers, which, of course, should not have been. He liked the selvage down his legs, while I thought it unartistic, and, going much into the graphic line, I pressed my objections strongly.
But George, in the handsomest manner--as now, looking back on the case, I acknowledge--waived my objections, and insisted as little as he could upon his own.
And again we became as tolerant as any two men, at all alike, can be of one another.
He, by some postern of influence, got into some dry ditch of the Treasury, and there, as in an old castle-moat, began to be at home, and move, gently and after his seniors, as the young ducks follow the old ones. And at every waddle he got more money.
My fortune, however, was not so nice. I had not Sir Joseph, of Treasury cellars, to light me with his name and memory into a snug cell of my own. I had nothing to look to but courage, and youth, and education, and three-quarters of a hundred pounds a year, with some little change to give out of it. Yet why should I have doubted? Now, I wonder at my own misgivings; yet all of them still return upon me, if I ever am persuaded just to try Welsh rabbit. Enough, that I got on at last, to such an extent that the man at the dairy offered me half a year's milk for a sketch of a cow that had never belonged to him.
George, meanwhile, having something better than a brush for a walking stick and an easel to sit down upon, had taken unto himself a wife--a lady as sweet and bright as could be--by name Emily Atkinson. In truth, she was such a charming person that I myself, in a quiet way, had taken a very great fancy to her before George Bowring saw her; but as soon as I found what a desperate state the heart of poor George was reduced to, and came to remember that he was fitted by money to marry, while I was not, it appeared to me my true duty toward the young lady and him, and even myself, to withdraw from the field, and have nothing to say if they set up their horses together.
So George married Emily, and could not imagine why it was that I strove in vain to appear as his “best man,” at the rails where they do it.
For though I had ordered a blue coat and buttons, and a cashmere waistcoat (amber-coloured, with a braid of peonies), yet at the last moment my courage failed me, and I was caught with a shivering in the knees, which the doctor said was ague. This and that shyness of dining at his house (which I thought it expedient to adopt during the years of his married life) created some little reserve between us, though hardly so bad as our first disagreement concerning the stripe down the pantaloons.
However, before that dereliction I had made my friend a wedding present, as was right and proper--a present such as nothing less than a glorious windfall could have enabled me to buy. For while engaged, some three years back, upon a grand historical painting of “Cour de Lion and Saladin,” now to be seen--but let that pass; posterity will always know where to find it--I was harassed in mind perpetually concerning the grain of the fur of a cat. To the dashing young artists of the present day this may seem a trifle; to them, no doubt, a cat is a cat--or would be, if they could make it one. Of course, there are cats enough in London, and sometimes even a few to spare; but I wanted a cat of peculiar order, and of a Saracenic cast. I walked miles and miles; till at last I found him residing in a very old-fashioned house in the Polygon, at Somers Town. Here was a genuine paradise of cats, carefully ministered to and guarded by a maiden lady of Portuguese birth and of advanced maturity. Each of these nine cats possessed his own stool--a mahogany stool, with a velvet cushion, and his name embroidered upon it in beautiful letters of gold. And every day they sat round the fire to digest their dinners, all nine of them, each on his proper stool, some purring, some washing their faces, and some blinking or nodding drowsily. But I need not have spoken of this, except that one of them was called “Saladin.” He was the very cat I wanted. I made his acquaintance in the area, and followed it up on the knife-boy's board. And then I had the most happy privilege of saving him from a tail-pipe. Thus my entrance was secured into this feline Eden; and the lady was so well pleased that she gave me an order for nine full-length cat portraits, at the handsome price of ten guineas apiece. And not only this, but at her demise--which followed, alas! too speedily--she left me £150, as a proof of her esteem and affection.
This sum I divided into three equal parts--fifty pounds for a present for George, another fifty for a duty to myself, and the residue to be put by for any future purposes. I knew that my friend had no gold watch; neither, of course, did I possess one. In those days a gold watch was thought a good deal of, and made an impression in society, as a three-hundred-guinea ring does now. Barwise was then considered the best watchmaker in London, and perhaps in the world. So I went to his shop, and chose two gold watches of good size and substance--none of your trumpery catchpenny things, the size of a gilt pill trodden upon--at the price of fifty guineas each. As I took the pair, the foreman let me have them for a hundred pounds, including also in that figure a handsome gold key for each, of exactly the same pattern, and a guard for the fob of watered black-silk ribbon.
My reason for choosing these two watches, out of a trayful of similar quality, was perhaps a little whimsical--viz., that the numbers they bore happened to be sequents. Each had its number engraved on its white enamel dial, in small but very clear figures, placed a little above the central spindle; also upon the extreme verge, at the nadir below the seconds hand, the name of the maker, “Barwise, London.” They were not what are called “hunting watches,” but had strong and very clear lunette glasses fixed in rims of substantial gold. And their respective numbers were 7777 and 7778.
Carrying these in wash-leather bags, I gave George Bowring his choice of the two; and he chose the one with four figures of seven, making some little joke about it, not good enough to repeat, nor even bad enough to laugh at.
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{
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For six years after this all went smoothly with George Bowring and myself. We met almost daily, although we did not lodge together (as once we had done) nor spend the evening hours together, because, of course, he had now his home and family rising around him. By the summer of 1832 he had three children, and was expecting a fourth at no very distant time. His eldest son was named after me, “Robert Bistre,” for such is my name, which I have often thought of changing. Not that the name is at all a bad one, as among friends and relations, but that, when I am addressed by strangers, “Mr. Bistre” has a jingling sound, suggestive of childish levity. “Sir Robert Bistre,” however, would sound uncommonly well; and (as some people say) less eminent artists--but perhaps, after all, I am not so very old as to be in a hurry.
In the summer of 1832--as elderly people will call to mind, and the younger sort will have heard or read--the cholera broke over London like a bursting meteor. Such panic had not been known, I believe, since the time of the plague, in the reign of Charles II., as painted (beyond any skill of the brush) by the simple and wonderful pen of Defoe. There had been in the interval many seasons--or at least I am informed so--of sickness more widely spread, and of death more frequent, if not so sudden. But now this new plague, attacking so harshly a man's most perceptive and valued part, drove rich people out of London faster than horses (not being attacked) could fly. Well, used as I was to a good deal of poison in dealing with my colours, I felt no alarm on my own account, but was anxious about my landlady. This was an excellently honest woman of fifty-five summers at the utmost, but weakly confessing to as much as forty. She had made a point of insisting upon a brisket of beef and a flat-polled cabbage for dinner every Saturday; and the same, with a “cowcumber,” cold on Sunday; and for supper a soft-roed herring, ever since her widowhood.
“Mrs. Whitehead,” said I--for that was her name, though she said she did not deserve it; and her hair confirmed her in that position by growing darker from year to year--“Madam, allow me to beg you to vary your diet a little at this sad time.”
“I varies it every day, Mr. Bistre,” she answered somewhat snappishly. “The days of the week is not so many but what they all come round again.”
For the moment I did not quite perceive the precision of her argument; but after her death I was able to do more justice to her intellect. And, unhappily, she was removed to a better world on the following Sunday.
To a man in London of quiet habits and regular ways and periods there scarcely can be a more desperate blow than the loss of his landlady. It is not only that his conscience pricks him for all his narrow, plagiaristic, and even irrational suspicions about the low level of his tea caddy, or a neap tide in his brandy bottle, or any false evidence of the eyes (which ever go spying to lock up the heart), or the ears, which are also wicked organs--these memories truly are grievous to him, and make him yearn now to be robbed again; but what he feels most sadly is the desolation of having nobody who understands his locks. One of the best men I ever knew was so plagued with his sideboard every day for two years, after dinner, that he married a little new maid-of-all-work--because she was a blacksmith's daughter.
Nothing of that sort, however, occurred in my case, I am proud to say. But finding myself in a helpless state, without anyone to be afraid of, I had only two courses before me: either to go back to my former landlady (who was almost too much of a Tartar, perhaps), or else to run away from my rooms till Providence provided a new landlady.
Now, in this dilemma I met George Bowring, who saw my distress, and most kindly pressed me to stay at his house till some female arose to manage my affairs for me. This, of course, I declined to do, especially under present circumstances; and, with mutual pity, we parted. But the very next day he sought me out, in a quiet nook where a few good artists were accustomed to meet and think; and there he told me that really now he saw his way to cut short my troubles as well as his own, and to earn a piece of enjoyment and profit for both of us. And I happen to remember his very words.
“You are cramped in your hand, my dear fellow,” said he (for in those days youths did not call each other “old man”--with sad sense of their own decrepitude). “Bob, you are losing your freedom of touch. You must come out of these stony holes, and look at a rocky mountain.”
My heart gave a jump at these words; and yet I had been too much laid flat by facts--“sat upon,” is the slang of these last twenty years, and in the present dearth of invention must serve, no doubt, for another twenty--I say that I had been used as a cushion by so many landladies and maids-of-all-work (who take not an hour to find out where they need do no work), that I could not fetch my breath to think of ever going up a mountain.
“I will leave you to think of it, Bob,” said George, putting his hat on carefully; “I am bound for time, and you seem to be nervous. Consult your pillow, my dear fellow; and peep into your old stocking: and see whether you can afford it.”
That last hit settled me. People said, in spite of all my generous acts--and nobody knows, except myself, the frequency and the extent of these--without understanding the merits of the case--perfect (or rather imperfect) strangers said that I was stingy! To prove the contrary, I resolved to launch into great expenditure, and to pay coach fare all the way from London toward the nearest mountain.
Half the inhabitants now were rushing helter-skelter out of London, and very often to seaside towns where the smell of fish destroyed them. And those who could not get away were shuddering at the blinds drawn down, and huddling away from the mutes at the doors, and turning pale at the funeral bells. And some, who had never thought twice before of their latter end, now began to dwell with so much unction upon it, that Providence graciously spared them the waste of perpetual preparation.
Among the rest, George Bowring had been scared, far more than he liked to own, by the sudden death of his butcher, between half a dozen chops for cutlets and the trimming of a wing-bone. George's own cook had gone down with the order, and meant to bring it all back herself, because she knew what butchers do when left to consider their subject. And Mrs. Tompkins was so alarmed that she gave only six hours' notice to leave, though her husband was far on the salt-sea wave, according to her own account, and she had none to make her welcome except her father's second wife. This broke up the household; and hence it was that George tempted me so with the mountains.
For he took his wife and children to an old manor-house in Berkshire, belonging to two maiden aunts of the lady, who promised to see to all that might happen, but wanted no gentleman in the house at a period of such delicacy. George Bowring, therefore, agreed to meet me on the 12th day of September, at the inn in Reading--I forget its name--where the Regulator coach (belonging to the old company, and leaving White Horse Cellars at half-past nine in the morning) allowed an hour to dine, from one o'clock onward, as the roads might be. And here I found him, and we supped at Oxford, and did very well at the Mitre. On the following morning we took coach for Shrewsbury, as we had agreed, and, reaching the town before dark, put up at the Talbot Inn, and sauntered into the dear old school, to see what the lads had been at since our time; for their names and their exploits, at Oxford and Cambridge, are scored in large letters upon the panels, from the year 1806 and onward, so that soon there will be no place to register any more of them; and we found that though we ourselves had done nothing, many fine fellows had been instituted in letters of higher humanity, and were holding up the old standard, so that we longed to invite them to dinner. But discipline must be maintained; and that word means, more than anything else, the difference of men's ages.
Now, at Shrewsbury, we had resolved to cast off all further heed of coaches; and knowing the country pretty well, or recalling it from our childhood, to strike away on foot for some of the mountain wildernesses.
Of these, in those days, nobody knew much more than that they were high and steep, and slippery and dangerous, and much to be shunned by all sensible people who liked a nice fire and the right side of the window. So that when we shouldered staves with knapsacks flapping heavily, all the wiser sort looked on us as marching off to Bedlam.
In the morning, as we were starting, we set our watches by the old school dial, as I have cause to remember well. And we staked half a crown, in a sporting manner, each on his own watch to be the truer by sun upon our way back again. And thus; we left those ancient walls and the glancing of the river, and stoutly took the Welshpool road, dreading nought except starvation.
Although in those days I was not by any means a cripple, George was far stronger of arm and leg, having always been famous, though we made no fuss about such things then, for running and jumping, and lifting weights, and using the boxing-gloves and the foils. A fine, brave fellow as ever lived, with a short, straight nose and a resolute chin, he touched the measuring-bar quite fairly at seventy-four inches, and turned the scales at fourteen stone and a quarter. And so, as my chattels weighed more than his (by means of a rough old easel and material for rude sketches), he did me a good turn now and then by changing packs for a mile or two. And thus we came in four days' march to Aber-Aydyr, a village lying under Cader Idris.
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If any place ever lay out of the world, and was proud of itself for doing so, this little village of Aber-Aydyr must have been very near it. The village was built, as the people expressed it, of thirty cottages, one public-house, one shop universal, and two chapels. The torrent of the Aydyr entered with a roar of rapids, and at the lower end departed in a thunder of cascades. The natives were all so accustomed to live in the thick of this watery uproar that, whenever they left their beloved village to see the inferior outer world, they found themselves as deaf as posts till they came to a weir or a waterfall. And they told us that in the scorching summer of the year 1826 the river had failed them so that for nearly a month they could only discourse by signs; and they used to stand on the bridge and point at the shrunken rapids, and stop their ears to exclude that horrible emptiness. Till a violent thunderstorm broke up the drought, and the river came down roaring; and the next day all Aber-Aydyr was able to gossip again as usual.
Finding these people, who lived altogether upon slate, of a quaint and original turn, George Bowring and I resolved to halt and rest the soles of our feet a little, and sketch and fish the neighbourhood. For George had brought his rod and tackle, and many a time had he wanted to stop and set up his rod and begin to cast; but I said that I would not be cheated so: he had promised me a mountain, and would he put me off with a river? Here, however, we had both delights; the river for him and the mountain for me. As for the fishing, all that he might have, and I would grudge him none of it, if he fairly divided whatever he caught. But he must not expect me to follow him always and watch all his dainty manoeuvring; each was to carry and eat his own dinner, whenever we made a day of it, so that he might keep to his flies and his water, while I worked away with my brush at the mountains. And thus we spent a most pleasant week, though we knew very little of Welsh and the slaters spoke but little English. But--much as they are maligned because they will not have strangers to work with them--we found them a thoroughly civil, obliging, and rather intelligent set of men; most of them also of a respectable and religious turn of mind; and they scarcely ever poach, except on Saturdays and Mondays.
On September 25, as we sat at breakfast in the little sanded parlour of the Cross-Pipes public house, our bedroom being overhead, my dear friend complained to me that he was tired of fishing so long up and down one valley, and asked me to come with him further up, into wilder and rockier districts, where the water ran deeper (as he had been told) and the trout were less worried by quarrymen, because it was such a savage place, deserted by all except evil spirits, that even the Aber-Aydyr slaters could not enjoy the fishing there. I promised him gladly to come, only keeping the old understanding between us, that each should attend to his own pursuits and his own opportunities mainly; so that George might stir most when the trout rose well, and I when the shadows fell properly. And thus we set forth about nine o'clock of a bright and cheerful morning, while the sun, like a courtly perruquier of the reign of George II., was lifting, and shifting, and setting in order the vapoury curls of the mountains.
We trudged along thus at a merry swing, for the freshness of autumnal dew was sparkling in the valley, until we came to a rocky pass, where walking turned to clambering. After an hour of sharpish work among slaty shelves and threatening crags, we got into one of those troughlike hollows hung on each side with precipices, which look as if the earth had sunk for the sake of letting the water through. On our left hand, cliff towered over cliff to the grand height of Pen y Cader, the steepest and most formidable aspect of the mountain. Rock piled on rock, and shingle cast in naked waste disdainfully, and slippery channels scooped by torrents of tempestuous waters, forbade one to desire at all to have anything more to do with them--except, of course, to get them painted at a proper distance, so that they might hang at last in the dining rooms of London, to give people appetite with sense of hungry breezes, and to make them comfortable with the sight of danger.
“This is very grand indeed,” said George, as he turned to watch me; for the worst part of our business is to have to give an opinion always upon points of scenery. But I am glad that I was not cross, or even crisp with him that day.
“It is magnificent,” I answered; “and I see a piece of soft sward there, where you can set up your rod, old fellow, while I get my sticks in trim. Let us fill our pipes and watch the shadows; they do not fall quite to suit me yet.”
“How these things make one think,” cried Bowring, as we sat on a stone and smoked, “of the miserable littleness of men like you and me, Bob!”
“Speak for yourself, sir,” I said, laughing at his unaccustomed, but by no means novel, reflection. “I am quite contented with my size, although I am smaller than you, George. Dissatisfied mortal! Nature wants no increase of us, or she would have had it.”
“In another world we shall be much larger,” he said, with his eyes on the tops of the hills. “Last night I dreamed that my wife and children were running to meet me in heaven, Bob.”
“Tush! You go and catch fish,” I replied; for tears were in his large, soft eyes, and I hated the sentimental. “Would they ever let such a little Turk as Bob Bistre into heaven, do you think? My godson would shout all the angels deaf and outdrum all the cherubim.”
“Poor little chap! He is very noisy; but he is not half a bad sort,” said George. “If he only comes like his godfather I shall wish no better luck for him.”
These were kind words, and I shook his hand to let him know that I felt them; and then, as if he were ashamed of having talked rather weakly, he took with his strong legs a dangerous leap of some ten or twelve feet downward, and landed on a narrow ledge that overhung the river. Here he put his rod together, and I heard the click of reel as he drew the loop at the end of the line through the rings, and so on; and I heard him cry “Chut!” as he took his flies from his Scotch cap and found a tangle; and I saw the glistening of his rod, as the sunshine pierced the valley, and then his tall, straight figure pass the corner of a crag that stood as upright as a tombstone; and after that no more of any live and bright George Bowring.
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Swift is the flight of Time whenever a man would fain lay hold of him. All created beings, from Behemoth to a butterfly, dread and fly (as best they may) that universal butcher--man. And as nothing is more carefully killed by the upper sort of mankind than Time, how can he help making off for his life when anybody wants to catch him?
Of course, I am not of that upper sort, and make no pretence to be so; but Time, perhaps, may be excused for thinking--having had such a very short turn at my clothes--that I belonged to the aristocracy. At any rate, while I drew, and rubbed, and dubbed, and made hieroglyphics, Time was uneasily shifting and shuffling the lines of the hills, as a fever patient jerks and works the bed-clothes. And, worse than that, he was scurrying westward (frightened, no doubt, by the equinox) at such a pace that I was scared by the huddling together of shadows. Awaking from a long, long dream--through which I had been working hard, and laying the foundations of a thousand pounds hereafter--I felt the invisible damp of evening settling in the valleys. The sun, from over the sea, had still his hand on Cader Idris; but every inferior head and height was gray in the sweep of his mantle.
I threw my hair back--for an artist really should be picturesque; and, having no other beauty, must be firm to long hair, while it lasts--and then I shouted, “George!” until the strata of the mountain (which dip and jag, like veins of oak) began and sluggishly prolonged a slow zig-zag of echoes. No counter-echo came to me; no ring of any sonorous voice made crag, and precipice, and mountain vocal with the sound of “Bob!”
“He must have gone back. What a fool I must be never to remember seeing him! He saw that I was full of rubbish, and he would not disturb me. He is gone back to the Cross-Pipes, no doubt. And yet it does not seem like him.”
“To look for a pin in a bundle of hay” would be a job of sense and wisdom rather than to seek a thing so very small as a very big man among the depth, and height, and breadth of river, shingle, stone, and rock, crag, precipice, and mountain. And so I doubled up my things, while the very noise they made in doubling flurried and alarmed me; and I thought it was not like George to leave me to find my way back all alone, among the deep bogs, and the whirlpools, and the trackless tracts of crag.
When I had got my fardel ready, and was about to shoulder it, the sound of brisk, short steps, set sharply upon doubtful footing, struck my ear, through the roar of the banks and stones that shook with waterfall. And before I had time to ask, “Who goes there?” --as in this solitude one might do--a slight, short man, whom I knew by sight as a workman of Aber-Aydyr, named Evan Peters, was close to me, and was swinging a slate-hammer in one hand, and bore in the other a five-foot staff. He seemed to be amazed at sight of me, but touched his hat with his staff, and said: “Good-night, gentleman!” in Welsh; for the natives of this part are very polite. “Good-night, Evan!” I answered, in his own language, of which I had picked up a little; and he looked well pleased, and said in his English: “For why, sir, did you leave your things in that place there? A bad mans come and steal them, it is very likely.”
Then he wished me “Good-night” again, and was gone--for he seemed to be in a dreadful hurry--before I had the sense to ask him what he meant about “my things.” But as his footfall died away a sudden fear came over me.
“The things he meant must be George Bowring's,” I said to myself; and I dropped my own, and set off, with my blood all tingling, for the place toward which he had jerked his staff. How long it took me to force my way among rugged rocks and stubs of oak I cannot tell, for every moment was an hour to me. But a streak of sunset glanced along the lonesome gorge, and cast my shadow further than my voice would go; and by it I saw something long and slender against a scar of rock, and standing far in front of me. Toward this I ran as fast as ever my trembling legs would carry me, for I knew too well that it must be the fishing-rod of George Bowring.
It was stuck in the ground--not carelessly, nor even in any hurry; but as a sportsman makes all snug, when for a time he leaves off casting. For instance, the end fly was fixed in the lowest ring of the butt, and the slack of the line reeled up so that the collar lay close to the rod itself. Moreover, in such a rocky place, a bed to receive the spike could not have been found without some searching. For a moment I was reassured. Most likely George himself was near--perhaps in quest of blueberries (which abound at the foot of the shingles--and are a very delicious fruit), or of some rare fern to send his wife, who was one of the first in England to take much notice of them. And it shows what confidence I had in my friend's activity and strength, that I never feared the likely chance of his falling from some precipice.
But just as I began, with some impatience--for we were to have dined at the Cross-Pipes about sundown, five good (or very bad) miles away, and a brace of ducks was the order--just as I began to shout, “George! Wherever have you got to?” leaping on a little rock, I saw a thing that stopped me. At the further side of this rock, and below my feet, was a fishing basket, and a half-pint mug nearly full of beer, and a crust of the brown, sweet bread of the hills, and a young white onion, half cut through, and a clasp-knife open, and a screw of salt, and a slice of the cheese, just dashed with goat's milk, which George was so fond of, but I disliked; and there may have been a hard-boiled egg. At the sight of these things all my blood rushed to my head in such a manner that all my power to think was gone. I sat down on the rock where George must have sat while beginning his frugal luncheon, and I put my heels into the marks of his, and, without knowing why, I began to sob like a child who has lost his mother. What train of reasoning went through my brain--if any passed in the obscurity--let metaphysicians or psychologists, as they call themselves, pretend to know. I only know that I kept on whispering, “George is dead! Unless he had been killed, he never would have left his beer so!”
I must have sat, making a fool of myself, a considerable time in this way, thinking of George's poor wife and children, and wondering what would become of them, instead of setting to work at once to know what was become of him. I took up a piece of cheese-rind, showing a perfect impression of his fine front teeth, and I put it in my pocketbook, as the last thing he had touched. And then I examined the place all around and knelt to look for footmarks, though the light was sadly waning.
For the moment I discovered nothing of footsteps or other traces to frighten or to comfort me. A little narrow channel (all of rock and stone and slaty stuff) sloped to the river's brink, which was not more than five yards distant. In this channel I saw no mark except that some of the smaller stones appeared to have been turned over; and then I looked into the river itself, and saw a force of water sliding smoothly into a rocky pool.
“If he had fallen in there,” I said, “he would have leaped out again in two seconds; or even if the force of the water had carried him down into that deep pool, he can swim like a duck--of course he can. What river could ever drown you, George?”
And then I remembered how at Salop he used to swim the flooded Severn when most of us feared to approach the banks; and I knew that he could not be drowned, unless something first had stunned him. And after that I looked around, and my heart was full of terror.
“It is a murder!” I cried aloud, though my voice among the rocks might well have brought like fate upon me. “As sure as I stand here, and God is looking down upon me, this is a black murder!” In what way I got back that night to Aber-Aydyr I know not. All I remember is that the people would not come out of their houses to me, according to some superstition, which was not explained till morning; and, being unable to go to bed, I took a blanket and lay down beneath a dry arch of the bridge, and the Aydyr, as swiftly as a spectre gliding, hushed me with a melancholy song.
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Now, as sure as ever I lay beneath the third arch of Aber-Aydyr Bridge, in a blanket of Welsh serge or flannel, with a double border, so surely did I see, and not dream, what I am going to tell you.
The river ran from east to west; and the moon, being now the harvest moon, was not very high, but large and full, and just gliding over the crest of the hill that overhangs the quarry-pit; so that, if I can put it plainly, the moon was across the river from me, and striking the turbulent water athwart, so that her face, or a glimmer thereof, must have been lying upon the river if any smooth place had been left for it. But of this there was no chance, because the whole of the river was in a rush, according to its habit, and covered with bubbles, and froth, and furrows, even where it did not splash, and spout, and leap, as it loved to do. In the depth of the night, when even the roar of the water seemed drowsy and indolent, and the calm trees stooped with their heavy limbs over-changing the darkness languidly, and only a few rays of the moon, like the fluttering of a silver bird, moved in and out the mesh-work, I leaned upon, my elbow, and I saw the dead George Bowring.
He came from the pit of the river toward me, quietly and without stride or step, gliding over the water like a mist or the vapour of a calm white frost; and he stopped at the ripple where the shore began, and he looked at me very peacefully. And I felt neither fear nor doubt of him, any more than I do of this pen in my hand.
“George,” I said, “I have been uneasy all the day about you and I cannot sleep, and I have had no comfort. What has made you treat me so?”
He seemed to be anxious to explain, having always been so straightforward; but an unknown hand or the power of death held him, so that he could only smile. And then it appeared to me as if he pointed to the water first and then to the sky, with such an import that I understood (as plainly as if he had pronounced it) that his body lay under the one and his soul was soaring on high through the other; and, being forbidden to speak, he spread his hands, as if entrusting me with all that had belonged to him; and then he smiled once more, and faded into the whiteness of the froth and foam.
And then I knew that I had been holding converse, face to face, with Death; and icy fear shook me, and I strove in vain to hide my eyes from everything. And when I awoke in the morning there was a gray trunk of an alder tree, just George Bowring's height and size, on the other side of the water, so that I could have no doubt that himself had been there.
After a search of about three hours we found the body of my dear friend in a deep black pool of the Aydyr--not the first hole below the place in which he sat down to his luncheon, but nearly a hundred yards farther down, where a bold cliff jutted out and bent the water scornfully. Our quarrymen would not search this pool until the sunlight fell on it, because it was a place of dread with a legend hovering over it. “The Giant's Tombstone” was the name of the crag that overhung it; and the story was that the giant Idris, when he grew worn out with age, chose this rock out of many others near the top of the mountain, and laid it under his arm and came down here to drink of the Aydyr. He drank the Aydyr dry because he was feverish and flushed with age; and he set down the crag in a hole he had scooped with the palms of his hands for more water; and then he lay down on his back, and Death (who never could reach to his knee when he stood) took advantage of his posture to drive home the javelin. And thus he lay dead, with the crag for his headstone, and the weight of his corpse sank a grave for itself in the channel of the river, and the toes of his boots are still to be seen after less than a mile of the valley.
Under this headstone of Idris lay the body of George Bowring, fair and comely, with the clothes all perfect, and even the light cap still on the head. And as we laid it upon the grass, reverently and carefully, the face, although it could smile no more, still appeared to wear a smile, as if the new world were its home, and death a mere trouble left far behind. Even the eyes were open, and their expression was not of fright or pain, but pleasant and bright, with a look of interest such as a man pays to his food.
“Stand back, all of you!” I said sternly; “none shall examine him but myself. Now all of you note what I find here.”
I searched all his pockets, one after another; and tears came to my eyes again as I counted not less than eleven of them, for I thought of the fuss we used to make with the Shrewsbury tailor about them. There was something in every pocket, but nothing of any importance at present, except his purse and a letter from his wife, for which he had walked to Dolgelly and back on the last entire day of his life.
“It is a hopeless mystery!” I exclaimed aloud, as the Welshmen gazed with superstitious awe and doubt. “He is dead as if struck by lightning, but there was no storm in the valley!”
“No, no, sure enough; no storm was there. But it is plain to see what has killed him!” This was Evan Peters, the quarryman, and I glanced at him very suspiciously. “Iss, sure, plain enough,” said another; and then they all broke into Welsh, with much gesticulation; and “e-ah, e-ah,” and “otty, otty,” and “hanool, hanool,” were the sounds they made--at least to an ignorant English ear.
“What do you mean, you fools?” I asked, being vexed at their offhand way of settling things so far beyond them. “Can you pretend to say what it was?”
“Indeed, then, and indeed, my gentleman, it is no use to talk no more. It was the Caroline Morgan.”
“Which is the nearest house?” I asked, for I saw that some of them were already girding up their loins to fly, at the mere sound of that fearful name; for the cholera morbus had scared the whole country; and if one were to fly, all the rest would follow, as swiftly as mountain sheep go. “Be quick to the nearest house, my friends, and we will send for the doctor.”
This was a lucky hit; for these Cambrians never believed in anyone's death until he had “taken the doctor.” And so, with much courage and kindness, “to give the poor gentleman the last chance,” they made a rude litter, and, bearing the body upon sturdy shoulders, betook themselves to a track which I had overlooked entirely. Some people have all their wits about them as soon as they are called for, but with me it is mainly otherwise. And this I had shown in two things already; the first of which came to my mind the moment I pulled out my watch to see what the time was. “Good Heavens!” it struck me, “where is George's watch? It was not in any of his pockets; and I did not feel it in his fob.”
In an instant I made them set down the bier; and, much as it grieved me to do such a thing, I carefully sought for my dear friend's watch. No watch, no seals, no ribbon, was there! “Go on,” I said; and I fell behind them, having much to think about. In this condition, I took little heed of the distance, or of the ground itself; being even astonished when, at last, we stopped; as if we were bound to go on forever.
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We had stopped at the gate of an old farmhouse, built with massive boulder stones, laid dry, and flushed in with mortar. As dreary a place as was ever seen; at the head of a narrow mountain-gorge, with mountains towering over it. There was no sign of life about it, except that a gaunt hog trotted forth, and grunted at us, and showed his tusks, and would perhaps have charged us, if we had not been so many. The house looked just like a low church-tower, and might have been taken for one at a distance if there had been any battlements. It seemed to be four or five hundred years old, and perhaps belonged to some petty chief in the days of Owen Glendower.
“Knock again, Thomas Edwards. Stop, let me knock,” said one of our party impatiently. “There, waddow, waddow, waddow!”
Suiting the action to the word, he thumped with a big stone heavily, till a middle-aged woman, with rough black hair, looked out of a window and screamed in Welsh to ask what this terrible noise was. To this they made answer in the same language, pointing to their sad burden, and asking permission to leave it for the doctor's inspection and the inquest, if there was to be one. And I told them to add that I would pay well--anything, whatever she might like to ask. But she screamed out something that sounded like a curse, and closed the lattice violently. Knowing that many superstitions lingered in these mountains--as, indeed, they do elsewhere plentifully--I was not surprised at the woman's stern refusal to admit us, especially at this time of pest; but I thought it strange that her fierce black eyes avoided both me and the poor rude litter on which the body of George lay, covered with some slate-workers' aprons.
“She is not the mistress!” cried Evan Peters, in great excitement, as I thought. “Ask where is Hopkin--Black Hopkin--where is he?”
At this suggestion a general outcry arose in Welsh for “Black Hopkin”; an outcry so loud and prolonged that the woman opened the window again and screamed--as they told me afterward--“He is not at home, you noisy fools; he is gone to Machynlleth. Not long would you dare to make this noise if Hopkin ap Howel was at home.”
But while she was speaking the wicket-door of the great arched gate was thrown open, and a gun about six feet long and of very large bore was presented at us. The quarrymen drew aside briskly, and I was about to move somewhat hastily, when the great, swarthy man who was holding the gun withdrew it, and lifted his hat to me, proudly and as an equal.
“You cannot enter this house,” he said in very good English, and by no means rudely. “I am sorry for it, but it cannot be. My little daughter is very ill, the last of seven. You must go elsewhere.”
With these words he bowed again to me, while his sad eyes seemed to pierce my soul; and then he quietly closed the wicket and fastened it with a heavy bolt, and I knew that we must indeed go further.
This was no easy thing to do; for our useless walk to “Crug y Dlwlith” (the Dewless Hills), as this farm was called, had taken us further at every step from the place we must strive for after all--the good little Aber-Aydyr. The gallant quarrymen were now growing both weary and uneasy; and in justice to them I must say that no temptation of money, nor even any appeal to their sympathies, but only a challenge of their patriotism held them to the sad duties owing from the living to the dead. But knowing how proud all Welshmen are of the fame of their race and country, happily I exclaimed at last, when fear was getting the mastery, “What will be said of this in England, this low cowardice of the Cymro?” Upon that they looked at one another and did their best right gallantly.
Now, I need not go into any further sad details of this most sad time, except to say that Dr. Jones, who came the next day from Dolgelly, made a brief examination by order of the coroner. Of course, he had too much sense to suppose that the case was one of cholera; but to my surprise he pronounced that death was the result of “asphyxia, caused by too long immersion in the water.” And knowing nothing of George Bowring's activity, vigour, and cultivated power in the water, perhaps he was not to be blamed for dreaming that a little mountain stream could drown him. I, on the other hand, felt as sure that my dear friend was foully murdered as I did that I should meet him in heaven--if I lived well for the rest of my life, which I resolved at once to do--and there have the whole thing explained, and perhaps be permitted to glance at the man who did it, as Lazarus did at Dives.
In spite of the doctor's evidence and the coroner's own persuasion, the jury found that “George Bowring died of the Caroline Morgan”--which the clerk corrected to cholera morbus--“brought on by wetting his feet and eating too many fish of his own catching.” And so you may see it entered now in the records of the court of the coroners of the king for Merioneth.
And now I was occupied with a trouble, which, after all, was more urgent than the enquiry how it came to pass. When a man is dead, it must be taken as a done thing, not to be undone; and, happily, all near relatives are inclined to see it in that light. They are grieved, of course, and they put on hatbands and give no dinner parties; and they even think of their latter ends more than they might have desired to do. But after a little while all comes round. Such things must be happening always, and it seems so unchristian to repine; and if any money has been left them, truly they must attend to it. On the other hand, if there has been no money, they scarcely see why they should mourn for nothing; and, as a duty, they begin to allow themselves to be roused up.
But when a wife becomes a widow, it is wholly different. No money can ever make up to her the utter loss of the love-time and the loneliness of the remaining years; the little turns, and thoughts, and touches--wherever she goes and whatever she does--which at every corner meet her with a deep, perpetual want. She tries to fetch her spirit up and to think of her duties to all around--to her children, or to the guests whom trouble forces upon her for business' sake, or even the friends who call to comfort (though the call can fetch her none); but all the while how deeply aches her sense that all these duties are as different as a thing can be from her love-work to her husband!
What could I do? I had heard from George, but could not for my life remember, the name of that old house in Berkshire where poor Mrs. Bowring was on a visit to two of her aunts, as I said before. I ventured to open her letter to her husband, found in his left-hand side breastpocket, and, having dried it, endeavoured only to make out whence she wrote; but there was nothing. Ladies scarcely ever date a letter both with time and place, for they seem to think that everybody must know it, because they do. So the best I could do was to write to poor George's house in London, and beg that the letter might be forwarded at once. It came, however, too late to hand. For, although the newspapers of that time were respectably slow and steady, compared with the rush they all make nowadays, they generally managed to outrun the post, especially in the nutting season. They told me at Dolgelly, and they confirmed it at Machynlleth, that nobody must desire to get his letters at any particular time, in the months of September and October, when the nuts were ripe. For the postmen never would come along until they had filled their bags with nuts, for the pleasure of their families. And I dare say they do the same thing now, but without being free to declare it so.
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{
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The body of my dear friend was borne round the mountain slopes to Dolgelly and buried there, with no relative near, nor any mourner except myself; for his wife, or rather his widow, was taken with sudden illness (as might be expected), and for weeks it was doubtful whether she would stay behind to mourn for him. But youth and strength at last restored her to dreary duties and worldly troubles.
Of the latter, a great part fell on me; and I did my best--though you might not think so, after the fuss I made of my own--to intercept all that I could, and quit myself manfully of the trust which George had returned from the dead to enjoin. And, what with one thing and another, and a sudden dearth of money which fell on me (when my cat-fund was all spent, and my gold watch gone up a gargoyle), I had such a job to feed the living that I never was able to follow up the dead.
The magistrates held some enquiry, of course, and I had to give my evidence; but nothing came of it, except that the quarryman, Evan Peters, clearly proved his innocence. Being a very clever fellow, and dabbling a bit in geology, he had taken his hammer up the mountains, as his practice was when he could spare the time, to seek for new veins of slate, or lead, or even gold, which is said to be there. He was able to show that he had been at Tal y Llyn at the time of day when George would be having his luncheon; and the people who knew Evan Peters were much more inclined to suspect me than him. But why should they suspect anybody, when anyone but a fool could see “how plain it was of the cholera?”
Twenty years slipped by (like a rope paid out on the seashore, “hand over hand,” chafing as it goes, but gone as soon as one looks after it), and my hair was gray, and my fame was growing (slowly, as it appeared to me, but as all my friends said “rapidly”; as if I could never have earned it!) when the mystery of George Bowring's death was solved without an effort.
I had been so taken up with the three dear children, and working for them as hard as if they were my own (for the treasury of our British empire was bankrupt to these little ones--“no provision had been made for such a case,” and so we had to make it)--I say that these children had grown to me and I to them in such degree that they all of them called me “Uncle!”
This is the most endearing word that one human being can use to another. A fellow is certain to fight with his brothers and sisters, his father, and perhaps even his mother. Tenfold thus with his wife; but whoever did fight with his uncle? Of course I mean unless he was his heir. And the tenderness of this relation has not escaped _vox populi_, that keen discriminator.
Who is the most reliable, cordial, indispensable of mankind--especially to artists--in every sense of the word the dearest? A pawnbroker; he is our uncle.
Under my care, these three children grew to be splendid “members of society.” They used to come and kick over my easel with legs that were quite Titanic; and I could not scold them when I thought of George. Bob Bistre, the eldest, was my apprentice, and must become famous in consequence; and when he was twenty-five years old, and money became no object to me (through the purchase by a great art critic of the very worst picture I ever painted; half of it, in fact, was Bob's!) , I gave the boy choice of our autumn trip to California, or the antipodes.
“I would rather go to North Wales, dear uncle,” he answered, and then dropped his eyes, as his father used when he had provoked me. That settled the matter. He must have his way; though as for myself, I must confess that I have begun, for a long time now, upon principle, to shun melancholy.
The whole of the district is opened up so by those desperate railways that we positively dined at the Cross-Pipes Hotel the very day after we left Euston Square. Our landlady did not remember me, which was anything but flattering. But she jumped at Bob as if she would have kissed him; for he was the image of his father, whose handsome face had charmed her.
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The Aydyr was making as much noise as ever, for the summer had been a wet one; and of course all the people of Aber-Aydyr had their ears wide open. I showed Bob the bridge and the place of my vision, but did not explain its meaning, lest my love for him should seem fiduciary; and the next morning, at his most urgent request, we started afoot for that dark, sad valley. It was a long walk, and I did not find that twenty years had shortened it.
“Here we are at last,” I said, “and the place looks the same as ever. There is the grand old Pen y cada, with the white cloud rolling as usual; to the left and right are the two other summits, the arms of the chair of Idris; and over the shoulder of that crag you can catch a glassy light in the air--that is the reflection of Tal y Llyn.”
“Yes, yes!” he answered impatiently. “I know all that from your picture, uncle. But show me the place where my father died.”
“It lies immediately under our feet. You see that gray stone down in the hollow, a few yards from the river brink. There he sat, as I have often told you, twenty years ago this day. There he was taking his food, when someone---- Well, well! God knows, but we never shall. My boy, I am stiff in the knees; go on.”
He went on alone, as I wished him to do, with exactly his father's step, and glance, figure, face, and stature. Even his dress was of the silver-gray which his father had been so fond of, and which the kind young fellow chose to please his widowed mother. I could almost believe (as a cloudy mantle stole in long folds over the highland, reproducing the lights, and shades, and gloom of that mysterious day) that the twenty years were all a dream, and that here was poor George Bowring going to his murder and his watery grave.
My nerves are good and strong, I trow; and that much must have long been evident. But I did not know what young Bob's might be, and therefore I left him to himself. No man should be watched as he stands at the grave of his wife or mother: neither should a young fellow who sits on the spot where his father was murdered. Therefore, as soon as our Bob had descended into the gray stone-pit, in which his dear father must have breathed his last, I took good care to be out of sight, after observing that he sat down exactly as his father must have sat, except that his attitude, of course, was sad, and his face pale and reproachful. Then, leaving the poor young fellow to his thoughts, I also sat down to collect myself.
But before I had time to do more than wonder at the mysterious ways of the world, or of Providence in guiding it; at the manner in which great wrong lies hidden, and great woe falls unrecompensed; at the dark, uncertain laws which cover (like an indiscriminate mountain cloud) the good and the bad, the kind and the cruel, the murdered and the murderer--a loud shriek rang through the rocky ravine, and up the dark folds of the mountain.
I started with terror, and rushed forward, and heard myself called, and saw young Bowring leap up, and stand erect and firm, although with a gesture of horror. At his feet lay the body of a man struck dead, flung on its back, with great hands spread on the eyes, and white hair over them.
No need to ask what it meant. At last the justice of God was manifest. The murderer lay, a rigid corpse, before the son of the murdered.
“Did you strike him?” I asked.
“Is it likely,” said the youth, “that I would strike an aged man like that? I assure you I never had such a fright in my life. This poor old fellow came on me quite suddenly, from behind a rock, when all my mind was full of my father; and his eyes met mine, and down he fell, as if I had shot him through the heart!”
“You have done no less,” I answered; and then I stooped over the corpse (as I had stooped over the corpse of its victim), and the whole of my strength was required to draw the great knotted hands from the eyes, upon which they were cramped with a spasm not yet relaxed.
“It is Hopkin ap Howel!” I cried, as the great eyes, glaring with the horror of death, stood forth. “Black Hopkin once, white Hopkin now! Robert Bowring, you have slain the man who slew your father.”
“You know that I never meant to do it,” said Bob. “Surely, uncle, it was his own fault!”
“How did he come? I see no way. He was not here when I showed you the place, or else we must have seen him.”
“He came round the corner of that rock, that stands in front of the furze-bush.”
Now that we had the clue, a little examination showed the track. Behind the furze-bush, a natural tunnel of rock, not more than a few yards long, led into a narrow gorge covered with brushwood, and winding into the valley below the farmhouse of the Dewless Crags. Thither we hurried to obtain assistance, and there the whole mystery was explained.
Black Hopkin (who stole behind George Bowring and stunned, or, perhaps, slew him with one vile blow) has this and this only to say at the Bar--that he did it through love of his daughter.
Gwenthlian, the last of seven, lay dying on the day when my friend and myself came up the valley of the Aydyr. Her father, a man of enormous power of will and passion, as well as muscle, rushed forth of the house like a madman, when the doctor from Dolgelly told him that nothing more remained except to await the good time of heaven. It was the same deadly decline which had slain every one of his children at that same age, and now must extinguish a long descended and slowly impoverished family.
“If I had but a gold watch I could save her!” he cried in his agony, as he left the house. “Ever since the old gold watch was sold, they have died--they have died! They are gone, one after one, the last of all my children!”
In these lonely valleys lurks a strange old superstition that even Death must listen to the voice of Time in gold; that, when the scanty numbered moments of the sick are fleeting, a gold watch laid in the wasted palm, and pointing the earthly hours, compels the scythe of Death to pause, the timeless power to bow before the two great gods of the human race--time and gold.
Poor George in the valley must have shown his watch. The despairing father must have been struck with crafty madness at the sight. The watch was placed in his daughter's palm; but Death had no regard for it. Thenceforth Black Hopkin was a blasted man, racked with remorse and heart-disease, sometimes raving, always roving, but finding no place of repentance. And it must have been a happy stroke--if he had made his peace above, which none of us can deal with--when the throb of his long-worn heart stood still at the vision of his victim, and his soul took flight to realms that have no gold and no chronometer.
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It was in the year 1794, that an English family went out to settle in Canada. This province had been surrendered to us by the French, who first colonized it, more than thirty years previous to the year I have mentioned. It must, however, be recollected, that to emigrate and settle in Canada was, at that time, a very different affair to what it is now. The difficulty of transport, and the dangers incurred, were much greater, for there were no steamboats to stem the currents and the rapids of the rivers; the Indians were still residing in Upper and many portions of Lower Canada, and the country was infested with wild animals of every description--some useful, but many dangerous: moreover, the Europeans were fewer in number, and the major portion of them were French, who were not pleased at the country having been conquered by the English. It is true that a great many English settlers had arrived, and had settled upon different farms; but as the French settlers had already possession of all the best land in Lower Canada, these new settlers were obliged to go into or toward Upper Canada, where, although the land was better, the distance from Quebec and Montreal, and other populous parts, was much greater, and they were left almost wholly to their own resources, and almost without protection. I mention all this, because things are so very different at present: and now I shall state the cause which induced this family to leave their home, and run the risk and dangers which they did.
Mr. Campbell was of a good parentage, but, being the son of one of the younger branches of the family, his father was not rich, and Mr. Campbell was, of course, brought up to a profession. Mr. Campbell chose that of a surgeon; and after having walked the hospitals (as it is termed), he set up in business and in a few years was considered as a very able man in his profession. His practice increased very fast; and before he was thirty years of age he married.
Mr. Campbell had an only sister, who resided with him, for their father and mother were both dead. But about five years after his own marriage, a young gentleman paid his addresses to her; and although not rich, as his character was unexceptionable, and his prospects good, he was accepted. Miss Campbell changed her name to Percival, and left her brother's house to follow her husband.
Time passed quickly; and, at the end of ten years, Mr. Campbell found himself with a flourishing business, and at the same time with a family to support, his wife having presented him with four boys, of whom the youngest was but a few months old.
But, although prosperous in his own affairs, one heavy misfortune fell upon Mr. Campbell, which was the loss of his sister, Mrs. Percival, to whom he was most sincerely attached. Her loss was attended with circumstances which rendered it more painful, as, previous to her decease, the house of business in which Mr. Percival was a partner failed; and the incessant toil and anxiety which Mr. Percival underwent brought on a violent fever, which ended in his death. In this state of distress, left a widow with one child of two years old--a little girl--and with the expectation of being shortly again confined, Mrs. Percival was brought to her brother's house, who, with his wife, did all he could to soften down her grief; but she had suffered so much by the loss of her husband, that when the period arrived, her strength was gone, and she died in giving birth to a second daughter. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, of course, took charge of these two little orphan girls, and brought them up with their own children.
Such was the state of affairs about ten or eleven years after Mr. Campbell's marriage, when a circumstance occurred as unexpected as it was welcome.
Mr. Campbell had returned from his round of professional visits; dinner was over, and he was sitting at the table with his wife and elder children (for it was the Christmas holidays, and they were all at home), and the bell had just rung for the nurse to bring down the two little girls and the youngest boy, when the postman rapped at the door, and the parlor-maid brought in a letter with a large black seal. Mr. Campbell opened it, and read as follows:-- Sir--We have great pleasure in making known to you, that upon the demise of Mr. Sholto Campbell, of Wexton Hall, Cumberland, which took place on the 19th ultimo, the entailed estates, in default of more direct issue, have fallen to you, as nearest of kin; the presumptive heir having perished at sea, or in the East Indies, and not having been heard of for twenty-five years. We beg to be the first to congratulate you upon your accession to real property amounting to £14,000 per annum. No will has been found, and it has been ascertained that none was ever made by the late Mr. Sholto Campbell. We have, therefore, put seals upon the personal property, and shall wait your pleasure. We can only add, that if in want of professional advice, and not being already engaged, you may command the services of Your most obedient, HARVEY, PAXTON, THORPE, & Co.
"What can be the matter, my dear?" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell, who had perceived most unusual agitation in her husband's countenance.
Mr. Campbell made no reply, but handed the letter to his wife.
Mrs. Campbell read it, and laid it down on the table.
"Well, my dear!" exclaimed Mr. Campbell, joyfully, and starting up from his chair.
"It is a sudden shock, indeed," observed Mrs. Campbell, thoughtfully and slowly. "I have often felt that we could bear up against any adversity. I trust in God, that we may be as well able to support prosperity, by far the hardest task, my dear Campbell, of the two."
"You are right, Emily," replied Mr. Campbell, sitting down again; "we are, and have long been, happy."
"This sudden wealth can not add to our happiness, my dear husband; I feel it will rather add to our cares; but it may enable us to add to the happiness of others; and with such feelings, let us receive it with thankfulness."
"Very true, Emily; but still we must do our duty in that station of life to which it has pleased God to call us. Hitherto I have by my profession been of some benefit to my fellow-creatures; and if in my change of condition I no more leave my warm bed to relieve their sufferings, at all events, I shall have the means of employing others so to do. We must consider ourselves but as the stewards of Him who has bestowed this great wealth upon us, and employ it as may be acceptable to His service."
"There my husband spoke as I felt he would," said Mrs. Campbell, rising up, and embracing him. "Those who feel as you do can never be too rich."
I must not dwell too long upon this portion of my narrative. I shall therefore observe that Mr. Campbell took possession of Wexton Hall, and lived in a style corresponding to his increased fortune; but, at the same time, he never let pass an opportunity of doing good, and in this task he was ably assisted by his wife. They had not resided there three or four years before they were considered as a blessing to all around them--encouraging industry, assisting the unfortunate, relieving the indigent, building almshouses and schools, and doing all in their power to promote the welfare and add to the happiness of those within many miles of the Hall. At the time that Mr. Campbell took possession, the estate had been neglected, and required large sums to be laid out upon it, which would much increase its value.
Thus all the large income of Mr. Campbell was usefully and advantageously employed. The change in Mr. Campbell's fortune had also much changed the prospects of his children. Henry, the eldest, who had been intended for his father's profession, was first sent to a private tutor, and afterward to college. Alfred, the second boy, had chosen the navy for his profession, and had embarked on board a fine frigate. The other two boys, one named Percival, who was more than two years old at the time that they took possession of the property, and the other, John, who had been born only a few months, remained at home, receiving tuition from a young curate, who lived near the Hall; while a governess had been procured for Mary and Emma Percival, who were growing up very handsome and intelligent girls.
Such was the state of affairs at the time when Mr. Campbell had been about ten years in possession of the Wexton estate, when one day he was called upon by Mr. Harvey, the head of the firm which had announced to him his succession to the property.
Mr. Harvey came to inform him that a claimant had appeared, and given notice of his intent to file a bill in Chancery to recover the estate, being, as he asserted, the son of the person who had been considered as the presumptive heir, and who had perished so many years back. Mr. Harvey observed, that although he thought it his duty to make the circumstance known to Mr. Campbell, he considered it as a matter of no consequence, and in all probability would turn out to be a fraud got up by some petty attorney, with a view to a compromise. He requested Mr. Campbell not to allow the circumstance to give him any annoyance, stating that if more was heard of it, Mr. Campbell should be immediately informed. Satisfied with the opinion of Mr. Harvey, Mr. Campbell dismissed the circumstance from his mind, and did not even mention it to his wife.
But three months had not passed away before Mr. Campbell received a letter from his solicitor, in which he informed him that the claim to the estate was carrying on with great vigor, and he was sorry to add, wore (to use his own term) a very ugly appearance; and that the opposite parties would, at all events, put Mr. Campbell to a very considerable expense. The solicitor requested Mr. Campbell's instructions, again asserting, that although it was artfully got up, he considered that it was a fraudulent attempt. Mr. Campbell returned an answer, in which he authorized his solicitor to take every needful precaution, and to incur all necessary expense. On reflection, Mr. Campbell, although much annoyed, determined not to make Mrs. Campbell acquainted with what was going on; it could only distress her, he thought, and he therefore resolved for the present to leave her in ignorance.
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{
"id": "22496"
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After a delay of some months, Mr. Harvey called upon Mr. Campbell, and stated to him that the claim of the opposite party, so far from being fraudulent as he had supposed, was so clear, that he feared the worst results.
It appeared that the heir to the estates, who had remained between Mr. Campbell's title, had married in India, and had subsequently, as it had been supposed, died; but there was full and satisfactory proof that the marriage was valid, and that the party who claimed was his son. It was true, Mr. Harvey observed, that Mr. Campbell might delay for some time the restoration of the property, but that eventually it must be surrendered.
As soon as Mr. Campbell received this letter, he went to his wife and acquainted her with all that had been going on for some months, and with the reasons which induced him to say nothing to her until the receipt of Mr. Harvey's letter, which he now put into her hands, requesting her opinion on the subject. Mrs. Campbell, after having read the letter, replied-- "It appears, my dear husband, that we have been called to take possession of a property, and to hold for many years that which belongs to another. We are now called upon to give it up to the rightful owner. You ask my opinion; surely there is no occasion to do that. We must of course now, that we know the claim is just, do as we would be done by."
"That is, my dearest, we must surrender it at once, without any more litigation. It certainly has been my feeling ever since I have read Mr. Harvey's letter. Yet it is hard to be beggars."
"It _is_ hard, my dear husband, if we may use that term; but, at the same time, it is the will of Heaven. We received the property supposing it to have been our own; we have, I hope, not misused it during the time it has been intrusted to us; and, since it pleases Heaven that we should be deprived of it, let us, at all events, have the satisfaction of acting conscientiously and justly, and trust to Him for our future support."
"I will write immediately," replied Mr. Campbell, "to acquaint Mr. Harvey, that although I litigated the point as long as the claim was considered doubtful, now that he informs me that the other party is the legal heir, I beg that all proceedings may be stopped, as I am willing to give immediate possession."
"Do so, my dear," replied his wife, embracing him. "We may be poor, but I trust we shall still be happy."
Mr. Campbell sat down and wrote the letter of instructions to his solicitor, sealed it, and sent a groom with it to the post.
As soon as the servant had closed the door of the room, Mr. Campbell covered his face with his hands.
"It is, indeed, a severe trial," said Mrs. Campbell, taking the hand of her husband; "but you have done your duty."
"I care not for myself; I am thinking of my children."
"They must work," replied Mrs. Campbell. "Employment is happiness."
"Yes, the boys may get on; but those poor girls! what a change will it be for them!"
"I trust they have not been so badly brought up, Campbell, but that they will submit with cheerfulness, and be a source of comfort to us both. Besides, we may not be absolutely beggars."
"That depends upon the other party. He may claim all arrears of rent; and if so, we are more than beggars. However, God's will be done. Shall we receive good, and shall we not receive evil?"
"There's hope, my husband," replied Mrs. Campbell, in a cheering tone; "let us hope for the best."
"How little do we know what is for our good, short-sighted mortals as we are!" observed Mr. Campbell. "Had not this estate come to us, I should, by following up my profession as surgeon, in all probability, have realized a good provision for my children: now, this seeming good turn of fortune leaves me poor. I am too old now to resume my profession, and, if I did, have no chance of obtaining the practice which I left. You see that which appeared to us and every one else the most fortunate occurrence in my life, has eventually proved the contrary."
"As far as our limited view of things can enable us to judge, I grant it," replied Mrs. Campbell; "but who knows what might have happened if we had remained in possession? All is hidden from our view. _He_ acts as he thinks best for us; and it is for us to submit without repining. Come, dearest, let us walk out; the air is fresh, and will cool your heated brow."
Two days after this conversation, a letter was received from Mr. Harvey, informing them that he had made known Mr. Campbell's determination to resign the property without further litigation; that the reply of the other party was highly honorable, stating that it was not his intention to make any claim for the back rents, and requesting that Mr. Campbell and family would consider Wexton Hall at their disposal for three months, to enable them to make arrangements, and dispose of their furniture, etc.
The contents of this letter were a great relief to the mind of Mr. Campbell, as he was now able to ascertain what his future means might be, and was grateful for the handsome behavior of the new proprietor in not making any claim for back rents, which would have reduced him at once to penury. He wrote immediately to Mr. Harvey requesting him to send in his account of legal expenses, that it might be liquidated as soon as possible. In three days it arrived, and a letter with it, in which Mr. Harvey acquainted him, that it was in consequence of his having so handsomely surrendered the property as soon as the claim was substantiated, together with the knowledge how much the estate had been improved during the ten years in which it had been in his possession, which induced the new proprietor to behave in so liberal a manner. This was very gratifying to Mr. Campbell, but the legal expenses proved enormous, amounting to many thousand pounds.
Mr. Campbell read the sum total, and threw the heap of papers down on the table in despair.
"We are still ruined, my dear," said he mournfully.
"Let us hope _not_," replied Mrs. Campbell. "At all events, we now know the worst of it, and we must look it boldly in the face."
"I have not so much money as will pay this bill by nearly a thousand pounds, my dearest wife."
"It may be so," replied Mrs. Campbell; "but still there is the furniture, the horses, and carriages; surely, they are worth much more."
"But we have other bills to pay; you forget them."
"No, I do not; I have been collecting them all, and they do not amount to more than 300_l._ as near as I can judge; but we have no time to lose, dearest, and we must show courage."
"What then do you advise, Emily?" said Mr. Campbell.
"We must incur no more expense; our present establishment must be dismissed at once. Send for all the servants to-morrow morning, and explain what has occurred. This evening I will make it known to the two girls and Miss Paterson, who must of course be discharged, as we can no longer afford a governess. We must retain only the cook, housemaid, and footman, and a groom to look after the horses until they are sold. Send a letter to Mr. Bates, the auctioneer, to give notice of an early sale of the furniture. You must write to Henry; of course, he can no longer remain at college. We have plenty of time to consider what shall be our future plans, which must depend much upon what may prove to be our future means."
This judicious advice was approved of by Mr. Campbell. Miss Paterson was greatly distressed when the news was communicated to her by Mrs. Campbell. Mary and Emma Percival felt deeply for their kind benefactors, but thought nothing of themselves. As Mrs. Campbell had truly observed, they had been too well brought up. As soon as they were informed of what had happened, they both ran to Mr. Campbell's room, and hung upon his neck, declaring they would do all they could to make him happy, and work for him, if necessary, from morning till night.
The next day the whole household were summoned into the dining-room, and made acquainted by Mr. Campbell with what had taken place, and the necessity of their immediate removal. Their wages had been calculated, and were paid them before they quitted the room, which they all did with many expressions of regret. Miss Paterson requested leave to remain with them as a friend for a few days longer, and as she was deservedly a favorite, her request was acceded to.
"Thank heaven, that is over!" said Mr. Campbell, after all the household had been dismissed. "It is quite a relief to my mind."
"Here's a letter from Alfred, uncle," said Emma Percival, entering the room. "He has just arrived at Portsmouth, and says the ship is ordered to be paid off immediately, and his captain is appointed to a fifty-gun ship, and intends to take him with him. He says he will be here in a few days, and"---- "And what, dearest?" said Mrs. Campbell.
"He says his time will be short, but he hopes you won't object to his bringing two of his messmates down with him."
"Poor fellow! I am sorry that he will be disappointed," replied Mr. Campbell. "You must write to him, Emma, and tell him what has happened."
"I must write to him, uncle?"
"Yes, dear Emma, do you write to him," replied Mrs. Campbell; "your uncle and I have much to attend to."
"I will, since you wish me," said Emma, the tears starting in her eyes, as she quitted the room.
"Mr. Bates, the auctioneer, wishes to see you, sir," said the footman, as he came in.
"Request that he will walk in," replied Mr. Campbell.
Mr. Bates, the auctioneer, came in, and presented a letter to Mr. Campbell, who requested him to take a chair while he read it. It was from Mr. Douglas Campbell, the new proprietor of the estate, requesting Mr. Bates would ascertain if Mr. Campbell was willing that the furniture, etc., should be disposed of by valuation, and if so, requesting Mr. Bates to put a liberal value on it, and draw upon him for the amount.
"This is very considerate of Mr. Douglas Campbell," observed Mrs. Campbell; "of course, my dear, you can have no objection?"
"None whatever; return my best thanks to Mr. Douglas Campbell for his kindness; and, Mr. Bates, if you can possibly value by to-morrow or next day, I should esteem it a favor."
"It shall be done, sir," replied Mr. Bates, who then rose and took his leave.
As soon as the valuation was finished, Mr. Campbell was enabled to make an estimate of what remained to them out of the property, and found that the whole sum amounted to between seventeen and eighteen hundred pounds.
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It may appear strange that, after having been in possession of the estate for ten years, and considering that he had younger children to provide for, Mr. Campbell had not laid up a larger sum; but this can be fully explained. As I before said, the estate was in very bad order when Mr. Campbell came into possession, and he devoted a large portion of the income to improving it; and, secondly, he had expended a considerable sum in building almshouses and schools, works which he would not delay, as he considered them as religious obligations. The consequence was, that it was not until a year before the claim was made to the estate, that he had commenced laying by for his younger children; and as the estate was then worth £2,000 per annum more than it was at the time that he came into possession of it, he had resolved to put by £5,000 per annum, and had done so for twelve months. The enormous legal expenses had, however, swallowed up this sum, and more, as we have already stated; and thus he was left a poorer man by some hundreds than he was when the property fell to him. The day after the valuation, the eldest son, Henry, made his appearance; he seemed much dejected, more so than his parents, and those who knew him, would have supposed. It was, however, ascribed to his feeling for his father and mother, rather than for himself.
Many were the consultations held by Mr. and Mrs. Campbell as to their future plans; but nothing at all feasible, or likely to prove advantageous, suggested itself to them. With only sixteen or seventeen hundred pounds, they scarcely knew where to go, or how to act. Return to his profession Mr. Campbell knew that he could not, with any chance of supporting his family. His eldest son, Henry, might obtain a situation, but he was really fit for nothing but the bar or holy orders; and how were they to support him till he could support himself? Alfred, who was now a master's mate, could, it is true, support himself, but it would be with difficulty, and there was little chance of his promotion. Then there were the two other boys, and the two girls growing up fast; in short, a family of eight people. To put so small a sum in the funds would be useless, as they could not live upon the interest which it would give, and how to employ it they knew not. They canvassed the matter over and over, but without success, and each night they laid their heads upon the pillow more and more disheartened. They were all ready to leave the Hall, but knew not where to direct their steps when they left it; and thus they continued wavering for a week, until they were embraced by their son Alfred, who had made all speed to join them, as soon as the ship had been paid off. After the first joy of meeting between those who had been separated so long was over, Mr. Campbell said, "I'm sorry, Alfred, that I could not give your messmates any fishing."
"And so am I, and so were they, for your sakes, my dear father and mother; but what is, is--and what can't be helped, can't--so we must make the best of it; but where's Henry and my cousins?"
"They are walking in the park, Alfred; you had better join them; they are most anxious to see you."
"I will, mother; let us get over these huggings and kissings, and then we shall be more rational: so good-by for half an hour," said Alfred, kissing his mother again, and then hastening out of the room.
"His spirits are not subdued, at all events," observed Mrs. Campbell. "I thank God for it."
Alfred soon fell in with his brother and his cousins, Mary and Emma, and after the huggings and kissings, as he termed them, were over, he made inquiries into the real state of his father's affairs. After a short conversation, Henry, who was very much depressed in his spirits, said, "Mary and Emma, perhaps you will now go in; I wish to have some conversation with Alfred."
"You are terribly out of heart, Harry," observed Alfred, after his cousins had left them. "Are things so very bad?"
"They are bad enough, Alfred; but what makes me so low-spirited is, that I fear my folly has made them worse."
"How so?" replied Alfred.
"The fact is, that my father has but £1,700 left in the world, a sum small enough; but what annoys me is this. When I was at college, little imagining such a reverse of fortune, I anticipated my allowance, because I knew that I could pay at Christmas, and I ran in debt about £200; My father always cautioned me not to exceed my allowance, and thinks that I have not done so. Now, I can not bear the idea of leaving college in debt, and, at the same time, it will be a heavy blow to my poor father, if he has to part with £200, out of his trifling remainder, to pay my debt. This is what has made me so unhappy. I can not bear to tell him, because I feel convinced that he is so honorable, he will pay it immediately. I am mad with myself, and really do not know what to do. I do nothing but reproach myself all day, and I can not sleep at night. I have been very foolish, but I am sure you will kindly enter into my present feelings. I waited till you came home, because I thought you had better tell my father the fact, for I feel as if I should die with shame and vexation."
"Look you, Harry," replied Alfred, "as for outrunning the constable, as we term it at sea, it's a very common thing, and, all things considered, no great harm done, when you suppose that you have the means, and intend to pay; so don't lay that to heart. That you would give your right hand not to have done so, as things have turned out, I really believe; but, however, there is no occasion to fret any more about it. I have received three years' pay, and the prize-money for the last eighteen months, and there is still some more due, for a French privateer. Altogether it amounts to £250, which I had intended to have made over to my father, now that he is on a lee-shore; but it will come to the same thing, whether I give it to you to pay your debts, or give it to him, as he will pay them, if you do not; so here it is, take what you want, and hand me over what's left. My father don't know that I have any money, and now he won't know it; at the same time he won't know that you owe any; so that squares the account, and he will be as well off as ever."
"Thank you, my dear Alfred; you don't know what a relief this will be to my mind. Now I can look my father in his face."
"I hope you will; we are not troubled with such delicate feelings on board ship, Harry. I should have told him the truth long before this. I couldn't bear to keep any thing on my conscience. If this misfortune had happened last cruise, I should have been just in your position; for I had a tailor's bill to pay as long as a frigate's pennant, and not enough in my pocket to buy a mouse's breakfast. Now, let's go in again, and be as merry as possible, and cheer them up a little."
Alfred's high spirits did certainly do much to cheer them all up; and after tea, Mr. Campbell, who had previously consulted his wife, as soon as the servant had quitted the room, entered on a full explanation of the means which were left to them; and stated, that he wished in his difficulty to put the question before the whole family, and ascertain whether any project might come into their heads upon which they might decide and act. Henry, who had recovered his spirits since the assistance he had received from Alfred, was desired to speak first. He replied: "My dear father and mother, if you can not between you hit upon any plan, I am afraid it is not likely that I can assist you. All I have to say is, that whatever may be decided upon, I shall most cheerfully do my duty toward you and my brothers and sisters. My education has not been one likely to be very useful to a poor man, but I am ready to work with my hands as well as with my head, to the best of my abilities."
"That I am sure of, my dear boy," replied his father. "Now, Alfred, we must look to you as our last hope, for your two cousins are not likely to give us much advice."
"Well, father, I have been thinking a good deal about it, and I have a proposal to make which may at first startle you, but it appears to me that it is our only, and our best, resource. The few hundred pounds which you have left are of no use in this country, except to keep you from starving for a year or two; but in another country they may be made to be worth as many thousands. In this country, a large family becomes a heavy charge and expense; in another country, the more children you have, the richer man you are. If, therefore, you would consent to transport your family and your present means into another country, instead of being a poor, you might be a rich man."
"What country is that, Alfred?"
"Why, father, the purser of our ship had a brother, who, soon after the French were beaten out of the Canadas, went out there to try his fortune. He had only three hundred pounds in the world: he has been there now about four years, and I read a letter from him which the purser received when the frigate arrived at Portsmouth, in which he states that he is doing well, and getting rich fast; that he has a farm of five hundred acres, of which two hundred are cleared; and that if he only had some children large enough to help him, he would soon be worth ten times the money, as he would purchase more land immediately. Land is to be bought there at a dollar an acre, and you may pick and choose. With your money, you might buy a large property; with your children, you might improve it fast; and in a few years, you would at all events be comfortable, if not flourishing, in your circumstances. Your children would work for you, and you would have the satisfaction of knowing that you left them independent and happy."
"I acknowledge, my dear boy, that you have struck upon a plan which has much to recommend it. Still there are drawbacks."
"Drawbacks!" replied Alfred, "yes, to be sure, there are; if estates were to be picked up for merely going out for them, there would not be many left for you to choose; but, my dear father, I know no drawbacks which can not be surmounted. Let us see what these drawbacks are. First, hard labor; occasional privation; a log hut, till we can get a better; severe winter; isolation from the world; occasional danger, even from wild beasts and savages. I grant these are but sorry exchanges for such a splendid mansion as this--fine furniture, excellent cooking, polished society, and the interest one feels for what is going on in our own country, which is daily communicated to us. Now, as to hard labor, I and Henry will take as much of that off your hands as we can: if the winter is severe, there is no want of firewood; if the cabin is rude, at least we will make it comfortable; if we are shut out from the world, we shall have society enough among ourselves; if we are in danger, we will have firearms and stout hearts to defend ourselves; and, really, I do not see but we may be very happy, very comfortable, and, at all events, very independent."
"Alfred, you talk as if you were going with us," said Mrs. Campbell.
"And do you think that I am not, my dear mother? Do you imagine that I would remain here when you were there, and my presence would be useful? No--no--I love the service, it is true, but I know my duty, which is, to assist my father and mother: in fact, I prefer it; a midshipman's ideas of independence are very great; and I had rather range the wilds of America free and independent, than remain in the service, and have to touch my hat to every junior lieutenant, perhaps for twenty years to come. If you go, I go, that is certain. Why, I should be miserable if you went without me; I should dream every night that an Indian had run away with Mary, or that a bear had eaten up my little Emma."
"Well, I'll take my chance of the Indian," replied Mary Percival.
"And I of the bear," said Emma. "Perhaps he'll only hug me as tight as Alfred did when he came home."
"Thank you, miss, for the comparison," replied Alfred, laughing.
"I certainly consider that your proposal, Alfred, merits due reflection," observed Mrs. Campbell. "Your father and I will consult, and perhaps by to-morrow morning we may have come to a decision. Now we had better all go to bed."
"I shall dream of the Indian, I am sure," said Mary.
"And I shall dream of the bear," added Emma, looking archly at Alfred.
"And I shall dream of a very pretty girl--that I saw at Portsmouth," said Alfred.
"I don't believe you," replied Emma.
Shortly afterward Mr. Campbell rang the bell for the servants; family prayers were read, and all retired in good spirits.
The next morning they all met at an early hour; and after Mr. Campbell had, as was his invariable rule, read a portion of the Bible, and a prayer of thankfulness, they sat down to breakfast. After breakfast was over, Mr. Campbell said-- "My dear children, last night, after you had left us, your mother and I had a long consultation, and we have decided that we have no alternative left us but to follow the advice which Alfred has given: if, then, you are all of the same opinion as we are, we have resolved that we will try our fortunes in the Canadas."
"I am certainly of that opinion," replied Henry.
"And you, my girls?" said Mr. Campbell.
"We will follow you to the end of the world, uncle," replied Mary, "and try if we can by any means in our power repay your kindness to two poor orphans."
Mr. and Mrs. Campbell embraced their nieces, for they were much affected by Mary's reply.
After a pause, Mrs. Campbell said-- "And now that we have come to a decision, we must commence our arrangements immediately. How shall we dispose of ourselves? Come, Alfred and Henry, what do you propose doing?"
"I must return immediately to Oxford, to settle my affairs, and dispose of my books and other property."
"Shall you have sufficient money, my dear boy, to pay every thing?" said Mr. Campbell.
"Yes, my dear father," replied Henry, coloring up a little.
"And I," said Alfred, "presume that I can be of no use here; therefore I propose that I should start for Liverpool this afternoon by the coach, for it is from Liverpool that we had better embark. I shall first write to our purser for what information he can procure, and obtain all I can at Liverpool from other people. As soon as I have any thing to communicate, I will write."
"Write as soon as you arrive, Alfred, whether you have any thing to communicate or not; at all events, we shall know of your safe arrival."
"I will, my dear mother."
"Have you money, Alfred?"
"Yes, quite sufficient, father. I don't travel with four horses."
"Well, then, we will remain here to pack up, Alfred; and you must look out for some moderate lodging for us to go into as soon as we arrive at Liverpool. At what time do the ships sail for Quebec?"
"Just about this time, father. This is March, and they will now sail every week almost. The sooner we are off the better, that we may be comfortably housed in before the winter."
A few hours after this conversation, Henry and Alfred left the Hall upon their several destinations. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell and the two girls had plenty of employment for three or four days in packing up. It was soon spread through the neighborhood that they were going to emigrate to Canada; and the tenants who had held their farms under Mr. Campbell, all came forward and proffered their wagons and horses to transport the effects to Liverpool, without his being put to any expense.
In the meantime a letter had been received from Alfred, who had not been idle. He had made acquaintance with some merchants who traded to Canada, and by them had been introduced to two or three persons who had settled there a few years before, and who were able to give him every information. They informed him what was most advisable to take out; how they were to proceed upon their landing; and, what was of more importance, the merchants gave him letters of introduction to English merchants at Quebec, who would afford them every assistance in the selecting and purchasing of land, and in their transport up the country. Alfred had also examined a fine timber-ship, which was to sail in three weeks; and had bargained for the price of their passage, in case they could get ready in time to go by her. He wrote all these particulars to his father, waiting for his reply to act upon his wishes.
Henry returned from Oxford, having settled his accounts, and with the produce of the sale of his classics and other books in his pocket. He was full of spirits, and of the greatest assistance to his father and mother.
Alfred had shown so much judgment in all he had undertaken, that his father wrote to him stating that they would be ready for the ship which he named, and that he might engage the cabins, and also at once procure the various articles which they were advised to take out with them, and draw upon him for the amount, if the people would not wait for the money. In a fortnight they were all ready; the wagons had left with their effects some days before. Mr. Campbell wrote a letter to Mr. Douglas Campbell, thanking him for his kindness and consideration to them, and informing him that they would leave Wexton Hall on the following day. He only begged, as a favor, that the schoolmaster and schoolmistress of the village school should be continued on, as it was of great importance that the instruction of the poor should not be neglected; and added, that perceiving by the newspapers that Mr. Douglas Campbell had lately married, Mrs. Campbell and he wished him and his wife every happiness, etc., etc.
Having dispatched this letter, there was nothing more to be done, previous to their departure from the Hall, except to pay and dismiss the few servants who were with them; for Mrs. Campbell had resolved upon taking none out with her. That afternoon they walked round the plantation and park for the last time. Mrs. Campbell and the girls went round the rooms of the Hall to ascertain that every thing was left tidy, neat, and clean. The poor girls sighed as they passed by the harp and piano in the drawing-room, for they were old friends.
"Never mind, Mary," said Emma; "we have our guitars, and may have music in the woods of Canada without harp or piano."
The following morning, the coach, of which they had secured the whole of the inside, drove up to the Hall door, and they all got in, the tenants and poor people standing round them, all with their hats in their hands out of respect, and wishing them every success as they drove away through the avenue to the park gates. The Hall and the park itself had been long out of sight before a word was exchanged. They checked their tears, but their hearts were too full for them to venture to speak.
The day afterward they arrived at Liverpool, where Alfred had provided lodgings. Every thing had been sent on board, and the ship had hauled out in the stream. As they had nothing to detain them on the shore, and the captain wished to take advantage of the first fair wind, they all embarked four days after their arrival at Liverpool; and I shall now leave them on board of the London Merchant, which was the name of the vessel, making all their little arrangements previous to their sailing, under the superintendence of Alfred, while I give some little more insight into the characters, ages, and dispositions of the family.
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Mr. Campbell was a person of many amiable qualities. He was a religious, good man, very fond of his wife, to whose opinions he yielded in preference to his own, and very partial to his children, to whom he was inclined to be over indulgent. He was not a person of much energy of character, but he was sensible and well-informed. His goodness of heart rendered him liable to be imposed upon, for he never suspected any deceit, notwithstanding that he was continually deceived. His character was therefore that of a simple, good, honest man.
Mrs. Campbell was well matched with him as a wife, as she had all that energy and decision of character which was sometimes wanting in her husband. Still there was nothing masculine in her manners and appearance; on the contrary, she was delicate in her form, and very soft in her manners. She had great firmness and self-possession, and had brought up all her children admirably. Obedience to their parents was the principle instilled into them after their duty to God; for she knew too well that a disobedient child can never prosper. If ever there was a woman fitted to meet the difficulty and danger which threatened them, it was Mrs. Campbell, for she had courage and presence of mind, joined to activity and cleverness.
Henry, the eldest son, was now nearly twenty years of age. He possessed much of the character of his father, was without vice, but rather inclined to inaction than otherwise. Much was to be ascribed to his education and college life, and more to his natural disposition.
Alfred, the sailor, was, on the contrary, full of energy and active in every thing, patient and laborious, if required, and never taking any thing in hand without finishing it, if possible. He was rough, but not rude, both in his speech and his manners, very kind-hearted, at the same time very confident in himself and afraid of nothing.
Mary Percival was a very amiable, reflective girl, quiet without being sad, not often indulging in conversation, except when alone with her sister Emma. She was devotedly attached to her uncle and aunt, and was capable of more than she had any idea of herself, for she was of a modest disposition, and thought humbly of herself. Her disposition was sweet, and was portrayed in her countenance. She was now seventeen years old, and very much admired.
Her sister Emma, who was but fifteen, was of a very different disposition, naturally gay, and inclined to find amusement in every thing--cheerful as the lark, and singing from morning to night. Her disposition, owing to Mrs. Campbell's care and attention, was equally amiable as her sister's, and her high spirits seldom betrayed her into indiscretion. She was the life of the family when Alfred was away: he only was her equal in high spirits.
Percival, the third boy, was now twelve years old; he was a quiet, clever lad, very obedient and very attentive to what was told him, very fond of obtaining information, being naturally very inquisitive.
John, the fourth boy, was ten years old--a sturdy, John Bull sort of a boy, not very fond of learning, but a well-disposed boy in most things. He preferred any thing to his book; at the same time, he was obedient, and tried to keep up his attention as well as he could, which was all that could be expected from a boy of his age. He was very slow in every thing, very quiet, and seldom spoke unless first spoken to. He was not silly, although many people would have thought him so, but he certainly was a very strange boy, and it was difficult to say what he would turn out.
I have now described the family as they appeared at the time that they embarked on board of the London Merchant; and have only to add, that on the third day after their embarkation, they made sail with a fair wind, and ran down the Irish Channel.
The London Merchant sailed for Cork, where the North American convoy were to assemble. At the time we speak of, the war had recommenced between this country and the French, who were suffering all the horrors of the Revolution. On their arrival at Cork, our party recovered a little from the sea-sickness to which all are subject on their first embarkation. They found themselves at anchor with more than a hundred merchant vessels, among which were to be perceived the lofty masts and spars of a large fifty-gun ship, and two small frigates, which were appointed to convoy them to their destination.
The rest of the party, still suffering, soon went down below again, but Alfred remained on deck leaning against the bulwarks of the vessel, his eyes and his thoughts intently fixed upon the streaming pennants of the men-of-war, and a tear rolled down his cheek, as he was reminded that he no longer could follow up his favorite profession. The sacrifice he had made to his family was indeed great. He had talked lightly of it before them, not wishing them to believe it was so. He had not told his father that he had passed his examination for lieutenant before he had been paid off at Portsmouth; and that his captain, who was very partial to him, had promised that he should soon be advanced in the service. He had not told them that all his wishes, all his daily hopes, the most anxious desire of his existence, which was to become a post-captain, and in command of a fine frigate, were blighted by this sacrifice he had made for them and their comfort. He had concealed all this, and assumed a mirth which he did not feel; but now that he was alone, and the pennant was once more presented to his view, his regrets could not be controlled. He sighed deeply, and turning away with his arms folded, said to himself--"I have done my duty. It is hard, after having served so long, and now just arrived at the time in which I have reason to expect my reward--to rise in the service--distinguish myself by my zeal, and obtain a reputation, which, if it pleased God, I would have done--very hard, to have to leave it now, and to be hid in the woods, with an ax in my hand; but how could I leave my father, my mother, and my brothers and sisters, to encounter so much difficulty and privation by themselves, when I have a strong arm to help them! No! no! --I have done my duty to those who ever did their duty to me, and I trust that my own conscience will prove my reward, and check that repining which we are too apt to feel when it pleases Heaven to blight what appears to be our fairest prospects ... I say, my good fellow," said Alfred, after a while, to a man in a boat, "what is the name of that fifty-gun ship?"
"I don't know which ship has fifty guns, or which has a hundred," replied the Irishman; "but if you mean the biggest of the three, she is called the Portsmouth."
"The Portsmouth! the very ship Captain Lumley was appointed to," cried Alfred. "I must go on board."
Alfred ran down to the cabin, and requested the captain of the transport, whose name was Wilson, to allow him the small boat to go on board the man-of-war. His request was granted, and Alfred was soon up the side of the Portsmouth. There were some of his old messmates on the quarter-deck, who welcomed him heartily, for he was a great favorite. Shortly afterward, he sent down a message by the steward, requesting that Captain Lumley would see him, and was immediately afterward ordered to go into the cabin.
"Well, Mr. Campbell," said Captain Lumley, "so you have joined us at last; better late than never. You're but just in time. I thought you would soon get over that foolish whim of yours, which you mentioned in your letter to me, of leaving the service, just after you had passed, and had such good chance of promotion. What could have put it in your head?"
"Nothing, sir," replied Alfred, "but my duty to my parents. It is a most painful step for me to take, but I leave you to judge whether I can do otherwise."
Alfred then detailed to Captain Lumley all that had occurred, the resolution which his father and mother had taken, and their being then on board the timber-ship, and about to proceed to their new destination.
Captain Lumley heard Alfred's story without interruption, and then, after a pause, said, "I think you are right, my boy, and it does you honor. Where you are going to, I have no doubt but your courage and your protection will be most important. Yet it is a pity you should be lost to the service."
"I feel most sincerely, sir, I assure you, but----" "But you sacrifice yourself; I know that. I admire the resolution of your father and mother. Few could have the courage to have taken such a step--few women, especially, I shall call upon them, and pay my respects. In half an hour I shall be ready, and you shall accompany me, and introduce me. In the meantime you can go and see your old messmates."
Alfred left the cabin, much flattered by the kindness of Captain Lumley, and went down to his former messmates, with whom he remained until the boatswain piped away the crew of the captain's barge. He then went on deck, and as soon as the captain came up, he went into the boat. The captain followed, and they were soon on board of the London Merchant. Alfred introduced Captain Lumley to his father and mother; and in the course of half an hour, being mutually pleased with each other, an intimacy was formed, when Captain Lumley observed, "I presume that, much as you may require your son's assistance on your arrival at Canada, you can dispense with his presence on board of this vessel. My reason for making this observation is that no chance should ever be thrown away. One of my lieutenants wishes to leave the ship on family concerns. He has applied to me, and I have considered it my duty to refuse him, now that we are on the point of sailing, and I am unable to procure another. But for your son's sake, I will now permit him to go, and will, if you will allow him to come on board of the Portsmouth, give Alfred an acting lieutenant's order. Should any thing occur on the passage out, and it is not at all impossible, it will insure his promotion; even if nothing occurs, I will have his acting order confirmed. At Quebec, he shall, of course, leave the ship, and go with you. I don't pretend to detain him from his duty; but you will observe, that if he does obtain his rank, he will also obtain his half-pay, which, if he remains in Canada with you, will be a great assistance; and if things should turn out so well, that you can, after a year or two, do without him, and allow him to return to the service, he will then have already gained the most important step, and will, I have no doubt, soon rise to the command of a ship. I will give you till to-morrow to decide. Alfred can come on board in the morning, and let me know."
"I think I may say, Captain Lumley," replied Mrs. Campbell, "that my husband could have but one reason in hesitating a moment, and that is, to ascertain whether I should like to part with my son during our passage out. I should, indeed, be a very weak woman, if I did not make such a trifling sacrifice for his benefit, and, at the time, feel most grateful to you for your kind intentions toward him. I rather think that Mr. Campbell will not find it necessary to have till to-morrow morning to consider the proposal; but I leave him to answer for himself."
"I can assure you, Captain Lumley, that Mrs. Campbell has only expressed my own feelings, and, as far as we are concerned, your offer is most gratefully accepted."
"Then, Alfred," replied Captain Lumley, "has only to make his appearance on board of the Portsmouth to-morrow morning, and he will find his acting order ready for him. We sail, I believe, the day after, if the weather is at all favorable; so, if I have not another opportunity to pay my respects to you, you must allow me to say farewell now. I shall keep my eye upon your vessel during the passage; at all events, Alfred will, I'm very sure."
Captain Lumley shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, bowed to the rest of the cabin party, and quitted the ship. As he went over the side, he observed to Alfred, "I perceive you have some attractions in your party. It is quite melancholy to think that those pretty cousins of yours should be buried in the woods of Canada. To-morrow, at nine o'clock, then, I shall expect you. --Adieu!"
Although the idea of Alfred leaving them during the passage out was not pleasant, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell were most happy at the chance which had offered itself for their son's advantage, and seemed in good spirits when he took leave of them on the following morning.
"Captain Wilson, you sail so well, that I hope you will keep close to us all the passage out," observed Alfred, as he was taking leave.
"Except you happen to come to action with an enemy, and then I shall haul off to a respectful distance, Mr. Alfred," replied Captain Wilson laughing.
"That, of course. Cannon-balls were never invented for ladies, although they have no objection to balls,--have they Emma? Well, good-by once more. You can often see me with the spy-glass if you feel inclined. Recollect that."
Alfred shoved off in the boat, and was soon on board of the Portsmouth. The following day they sailed with a fair wind and moderate weather; the convoy now increased to 120 vessels.
We must leave Mr. and Mrs. Campbell and family on board the London Merchant, and follow Alfred in the Portsmouth, during the passage to Quebec.
For several days the weather was moderate, although the wind was not always fair, and the convoy was kept together, and in good order. The London Merchant was never far away from the Portsmouth, and Alfred employed a large portion of his time, when he was not keeping his watch, in keeping his spy-glass upon the vessel, and watching the motions of his cousins and the rest of the family. On board of the London Merchant they were similarly occupied, and very often a handkerchief was waved by way of salute and recognition. At last they arrived off the banks of Newfoundland, and were shrouded in a heavy fog, the men-of-war constantly firing guns, to inform the merchant-ships in what direction they were to steer, and the merchant-vessels of the convoy ringing their bells, to warn each other, that they might not be run foul of.
The fog lasted two days, and was still continuing when the party on board the London Merchant, just as they were sitting down to dinner in the cabin, heard a noise and bustle on deck. Captain Wilson ran hastily up and found that his vessel had been boarded by a French boat's crew, who had beaten down the men and taken possession. As there was no help, all he could do was to go down to the cabin, and inform his passengers that they were prisoners. The shock of this intelligence was very great, as may be supposed, but still there was no useless lamentation or weeping. One thing is certain, that this news quite spoiled their appetite for their dinner, which, however, was soon dispatched by the French officer and his men, after the boat had left, and the vessel's head had been put in an opposite direction.
Captain Wilson, who had returned on deck, came down in about a quarter of an hour, and informed the party, who were silently brooding over this sudden change in their prospects, that the wind was very light, and that he thought the fog was clearing off a little, and that if it did so before it was dark, he was in great hopes that they should be recaptured. This intelligence appeared to revive the hopes of Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, and they were still more encouraged when they heard the sounds of guns at no very great distance. In a few minutes afterward the cannonading became very furious, and the Frenchmen who were on board began to show strong signs of uneasiness.
The fact was, that a French squadron, of one sixty-gun ship and two corvettes, had been on the look-out for the convoy, and had come in among them during the fog. They had captured and taken possession of several vessels before they were discovered, but the sixty-gun ship at last ran very near to the Portsmouth, and Alfred, who had the watch, and was on a sharp look-out, soon perceived through the looming fog, that she was not one of the convoy. He ran down to acquaint the captain, and the men were immediately ordered to their quarters, without beating the drum, or making any noise that might let the enemy know they were so near. The yards were then braced in, to check the way of the Portsmouth, so that the strange vessel might come up with her. Silence was kept fore and aft, not a whisper was to be heard; and as the Frenchmen neared them, they perceived a boat putting off from her to board another vessel close to them, and also heard the orders given to the men in the French language. This was sufficient for Captain Lumley: he put the helm down, and poured a raking broadside into the enemy, who was by no means prepared for such a sudden salute, although her guns were cast loose, ready for action, in case of accident. The answer to the broadside was a cry of "_Vive la Republique! _" and, in a few seconds, both ships were hotly engaged--the Portsmouth having the advantage of lying upon the bow of her antagonist.
As is often the case, the heavy cannonading brought on a dead calm, and the two ships remained in their respective positions, except that the Portsmouth's was more favorable, having drawn ahead of the French vessel, so that her broadside was poured into her opponent, without her being able to return the fire from more than four or five of her guns. The fog became more opaque than ever; the two ships had neared each other considerably, or it would have been impossible to distinguish. All that they could see from the deck of the Portsmouth was the jib-boom and cap of the bowsprit of the Frenchman, the rest of her bowsprit, and her whole hull, were lost in the impenetrable gloom; but that was sufficient for the men to direct their guns, and the fire from the Portsmouth was most rapid, although the extent of its execution was unknown. After half an hour of incessant broadsides, the two vessels had approached each other so close, that the jib-boom of the Frenchman was pointed between the fore and main rigging of the Portsmouth. Captain Lumley immediately gave orders to lash the Frenchman's bowsprit to his mainmast, and this was accomplished by the first lieutenant, Alfred, and the seamen, without any serious loss, for the fog was still so thick, that the Frenchman on their forecastle could not perceive what was doing at their bowsprit's cap.
"She is ours now," said Captain Lumley to the first lieutenant.
"Yes, sir,--fast enough. I think, if the fog were to clear away, they would haul down their colors."
"Not till the last, depend upon it," replied Captain Lumley. "Fire away there, on the main-deck, give them no time to take breath. Mr. Campbell, tell the second lieutenant to let the foremost lower deck guns be pointed more aft. I say, not till the last," repeated Captain Lumley to the first lieutenant; "these republicans will take a good deal of beating, even upon the water."
"It's clearing up, sir, to the northward a little," said the master.
"I see--yes, it is," replied Captain Lumley. "Well, the sooner the better: we shall see what has become of all the shot we have been throwing away."
A white silvery line appeared on the horizon, to the northward; gradually it increased, and as it rose up, became broader, till at last the curtain was lifted up, and a few feet were to be seen above the clear blue water. As it continued to approach, the light became more vivid, the space below increased, and the water was ruffled with the coming wind, till at last the fog rolled off as if it had been gradually furled, and sweeping away in a heavy bank to leeward, exposed the state and position of the whole convoy, and the contending vessels. The English seamen on board of the Portsmouth cheered the return of daylight, as it might truly be termed. Captain Lumley found that they had been contending in the very center of the convoy, which was still lying around them, with the exception of about fifteen vessels, which were a few miles apart, with their heads in an opposite direction. These were evidently those which had been captured. The two frigates, which had been stationed in the rear of the convoy, were still two or three miles distant, but making all sail to come up and assist the Portsmouth. Many of the convoy, which had been in the direction of the fire, appeared to have suffered in their masts and sails; but whether any injury had been received in their hulls it was not possible to say. The French line-of-battle ship had suffered dreadfully from the fire of the Portsmouth. Her mainmast and mizzen-mast were over the side, her forward ports were many of them almost beat into one, and every thing on board appeared to be in the greatest confusion.
"She can't stand this long," observed Captain Lumley. "Fire away, my lads."
"The Circe and Vixen are coming down to us, sir," observed the first lieutenant; "we do not want them, and they will only be an excuse for the Frenchman to surrender to a superior force. If they recaptured the vessels taken, they would be of some service."
"Very true. Mr. Campbell, make their signal to pursue captured vessels."
Alfred ran aft to obey the orders. The flags had just flown out at the mast-head, when he received a bullet through his arm: for the French, unable to use the major portion of their guns, had, when the fog cleared up, poured in incessant volleys of musketry upon the decks of the Portsmouth. Alfred desired the quarter-master to untie his neck handkerchief for him, and bind up his arm. Having so done, he continued to do his duty. A bold attempt was now made by the French to clear their vessel by cutting the fastening of her bowsprit, but the marines of the Portsmouth were prepared for them, and after about twenty gallant fellows had dropped down on the booms and gangways of the Portsmouth, the attempt was given up, and four minutes afterward the French colors were hauled down. She was boarded from her bowsprit by the first lieutenant and a party of seamen. The lashings were cast off, and the vessels cleared of each other, and then the English seamen gave three cheers in honor of the victory.
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The French sixty-gun ship proved to be the Leonidas; she had been sent out with two large frigates on purpose to intercept the convoy, but she had parted with her consorts in a gale of wind. Her loss of men was very great; that on board of the Portsmouth was trifling. In a couple of hours the Portsmouth and her prize in tow were ready to proceed with the convoy, but they still remained hove to, to wait for the frigates which were in chase of the captured vessels. All of these were speedily come up with except the London Merchant, which sailed so remarkably well. At last, to the great joy of Alfred (who as soon as the bullet had been extracted and his arm dressed, had held his telescope fixed upon the chase), she hove to, and was taken possession of. Before night, the convoy were again collected together, and were steering for their destination. The next morning was clear, and the breeze moderate. Mrs. Campbell, who, as well as all the rest, was very anxious about Alfred, requested Captain Wilson to run down to the Portsmouth, that they might ascertain if he was safe. Captain Wilson did as she requested, and writing in chalk "all well" in large letters upon the log-board, held it over the side as he passed close to the Portsmouth. Alfred was not on deck--fever had compelled him to remain in his hammock--but Captain Lumley made the same reply on the log-board of the Portsmouth, and Mr. and Mrs. Campbell were satisfied.
"How I should like to see him," said Mrs. Campbell.
"Yes, madam," observed Captain Wilson, "but they have too much to do on board of the Portsmouth just now; they have to repair damages and to look after the wounded; they have a great quantity of prisoners on board, as you may see, for a great many are now on the booms; they have no time for compliments."
"That is very true," replied Mr. Campbell, "we must wait till we arrive at Quebec."
"But we did not see Alfred," said Emma.
"No, miss, because he was busy enough below, and I dare say no one told him. They have said that all's well, and that is sufficient; and now we must haul off again, for with such a heavy ship in tow, Captain Lumley will not thank me if I am always coming so close to him."
"I am satisfied, Captain Wilson; pray do nothing that might displease Captain Lumley. We shall soon see Alfred, I dare say, with the spy-glass."
"I see him now," said Mary Percival, "he has his telescope, and he is waving his hat to me."
"Thank God," replied Mrs. Campbell; "now I am satisfied."
The Portsmouth cast off the French line-of-battle ship, as soon as they had jury-masts up and could make sail on them, and the convoy proceeded to the mouth of the St. Lawrence.
"Captain Wilson," said Percival, whose eyes were fixed on the water, "what animals are those, tumbling about and blowing,--those great white things?"
"They are what are called the white whale, Percival," replied Captain Wilson; "they are not often seen, except about here."
"Then what is the color of the other whales?"
"The northern whales are black--they are called the black whales; but the southern, or spermaceti whales, are not so dark in color."
Captain Wilson then, at Percival's request, gave him an account of how the whales were caught, for he had been several voyages himself in the northern whale fishery.
Percival was never tired of asking questions, and Captain Wilson was very kind to him, and always answered him. John, generally speaking, stood by when Captain Wilson was talking, looking very solemn and very attentive, but not saying a word.
"Well John," said Emma to him after the conversation had been ended, "what was Captain Wilson telling you about?"
"Whales," replied John, walking past her.
"Well, but is that all you can tell me, John?"
"Yes," replied John, walking away.
"At all events, Miss Emma, he keeps all his knowledge to himself," observed Captain Wilson, laughing.
"Yes; I shall know nothing about the whale-fishery, unless you will condescend to tell me yourself, that is evident," replied Emma, taking the offered arm of Captain Wilson, who, at her request, immediately resumed the subject.
In three weeks from the day of the action they had anchored off the town of Quebec.
As soon as they had anchored, Alfred obtained leave to go on board of the London Merchant, and then, for the first time, his family knew that he had been wounded. His arm was still in a sling, but was healing fast.
I shall pass over the numerous inquiries on his part, relative to their capture and recapture, and on theirs, as to the action with the French ship.
While they were in conversation, Captain Lumley was reported to be coming on board in his boat. They went on the deck of the vessel to receive him.
"Well, Mrs. Campbell," said Captain Lumley after the first salutations were over, "you must congratulate me on my having captured a vessel somewhat larger than my own; and I must congratulate you on the conduct and certain promotion of your son Alfred. He has richly deserved it."
"I am very thankful, Captain Lumley, and do most heartily congratulate you," replied Mrs. Campbell; "I only regret that my boy has been wounded."
"The very thing that you should, on the contrary, be thankful for, Mrs. Campbell," replied Captain Lumley. "It is the most fortunate wound in the world, as it not only adds to his claims, but enables me to let him join you and go to Canada with you, without it being supposed that he has quitted the service."
"How so, Captain Lumley?"
"I can discharge him to sick-quarters here at Quebec. If they think any thing about it at all at home, it will be that his wound is much more severe than it really is; and he can remain on half-pay as long as he pleases. There are plenty ready to be employed. But I can not wait any longer. I am going on shore to call upon the Governor, and I thought I would just see you on my way. You may assure yourselves that if I can be of any use to you, I will not fail to exert any little influence I may have."
Captain Lumley then took a cordial leave of the whole party, telling Alfred that he might consider himself as discharged from the ship, and might rejoin his family.
"Heaven sends us friends when we most need them and least expect them," said Mrs. Campbell, as she watched the boat pulling away. "Who would have imagined, when we anchored at Cork, that such good fortune should have awaited us; and that, at the very time Alfred had given up his profession for our sake, his promotion in the service was awaiting him?"
Shortly afterward Mrs. Campbell and Henry went on shore with Captain Wilson to look out for lodgings, and present the letters of introduction which he had received for some Quebec merchants. As they were looking for lodgings in company with a Mr. Farquhar, who had kindly volunteered to assist them, they met Captain Lumley on his return from the Governor.
"I am glad to have met you, Mrs. Campbell," said Captain Lumley; "I found on paying my respects to the Governor, that there is what they call the Admiralty House here, which is kept furnished by Government for the senior officers of his Majesty's ships. It is at my disposal; and as the Governor has requested me to take up my abode at Government House, I beg you will consider it at your service. You will find better accommodation there than in lodgings, and it will save you considerable expense."
"We need look no further, Mrs. Campbell," said Mr. Farquhar.
Mrs. Campbell expressed her acknowledgments to Captain Lumley, and returned on board with this pleasing intelligence.
"Oh, Alfred, how much we are indebted to you, my dear boy," said Mrs. Campbell.
"To me, mother? --to Captain Lumley, I should rather think."
"Yes, to Captain Lumley, I grant; but still it has been your good conduct when under his command which has made him attached to you; and it is to that we owe his acquaintance, and all the kindness we have received from him."
The next day the family disembarked and took possession of the Admiralty House. Mr. Farquhar procured them a female servant, who, with a man and his wife left in charge of the house, supplied all the attendance they required. Mrs. Campbell settled with Captain Wilson, who very generously refused to take any money for Alfred's passage, as he had not remained on board of the London Merchant: promising, however, to accept their invitation to come to them whenever he could find leisure, he took leave of them for the present, and they were left alone in their new residence.
In a few days the Campbells found themselves comfortably settled in the Admiralty House, but they had no intention of remaining there longer than was necessary; as, notwithstanding the accommodation, their residence at Quebec was attended with expense, and Mr. Campbell was aware that he had no money to throw away.
On the fourth day after their landing Captain Lumley called to take leave; but the day previous he had introduced them to the Governor, who returned Mr. Campbell's call, and appeared to be much interested in their welfare, owing of course to the representations of Captain Lumley. It was not, therefore, surprising that they should part with regret from one who had proved himself such a kind friend; and many were the expressions of gratitude which were made by the whole party. Captain Lumley shook hands with them all; and, assuring Alfred that he would not lose sight of his interests, wished them every success, and left the house. An hour afterward the Portsmouth was under weigh, and running out with a fine breeze.
On the following day the Governor requested Mr. Campbell would call upon him; and when they met, he pointed out to him that he would have great difficulties, and, he was fearful, great hardships, to encounter in following up his plan of settling in Upper Canada. He did not dissuade him from so doing, as he had nothing more promising to offer which might induce him to change his mind, but he thought it right to forewarn him of trials, that he might be well prepared.
"I feel, of course, a strong interest in any English family so well brought up, and accustomed, as I find yours has been, to luxury, being placed in such a situation; and the interest which my old friend, Captain Lumley, takes in you, is quite sufficient to induce me to offer you every assistance in my power: that you may depend upon, Mr. Campbell. The Surveyor-General is coming here immediately, I must first introduce you to him, as it is from him that the land must be obtained, and of course he can advise you well on the point of locality; but you must recollect that it is not much more than thirty years since these provinces have been surrendered to Great Britain, and that not only the French population, but the Indians, are very hostile to the English, for the Indians were, and still are, firm allies to the French, and detest us. I have been reflecting upon the affair, and I hope to be of some service to you: if I am not, it will not, I assure you, be from any want of will; under every advantage which may be procured for you, at all events, you will require stout hearts and able hands. Your son Alfred will be of great service, but we must try and procure you some other assistance that can be trusted."
A long conversation then took place between the Governor and Mr. Campbell, during which the latter received much valuable information: it was interrupted, however, by the arrival of the Surveyor-General, and the topic was resumed.
"The land that I would propose to Mr. Campbell," observed the Surveyor-General, after a time, "if there is no objection to part with it, is a portion of what has been laid aside as Government reserve on this part of the Lake Ontario; there are lands to be obtained nearer to Montreal, but all the land of good quality has been purchased. This land, you will observe, Mr. Campbell, is peculiarly good, having some few acres of what we call prairie, or natural meadow. It has also the advantage of running with a large frontage on the beach, and there is a small river on one side of it; besides, it is not a great distance, perhaps four or five miles, from Fort Frontignac, and it might be easy to obtain assistance if required."
The Surveyor-General pointed to a part of the map, near to Presqu' Ile de Quinte, as he made this observation to the Governor.
"I agree with you," replied the Governor, "and I observe that there is already a settler on the other side of the stream."
"Yes, sir," replied the Surveyor; "that allotment was granted before it was decided that the rest should be a Government reserve; and if proof were required of the goodness of the land, it would be found in the person who took it. It was taken four years ago by the old hunter, Malachi Bone; he has been over every part of it, of course, and knows what it is. You recollect the man, don't you, sir? He was a guide to the English army before the surrender of Quebec; General Wolfe had a high opinion of him, and his services were so good that he was allowed that tract of 150 acres."
"I now remember him," replied the Governor, "but as I have not seen him for so many years, he had escaped my recollection."
"It will be a great advantage to you, Mr. Campbell, having this man as a neighbor."
"Now," continued the Governor, addressing the Surveyor-General, "do you know of any person who would be willing to serve Mr. Campbell, and who can be depended upon; of course one who understands the country, and who would be really useful?"
"Yes, Governor, I do know a very good man, and you know him also; but you know the worst part of him, for he is generally in trouble when you see him."
"Who is that?"
"Martin Super, the trapper."
"Why, that is the young fellow who breeds such disturbances, and who, if I recollect right, is now in prison for a riot."
"The very same, sir; but Martin Super, although a troublesome fellow at Quebec, is worth his weight in gold when he is out of the town. You may think it strange, Mr. Campbell, that I should recommend a man who appears to be so unruly a character; but the fact is that the trappers, who go in pursuit of the game for their skins, after having been out for months, undergoing every privation that can be imagined, return home with their packages of skins, which they dispose of to the merchants of this town; and as soon as they have their money, they never cease their revelry of every description until their earnings are all gone, and then they set off again on their wild and venturous pursuit. Now Martin Super, like all the rest, must have his fun when he comes back, and being a very wild fellow, he is often in scrapes when he has drunk too much, so that he is occasionally put into prison for being riotous; but I know him well, he has been with me surveying for months, and when he is on service, a more steady, active, and brave man I do not know."
"I believe you are right in recommending him," observed the Governor, "he will not be sorry to get out of the gaol, and I have no doubt but that he will conduct himself well if he once agrees to take your service, Mr. Campbell, for one or two years. As for the Canadians, they are very harmless, but at the same time very useful. There are exceptions, no doubt; but their general character is any thing but that of activity and courage. As I said before, you will require stout hearts, and Martin Super is one, that is certain. Perhaps you can arrange this for Mr. Campbell?"
The Surveyor-General promised to do so; shortly after which, Mr. Campbell, with many thanks, took his leave of the Governor.
Mr. Campbell, who had gained every possible information relative to what would be most necessary for him to take with him, was actively employed for a fortnight in making his purchases. During this time much attention was shown to them both by the English and French residents at Quebec. Alfred, whose wound was now nearly healed, was as active as usual, and Henry was of great assistance to his father in taking inventories and making out lists, etc. Nor were Mrs. Campbell and the two girls unemployed; they had purchased the coarse manufactures of the country, and were very busy making dresses for themselves and for the children. Mr. Campbell had been one morning at Mr. Farquhar's, the merchant's, to make inquiries about a conveyance up to his new purchase (for he had concluded his arrangements with the Surveyor-General), when the Governor sent a message by one of his aides-de-camp, to say that it was his intention in the course of ten days to send a detachment of soldiers up to Fort Frontignac--news having been received that the garrison was weakened by a fever which had broken out; and that if Mr. Campbell would like to avail himself of the opportunity, he and his family, and all his luggage, should go under the escort of the officer and troops. The offer was of course joyfully accepted, and on Mr. Campbell's calling upon the Governor to return his thanks, the latter told him that there would be plenty of room in the _bateaux_ and canoes for them and all their luggage, and that he need not give himself further trouble, or incur any further expense.
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The next day the Surveyor-General called, bringing with him Martin Super, the trapper.
"Mr. Campbell," said the Surveyor, "this is my friend Martin Super; I have spoken to him, and he has consented to take service for one year, and he will remain, if he is satisfied. If he serves you as well as he has served me when I have traveled through the country, I have no doubt but you will find him a valuable assistant."
Martin Super was rather tall, very straight-limbed, showing both activity and strength. His head was smaller than usually is the case, which gave him the appearance of great lightness and agility. His countenance was very pleasing, being expressive of continual good humor, which was indeed but corresponding to his real character. He was dressed in a sort of hunting-coat of deer-skin, blue cloth leggings, a cap of raccoon's skin, with a broad belt round his waist, in which he wore his knife.
"Now, Martin Super, I will read the terms of the agreement between you and Mr. Campbell, that you may see if all is as you wish."
The Surveyor-General read the agreement, and Martin nodded his head in acquiescence.
"Mr. Campbell, if you are satisfied, you may now sign it; Martin shall do the same."
Mr. Campbell signed his name, and handed the pen to Martin Super, who then for the first time spoke.
"Surveyor, I don't know how my name is spelt; and if I did, I couldn't write it, so I must do it Indian fashion, and put my totem to it?"
"What is your name among the Indians, Martin?"
"The Painter," replied Martin, who then made under Mr. Campbell's name, a figure like [Illustration of a panther] saying, "There, that's my name as near as I can draw it."
"Very good," replied the Surveyor-General; "here is the document all right, Mr. Campbell. Ladies, I fear I must run away, for I have an engagement. I will leave Martin Super, Mr. Campbell, as you would probably like a little conversation together."
The Surveyor-General then took his leave, and Martin Super remained. Mrs. Campbell was the first who spoke: "Super," said she, "I hope we shall be very good friends, but now tell me what you mean by your--totem, I think you called it?"
"Why, ma'am, a totem is an Indian's mark, and you know I am almost an Indian myself. All the Indian chiefs have their totems. One is called the Great Otter; another the Serpent, and so on, and so they sign a figure like the animal they are named from. Then, ma'am, you see, we trappers, who almost live with them, have names given to us also and they have called me the Painter."
"Why did they name you the Painter?"
"Because I killed two of them in one day."
"Killed two painters!" cried the girls.
"Yes, miss; killed them both with my rifle."
"But why did you kill the men?" said Emma; "was it in battle?"
"Kill the men, miss; I said nothing about men; I said I killed two painters," replied Martin, laughing, and showing a row of teeth as white as ivory.
"What is a painter, then, Super?" inquired Mrs. Campbell.
"Why, it's an animal, and a very awkward creature, I can tell you, sometimes."
"The drawing is something like a panther, mamma," exclaimed Mary.
"Well, miss, it may be a panther, but we only know them by the other name."
Mr. Farquhar then came in, and the question was referred to him; he laughed and told them that painters were a species of panther, not spotted but tawny-colored, and at times very dangerous.
"Do you know the part of the country where we are going to?" said Henry to Super.
"Yes, I have trapped thereabouts for months, but the beavers are scarce now."
"Are there any other animals there?"
"Yes," replied Martin, "small game, as we term it."
"What sort are they?"
"Why, there's painters, and bears, and catamounts."
"Mercy on us! do you call that small game? why, what must the large be, then?" said Mrs. Campbell.
"Buffaloes, missus, is what we call big game."
"But the animals you speak of are not good eating, Super," said Mrs. Campbell; "is there no game that we can eat?"
"Oh, yes, plenty of deer and wild turkey, and bear's good eating, I reckon."
"Ah! that sounds better."
After an hour's conversation, Martin Super was dismissed; the whole of the family (except Alfred, who was not at home) very much pleased with what they had seen of him.
A few days after this, Martin Super, who had now entered upon service, and was very busy with Alfred, with whom he had already become a favorite, was sent for by Mr. Campbell, who read over to him the inventory of the articles which they had, and inquired of him if there was any thing else which might be necessary or advisable to take with them.
"You said something about guns," replied Martin, "what sort of guns did you mean?"
"We have three fowling-pieces and three muskets, besides pistols."
"Fowling-pieces,--they are bird-guns, I believe,--no use at all; muskets are soldiers' tools,--no use; pistols are pops, and nothing better. You have no rifles; you can't go into the woods without rifles. I have got mine, but you must have some."
"Well, I believe you are right, Martin; it never occurred to me. How many ought we to have?"
"Well, that's according--how many be you in family?"
"We are five males and three females."
"Well, then, sir, say ten rifles; that will be quite sufficient. Two spare ones in case of accident," replied Martin.
"Why, Martin," said Mrs. Campbell, "you do not mean that the children and these young ladies and I are to fire off rifles?"
"I do mean to say, ma'am, that before I was as old as that little boy," pointing to John, "I could hit a mark well; and a woman ought at least to know how to prime and load a rifle, even if she does not fire it herself. It is a deadly weapon, ma'am, and the greatest leveler in creation, for the trigger pulled by a child will settle the business of the stoutest man. I don't mean to say that we may be called to use them in that way, but it's always better to have them, and to let other people know that you have them, and all ready loaded too, if required."
"Well, Martin," said Mr. Campbell, "I agree with you, it is better to be well prepared. We will have the ten rifles, if we can afford to purchase them. What will they cost?"
"About sixteen dollars will purchase the best, sir; but I think I had better choose them for you, and try them before you purchase."
"Do so, then, Super; Alfred will go with you as soon as he comes back, and you and he can settle the matter."
"Why, Super," observed Mrs. Campbell, "you have quite frightened us women at the idea of so many firearms being required."
"If Pontiac was alive, missus, they would all be required, but he's gone now; still there are many outlying Indians, as we call them, who are no better than they should be; and I always like to see rifles ready loaded. Why, ma'am, suppose now that all the men were out in the woods, and a bear should pay you a visit during your absence, would it not be just as well for to have a loaded rifle ready for him; and would not you or the young misses willingly prefer to pull the trigger at him than to be hugged in his fashion?"
"Martin Super, you have quite convinced me: I shall not only learn to load a rifle but to fire one also."
"And I'll teach the boys the use of them, ma'am, and they will then add to your defense."
"You shall do so, Martin," replied Mrs. Campbell; "I am convinced that you are quite right."
When Super had quitted the room, which he did soon afterward, Mr. Campbell observed--"I hope, my dear, that you and the girls are not terrified by the remarks of Martin. It is necessary to be well armed when isolated as we shall be, and so far from any assistance; but it does not follow, because we ought to be prepared against danger, that such danger should occur."
"I can answer for myself, my dear Campbell," replied his wife; "I am prepared, if necessary, to meet danger, and do what a weak woman can do; and I feel what Martin says is but too true, that with a rifle in hand, a woman or a child is on a par with the strongest man."
"And I, my dear uncle," said Mary Percival, "shall, I trust, with the blessing of God, know how to do my duty, however peculiar the circumstances may be to a female."
"And I, my dear uncle," followed up Emma, laughing, "infinitely prefer firing off a rifle to being hugged by a bear or an Indian, because of two evils one should always choose the least."
"Well, then, I see Martin has done no harm, but, on the contrary, he has done good. It is always best to be prepared for the worst, and to trust to Providence for aid in peril."
At last all the purchases were completed, and every thing was packed up and ready for embarkation. Another message from the Governor was received, stating that in three days the troops would be embarked, and also informing Mr. Campbell that if he had not purchased any cows or horses, the officer at Fort Frontignac had more cattle than were requisite, and could supply him; which, perhaps, would be preferable to carrying them up so far. Mr. Campbell had spoken about, but not finally settled for, the cows, and therefore was glad to accept the Governor's offer. This message was accompanied with a note of invitation to Mr. Campbell, the ladies, and Henry and Alfred, to take a farewell dinner at Government House the day before their departure. The invitation was accepted, and Mr. Campbell was introduced to the officer commanding the detachment which was about to proceed to Fort Frontignac, and received from him every assurance of his doing all he could to make them comfortable. The kindness of the Governor did not end here: he desired the officer to take two large tents for the use of Mr. Campbell, to be returned to the fort when the house had been built, and they were completely settled. He even proposed that Mrs. Campbell and the Misses Percival should remain at Government House until Mr. Campbell had made every preparation to receive them; but this Mrs. Campbell would not consent to, and, with many thanks, she declined the offer.
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Although it was now the middle of May, it was but a few days before their departure that there was the least sign of verdure, or the trees had burst into leaf; but in the course of the three days before they quitted Quebec, so rapid was the vegetation, that it appeared as if summer had come upon them all at once. The heat was also very great, although, when they had landed, the weather was piercing cold; but in Canada, as well as in Northern America, the transitions from heat to cold, and from cold to heat, are very rapid.
My readers will be surprised to hear that when the winter sets in at Quebec, all the animals required for the winter's consumption are at once killed. If the troops are numerous, perhaps three or four hundred bullocks are slaughtered and hung up. Every family kill their cattle, their sheep, pigs, turkeys, fowls, etc., and all are put up in the garrets, where the carcasses immediately freeze hard, and remain quite good and sweet during the six or seven months of severe winter which occur in that climate. When any portion of meat is to be cooked, it is gradually thawed in lukewarm water, and after that is put to the fire. If put at once to the fire in its frozen state it spoils. There is another strange circumstance which occurs in these cold latitudes; a small fish, called the snow-fish, is caught during the winter by making holes in the thick ice, and these fish coming to the holes in thousands to breathe, are thrown out with hand-nets upon the ice, where they become in a few minutes frozen quite hard, so that, if you wish it, you may break them in half like a rotten stick. The cattle are fed upon these fish during the winter months. But it has been proved, which is very strange, that if, after they have been frozen for twenty-four hours or more, you put these fish into water and gradually thaw them as you do the meat, they will recover and swim about again as well as ever. To proceed however, with our history,-- Mr. Campbell found that, after all his expenses, he had still three hundred pounds left, and this money he left in the Quebec Bank, to use as he might find necessary. His expenditure had been very great. First, there was the removal of so large a family, and the passage out; then he had procured at Liverpool a large quantity of cutlery and tools, furniture, etc., all of which articles were cheaper there than at Quebec. At Quebec he had also much to purchase: all the most expensive portion of his house; such as windows ready glazed, stoves, boarding for floors, cupboards, and partitions; salt provisions, crockery of every description, two small wagons ready to be put together, several casks of nails, and a variety of things which it would be too tedious to mention. Procuring these, with the expenses of living, had taken away all his money, except the three hundred pounds I have mentioned.
It was on the 13th of May that the embarkation took place, and it was not until the afternoon that all was prepared, and Mrs. Campbell and her nieces were conducted down to the _bateaux_, which lay at the wharf, with the troops all ready on board of them. The Governor and his aides-de-camp, besides many other influential people of Quebec, escorted them down, and as soon as they had paid their adieus, the word was given, the soldiers in the _bateaux_ gave three cheers and away they went from the wharf into the stream. For a short time there was waving of handkerchiefs and other tokens of good-will on the part of those who were on the wharf; but that was soon left behind them, and the family found themselves separated from their acquaintances and silently listening to the measured sound of the oars, as they dropped into the water.
And it is not to be wondered at that they were silent, for all were occupied with their own thoughts. They called to mind the beautiful park at Wexton, which they had quitted, after having resided there so long and so happily; the hall, with all its splendor and all its comfort, rose up in their remembrance; each room with its furniture, each window with its view, was recalled to their memories; they had crossed the Atlantic, and were now about to leave civilization and comfort behind them--to isolate themselves in the Canadian woods--to trust to their own resources, their own society, and their own exertions. It was, indeed, the commencement of a new life, and for which they felt themselves little adapted, after the luxuries they had enjoyed in their former condition; but if their thoughts and reminiscences made them grave and silent, they did not make them despairing or repining; they trusted to that Power who alone could protect--who gives and who takes away, and doeth with us as He judges best; and if hope was not buoyant in all of them, still there was confidence, resolution, and resignation. Gradually they were roused from their reveries by the beauty of the scenery and the novelty of what met their sight; the songs, also, of the Canadian boatmen were musical and cheering, and by degrees, they had all recovered their usual good spirits.
Alfred was the first to shake off his melancholy feelings and to attempt to remove them from others; nor was he unsuccessful. The officer who commanded the detachment of troops, and who was in the same _bateau_ with the family, had respected their silence upon their departure from the wharf--perhaps he felt much as they did. His name was Sinclair, and his rank that of senior captain in the regiment--a handsome, florid young man, tall and well made, very gentleman-like, and very gentle in his manners.
"How very beautiful the foliage is on that point, mother," said Alfred, first breaking the silence, "what a contrast between the leaves of the sycamore, so transparent and yellow, with the sun behind them, and the new shoots of the spruce fir."
"It is, indeed, very lovely," replied Mrs. Campbell; "and the branches of the trees, feathering down as they do to the surface of the water--" "Like good Samaritans," said Emma, "extending their arms, that any unfortunate drowning person who was swept away by the stream might save himself by their assistance."
"I had no idea that trees had so much charity or reflection, Emma," rejoined Alfred.
"I can not answer for their charity, but, by the side of this clear water, you must allow them reflection, cousin," replied Emma.
"I presume you will add vanity to their attributes?" answered Alfred; "for they certainly appear to be hanging over the stream that they may look and admire themselves in the glassy mirror."
"Pretty well that for a midshipman; I was not aware that they used such choice language in a cockpit," retorted the young lady.
"Perhaps not, cousin," answered Alfred; "but when sailors are in the company of ladies, they become refined, from the association."
"Well, I must admit, Alfred, that you are a great deal more polished after you have been a month on shore."
"Thank you, cousin Emma, even for that slight admission," replied Alfred, laughing.
"But what is that?" said Mary Percival, "at the point, it is a village--one, two, three houses--just opening upon us?"
"That is a raft, Miss Percival, which is coming down the river," replied Captain Sinclair. "You will see when we are nearer to it, that perhaps it covers two acres of water, and there are three tiers of timber on it. These rafts are worth many thousand pounds. They are first framed with logs, fastened by wooden tree-nails, and the timber placed within the frame. There are, perhaps, from forty to a hundred people on this raft to guide it down the stream, and the houses you see are built on it for the accommodation of these people. I have seen as many as fifteen houses upon a raft, which will sometimes contain the cargoes of thirty or forty large ships."
"It is very wonderful how they guide and direct it down the stream," said Mr. Campbell.
"It is very dexterous; and it seems strange that such an enormous mass can be so guided, but it is done, as you will perceive; there are three or four rudders made of long sweeps, and, as you may observe, several sweeps on each side."
All the party were now standing up in the sternsheets of the _bateau_ to look at the people on the raft, who amounted to about fifty or sixty men--now running over the top to one side, and dragging at the sweeps, which required the joint power of seven or eight men to each of them--now passing again over to the opposite sweeps, as directed by the steersmen. The _bateau_ kept well in to the shore, out of the way, and the raft passed them very quickly. As soon as it was clear of the point, as their course to Quebec was now straight, and there was a slight breeze down the river, the people on board of the raft hoisted ten or fifteen sails upon different masts, to assist them in their descent; and this again excited the admiration of the party.
The conversation now became general, until the _bateaux_ were made fast to the shores of the river, while the men took their dinners, which had been prepared for them before they left Quebec. After a repose of two hours, they again started, and at nightfall arrived at St. Anne's, where they found every thing ready for their reception. Although their beds were composed of the leaves of the maize or Indian corn, they were so tired that they found them very comfortable, and at daylight arose quite refreshed, and anxious to continue their route. Martin Super, who, with the two youngest boys, had been placed in a separate boat, had been very attentive to the comforts of the ladies after their embarkation; and it appeared that he had quite won the hearts of the two boys by his amusing anecdotes during the day.
Soon after their embarkation, the name of Pontiac being again mentioned by Captain Sinclair, Mrs. Campbell observed-- "Our man Super mentioned that name before. I confess that I do not know any thing of Canadian affairs; I know only that Pontiac was an Indian chief. Can you, Captain Sinclair, give us any information relative to a person who appears so well known in the province?"
"I shall be happy, Mrs. Campbell, as far as I am able, to satisfy you. On one point, I can certainly speak with confidence, as my uncle was one of the detachment in the fort of Detroit at the time that it was so nearly surprised, and he has often told the history of the affair in my presence. Pontiac was chief of all the Lake tribes of Indians. I will not repeat the names of the different tribes, but his own particular tribe was that of the Ottawas. He ruled at the time that the Canadas were surrendered to us by the French. At first, although very proud and haughty, and claiming the sovereignty of the country, he was very civil to the English, or at least appeared so to be; for the French had given us so bad a reputation with all the northern tribes, that they had hitherto shown nothing but the most determined hostility, and appeared to hate our very name. They are now inclined to be quiet, and it is to be hoped their fear of us, after the severe conflicts between us, will induce them to remain so. You are, perhaps, aware that the French had built many forts at the most commanding spots in the interior and on the lakes, all of which, when they gave up the country, were garrisoned by our troops, to keep the Indians under control.
"All these forts are isolated, and communication between them is rare. It was in 1763 that Pontiac first showed his hostility against us, and his determination, if possible, to drive us from the lakes. He was as cunning as he was brave; and, as an Indian, showed more generalship than might be expected--that is, according to their system of war, which is always based upon stratagem. His plan of operation was, to surprise all our forts at the same time, if he possibly could; and so excellent were his arrangements, that it was only fifteen days after the plan was first laid that he succeeded in gaining possession of all but three; that is, he surprised ten out of thirteen forts. Of course, the attacks were made by other chiefs, under his directions, as Pontiac could not be at all the simultaneous assaults."
"Did he murder the garrisons, Capt. Sinclair?" said Alfred.
"The major portion of them: some were spared, and afterward were ransomed at high prices. I ought to have mentioned as a singular instance of the advance of this chief in comparison with other Indians, that at this time he issued bills of credit on slips of bark, signed with his totem, the otter; and that these bills, unlike many of more civilized society, were all taken up and paid."
"That is very remarkable in a savage," observed Mrs. Campbell; "but how did this Pontiac contrive to surprise all the forts?"
"Almost the whole of them were taken by a singular stratagem. The Indians are very partial to, and exceedingly dexterous at, a game called the 'Baggatiway:' it is played with a ball and a long-handled sort of racket. They divide into two parties, and the object of each party is to drive the ball to their own goal. It is something like hurley in England or golf in Scotland. Many hundreds are sometimes engaged on both sides; and the Europeans are so fond of seeing the activity and dexterity shown by the Indians at this game, that it was very common to request them to play it, when they happened to be near the forts. Upon this, Pontiac arranged his plan, which was that his Indians should commence the game of ball under the forts, and after playing a short time, strike the ball into the fort: of course, some of them would go in for it; and having done this two or three times, and recommenced the play to avoid suspicion, they were to strike it over again, and follow it up by a rush after it through the gates: and then, when they were all in, they would draw their concealed weapons, and overpower the unsuspicious garrison."
"It was certainly a very ingenious stratagem," observed Mrs. Campbell.
"And it succeeded, as I have observed, except on three forts. The one which Pontiac directed the attack upon himself, and which was that which he was most anxious to obtain, was Detroit, in which, as I have before observed, my uncle was garrisoned; but there he failed, and by a singular circumstance."
"Pray tell us how, Captain Sinclair," said Emma; "you don't know how much you have interested me."
"And me, too, Captain Sinclair," continued Mary.
"I am very happy that I have been able to wear away any portion of your tedious journey, Miss Percival, so I shall proceed with my history.
"The fort of Detroit was garrisoned by about three hundred men, when Pontiac arrived there with a large force of Indians, and encamped under the walls, but he had his warriors so mixed up with the women and children, and brought so many articles for trade, that no suspicion was created. The garrison had not heard of the capture of the other forts which had already taken place. At the same time the unusual number of the Indians was pointed out to Major Gladwin, who commanded the fort, but he had no suspicions. Pontiac sent word to the major, that he wished to 'have a talk' with him, in order to cement more fully the friendship between the Indians and the English; and to this Major Gladwin consented, appointing the next day to receive Pontiac and his chiefs in the fort.
"Now it so happened, that Major Gladwin had employed an Indian woman to make him a pair of moccasins out of a very curious marked elk-skin. The Indian woman brought him the moccasins with the remainder of the skin. The Major was so pleased with them that he ordered her to make him a second pair of moccasins out of the skin, and then told her that she might keep the remainder for herself. The woman having received the order, quitted the Major, but instead of leaving the fort, remained loitering about till she was observed, and they inquired why she did not go. She replied, that she wanted to return the rest of the skin, as he set so great a value on it; and as this appeared strange conduct, she was questioned, and then she said, that if she took away the skin then, she never would be able to return it.
"Major Gladwin sent for the woman, upon hearing of the expressions which she had used, and it was evident that she wanted to communicate something, but was afraid; but on being pressed hard and encouraged, and assured of protection, she then informed Major Gladwin, that Pontiac and his chiefs were to come into the fort to-morrow, under the plea of holding a talk; but that they had cut the barrels of their rifles short, to conceal them under their blankets, and that it was their intention, at a signal given by Pontiac, to murder Major Gladwin and all his officers who were at the council; while the other warriors, who would also come into the fort with concealed arms, under pretense of trading, would attack the garrison outside.
"Having obtained this information, Major Gladwin did all he could to put the fort into a state of defense, and took every necessary precaution. He made known to the officers and men what the intentions of the Indians were, and instructed the officers how to act at the council, and the garrison how to meet the pretended traders outside.
"About ten o'clock, Pontiac and his thirty-six chiefs, with a train of warriors, came into the fort to their pretended council, and were received with great politeness. Pontiac made his speech, and when he came forward to present the wampum belt, the receipt of which by the Major was, as the Indian woman had informed them, to be the signal for the chiefs and warriors to commence the assault, the Major and his officers drew their swords half out of their scabbards, and the troops, with their muskets loaded and bayonets fixed, appeared outside and in the council-room, all ready to present. Pontiac, brave as he really was, turned pale: he perceived that he was discovered, and consequently, to avoid any open detection, he finished his speech with many professions of regard for the English. Major Gladwin then rose to reply to him, and immediately informed him that he was aware of his plot and his murderous intentions. Pontiac denied it; but Major Gladwin stepped to the chief, and drawing aside his blanket, exposed his rifle cut short, which left Pontiac and his chiefs without a word to say in reply. Major Gladwin then desired Pontiac to quit the fort immediately, as otherwise he should not be able to restrain the indignation of the soldiers, who would immolate him and all his followers who were outside of the fort. Pontiac and his chiefs did not wait for a second intimation, but made all the haste they could to get outside of the gates."
"Was it prudent in Major Gladwin to allow Pontiac and his chiefs to leave, after they had come into the fort with an intent to murder him and his men?" said Henry Campbell. "Would not the Major have been justified in detaining them?"
"I certainly think he would have been, and so did my uncle, but Major Gladwin thought otherwise. He said that he had promised safe conduct and protection to and from the fort before he was aware of the conspiracy; and, having made a promise, his honor would not allow him to depart from it."
"At all events, the Major, if he erred, erred on the right side," observed Alfred. "I think myself that he was too scrupulous, and that I in his place should have detained some of them, if not Pontiac himself, as a hostage for the good behavior of the rest of the tribes."
"The result proved that if Major Gladwin had done so he would have done wisely; for the next day Pontiac, not at all disarmed by Major Gladwin's clemency, made a most furious attack upon the fort. Every stratagem was resorted to, but the attack failed. Pontiac then invested it, cut off all their supplies, and the garrison was reduced to great distress. But I must break off now, for here we are at Trois Rivières, where we shall remain for the night, I hope you will not find your accommodations very uncomfortable, Mrs. Campbell: I fear as we advance you will have to put up with worse."
"And we are fully prepared for it, Captain Sinclair," replied Mr. Campbell; "but my wife and my nieces have too much good sense to expect London hotels in the wilds of Canada."
The _bateaux_ were now on shore, and the party landed to pass the night at the small stockaded village of Trois Rivières.
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Captain Sinclair having stated that they would have a longer journey on the following day, and that it would be advisable to start as soon as possible, they rose at daylight, and in half an hour had breakfasted and were again in the boats. Soon after they had pushed into the stream and hoisted the sails, for the wind was fair, Mr. Campbell inquired how far they had to go on that day?
"About fifty miles if we possibly can," replied Captain Sinclair. "We have made seventy-two miles in the first two days; but from here to Montreal, it is about ninety, and we are anxious to get the best part over to-day, so that we may land on a cleared spot which we know of, and that I feel quite sure in; for, I regret to say you must trust to your tents and your own bedding for the night, as there is no habitation large enough to receive us on the river's side, any where near where we wish to arrive."
"Never mind, Captain Sinclair, we shall sleep very well, I dare say," replied Mrs. Campbell; "but where do all the rest of the party sleep? --there is only one tent."
"Oh! never mind the rest of the party; we are used to it, and your gentlemen won't mind it; some will sleep in the _bateaux_, some at the fire, some will watch and not sleep at all."
After some further conversation, Mary Percival observed to Captain Sinclair: "You had not, I believe, Captain Sinclair, quite finished your account of Pontiac where you left off yesterday, at the time when he was blocking the fort at Detroit. Will you oblige us by stating what afterward took place?"
"With great pleasure, Miss Percival. There was great difficulty in relieving the fort, as all communication had been cut off; at last the Governor sent his aide-de-camp, Captain Dalyell, who contrived to throw himself in the fort with about two hundred and fifty men. He shortly afterward sallied out to attack the intrenchments of the Indians, but Pontiac having received intelligence of his intention, laid an ambuscade for him, beat back the troops with great loss, and poor Dalyell fell in the combat, that took place near a bridge which still goes by the name of Bloody Bridge. Pontiac cut off the head of Captain Dalyell, and set it upon a post."
"So much for Major Gladwin's extreme sense of honor," exclaimed Alfred; "had he detained Pontiac as a prisoner, nothing of this would have happened."
"I agree with you, Mr. Alfred," replied Captain Sinclair, "it was letting loose a wolf; but Major Gladwin thought he was doing what was right, and therefore can not be well blamed. After this defeat, the investment was more strict than ever, and the garrison suffered dreadfully. Several vessels which were sent out to supply the garrison fell into the hands of Pontiac, who treated the men very cruelly. What with the loss of men and constant watching, as well as the want of provisions, the garrison was reduced to the greatest privations. At last a schooner came off with supplies, which Pontiac, as usual, attacked with his warriors in their canoes. The schooner was obliged to stand out again, but the Indians followed, and by their incessant fire killed or wounded almost every man on board her, and at length boarded and took possession. As they were climbing up the shrouds and over the gunnel of the vessel, the captain of the vessel, who was a most determined man, and resolved not to fall into the hands of the Indians, called out to the gunner to set fire to the magazine, and blow them all up together. This order was heard by one of Pontiac's chiefs acquainted with English; he cried out to one of the other Indians, and sprang away from the vessel; the other Indians followed him, and hurried away in their canoes, or by swimming as fast as they could from the vessel. The captain took advantage of the wind and arrived safe at the fort; and thus was the garrison relieved and those in the fort saved from destruction by the courage of this one man."
"You say that Pontiac is now dead, at least Martin Super told us so. How did he die, Captain Sinclair?" inquired Mrs. Campbell.
"He was killed by an Indian, but it is difficult to say why. For many years he had made friends with us and he had received a liberal pension from the Government; but it appears that his hatred against the English had again broken out, and in a council held by the Indians, he proposed assailing us anew. After he had spoken, an Indian buried his knife in his heart, but whether to gratify a private animosity or to avoid a further warfare with those who had always thinned their tribes, it is difficult to ascertain. One thing is certain, that most of the Indian animosity against the English is buried with him."
"Thank you, Captain Sinclair," said Mary Percival, "for taking so much trouble. I think Pontiac's history is a very interesting one."
"There was much to admire and much to deplore in his character, and we must not judge the Indian too harshly. He was formed for command, and possessed great courage and skill in all his arrangements, independent of his having the tact to keep all the Lake tribes of Indians combined,--no very easy task. That he should have endeavored to drive us away from those lands of which he considered himself (and very correctly too) as the sovereign, is not to be wondered at, especially as our encroachments daily increased. The great fault of his character, in our eyes, was his treachery; but we must remember that the whole art of Indian warfare is based upon stratagem."
"But his attacking the fort after he had been so generously dismissed when his intentions were known, was surely very base," remarked Mrs. Campbell.
"What we consider a generous dismissal, he probably mistook for folly and weakness. The Indians have no idea of generosity in warfare. Had Pontiac been shot, he would have died bravely, and he had no idea that, because Major Gladwin did not think proper to take his life, he was therefore bound to let us remain in possession of his lands. But whatever treachery the Indians consider allowable and proper in warfare, it is not a portion of the Indian character; for at any other time his hospitality and good faith are not to be doubted, if he pledges himself for your safety. It is a pity that they are not Christians. Surely it would make a great improvement in a character which, even in its unenlightened state, has in it much to be admired.
"When the form of worship and creed is simple, it is difficult to make converts, and the Indian is a clear reasoner. I once had a conversation with one of the chiefs on the subject. After we had conversed for some time, he said, 'You believe in one God--so do we; you call him by one name--we call him another; we don't speak the same language, that is the reason. You say, suppose you do good, you go to the land of Good Spirits--we say so too. Then Indians and Yangees (that is English) both try to gain the same object, only try in not the same way. Now I think it much better that, as we all go along together, that every man paddle his own canoe. That is my thought.'"
"It is, as you say, Captain Sinclair, difficult to argue with men who look so straight forward and are so practical in their ideas. Nevertheless," said Mrs. Campbell, "a false creed must often lead to false conduct; and whatever is estimable in the Indian character would be strengthened and improved by the infusion of Christian principles and Christian hopes,--so that I must still consider it very desirable that the Indians should become Christians,--and I trust that by judicious and discreet measures such a result may gradually be brought about."
It was two hours before sunset when they arrived at the spot at which they intended passing the night; they landed, and some of the soldiers were employed in setting up the tent on a dry hillock, while others collected logs of wood for the fire. Martin Super brought on shore the bedding, and, assisted by Alfred and Henry, placed it in the tent. Captain Sinclair's canteen provided sufficient articles to enable them to make tea, and in less than half an hour the kettle was on the fire. As soon as they had partaken of these refreshments and the contents of a basket of provisions procured at Trois Rivières, the ladies retired for the night. Captain Sinclair stationed sentinels at different posts as a security from any intruders, and then the remainder of the troops with the other males composing the party lay down with their feet toward a large fire, composed of two or three trunks of trees, which blazed for many yards in height. In a short time all was quiet, and all were in repose except the sentinels, the sergeant and corporal, and Captain Sinclair, who relieved each other.
The night passed without any disturbance, and the next morning they re-embarked and pursued their course. Before sunset they arrived at the town of Montreal, where it was arranged that they should wait a day. Mr. Campbell had a few purchases to make here, which he completed. It had been his intention also, to procure two of the small Canadian horses, but by the advice of Captain Sinclair he abandoned the idea. Captain Sinclair pointed out to him, that having no forage or means of subsistence for the animals, they would be a great expense to him during the first year without being of much use; and further, that in all probability, when the garrison was relieved at Fort Frontignac on the following year, the officers would be too glad to part with their horses at a lower price than what they could be purchased for at Montreal. Having a letter of introduction to the Governor, they received every attention. The society was almost wholly French; and many of the inhabitants called out of politeness, or to gratify their curiosity. The French ladies shrugged up their shoulders, and exclaimed, "Est-il possible?" when they heard that the Campbells were about to proceed to such a distant spot and settle upon it. The French gentlemen told the Miss Campbells that it was a great sacrifice to bury so much beauty in the wilderness; but what they said had little effect upon any of the party. Captain Sinclair offered to remain another day if Mr. Campbell wished it; but, on the contrary, he was anxious to arrive as soon as possible at his destination; and the following morning they again embarked, having now about three hundred and sixty miles to ascend against the current and the occasional rapids. It would take too much space if I were to narrate all that took place during their difficult ascent; how they were sometimes obliged to land and carry the cargoes of the boats; how one or two _bateaux_ were upset and some of their stores lost; and how their privations increased on each following day of their journey. I have too much to relate to enter into this portion of the narrative, although there might be much interest in the detail; it will be sufficient to say that, after sixteen days of some peril and much fatigue, and of considerable suffering from the clouds of musquitoes which assailed them during the night, they were landed safely at Fort Frontignac, and treated with every attention by the commandant, who had received letters from the Governor of Quebec, desiring him to do all that he possibly could to serve them. The commandant, Colonel Forster, had shown Mr. Campbell and his party the rooms which had been provided for them, and now, for the first time after many days, they found themselves all together and alone.
After a short conversation, in which they canvassed and commented upon the kindness which they had received, and the difficulties which they had, in consequence, surmounted, during their long and tedious journey to Quebec, Mr. Campbell observed: "My dear wife and children, we have thus far proceeded without serious casualty: it has pleased the Almighty to conduct us safely over a boisterous sea, to keep our spirits up by providing us with unexpected friends and support, and we now have arrived within a few miles of our destination. But let us not suppose that our perils and difficulties are terminated; on the contrary, without wishing to dishearten you, I feel that they are about to commence. We have much privation, much fatigue, and, perhaps, much danger to encounter, before we can expect to be in comfort or in security; but we must put our trust in that gracious Providence which has hitherto so mercifully preserved us, and at the same time not relax in our own energy and industry, which must ever accompany our faith in the Divine aid. It is long since we have had an opportunity of being gathered together and alone. Let us seize this opportunity of pouring out our thanks to God for his mercies already vouchsafed, and praying for a continuance of his protection. Even in the wilderness, let us walk with Him, trust in Him, and ever keep Him in our thoughts. We must bear in mind that this entire life is but a pilgrimage; that if, during its course, we should meet with affliction or distress, it is His appointment, and designed undoubtedly for our good. It is our wisdom, as well as duty to submit patiently to whatever may befall us, never losing our courage or becoming disheartened by suffering, but trusting to the mercy and power of Him who can and will, at His own good time, deliver us from evil." Mr. Campbell kneeled down, surrounded by his family, and, in a fervent and feeling address poured forth his thanksgiving for past mercies and humble solicitation for further assistance. So powerful and so eloquent were his words, that the tears coursed down the cheeks of his wife and nieces; and when he had finished, all their hearts were so full, that they retired to their beds without further exchange of words than receiving his blessing, and wishing each other good-night.
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The party were so refreshed by once more sleeping upon good beds, that they were up and dressed very early, and shortly after seven o'clock were all collected upon the rampart of the fort, surveying the landscape, which was indeed very picturesque and beautiful. Before them, to their left, the lake was spread, an inland sea, lost in the horizon, now quite calm, and near to the shores studded with small islands covered with verdant foliage, and appearing as if they floated upon the transparent water. To the westward, and in front of them, were the clearings belonging to the fort, backed with the distant woods: a herd of cattle were grazing on a portion of the cleared land; the other was divided off by a snake fence, as it is termed, and was under cultivation. Here and there a log-building was raised as a shelter for the animals during the winter, and at half a mile's distance was a small fort, surrounded with high palisades, intended as a place of retreat and security for those who might be in charge of the cattle, in case of danger or surprise. Close to the fort, a rapid stream, now from the freshets overflowing its banks, poured down its waters into the lake, running its course through a variety of shrubs and larches and occasional elms which lined its banks. The sun shone bright--the woodpeckers flew from tree to tree, or clung to the rails of the fences--the belted kingfisher darted up and down over the running stream--and the chirping and wild notes of various birds were heard on every side of them.
"This is very beautiful, is it not?" said Mrs. Campbell; "surely it can not be so great a hardship to live in a spot like this?"
"Not if it were always so, perhaps, madam," said Colonel Forster, who had joined the party as Mrs. Campbell made the observation. "But Canada in the month of June is very different from Canada in the month of January. That we find our life monotonous in this fort, separated as we are from the rest of the world, I admit, and the winters are so long and severe as to tire our patience; but soldiers must do their duty, whether burning under the tropics or freezing in the wilds of Canada. It can not be a very agreeable life, when even the report of danger near to us becomes a pleasurable feeling from the excitement it causes for the moment.
"I have been talking, Mr. Campbell, with Captain Sinclair, and find you have much to do before the short summer is over, to be ready to meet the coming winter; more than you can well do with your limited means. I am happy that my instructions from the Governor will permit me to be of service to you. I propose that the ladies shall remain here, while you, with such assistance as I can give you, proceed to your allotment and prepare for their reception."
"A thousand thanks for your kind offer, Colonel--but no, no, we will all go together," interrupted Mrs. Campbell; "we can be useful, and we will remain in the tents till the house is built. Do not say a word more, Colonel Forster, that is decided; although I again return you many thanks for your kind offer."
"If such is the case, I have only to observe that I shall send a fatigue party of twelve men, which I can well spare for a few weeks, to assist you in your labors," replied Colonel Forster. "Their remuneration will not put you to a very great expense. Captain Sinclair has volunteered to take charge of it."
"Many thanks, sir," replied Mr. Campbell; "and as you observe that we have no time to lose, with your permission we will start to-morrow morning."
"I certainly shall not dissuade you," replied the commandant, "although I did hope that I should have had the pleasure of your company for a little longer. You are aware that I have the Governor's directions to supply you with cattle from our own stock, at a fair price. I hardly need say that you may select as you please."
"And I," said Captain Sinclair, who had been in conversation with Mary Percival, and who now addressed Mr. Campbell, "have been making another collection for you among my brother-officers, which you were not provided with, and will find very useful, I may say absolutely necessary."
"What may that be, Captain Sinclair?" said Mr. Campbell.
"A variety of dogs of every description. I have a pack of five; and, although not quite so handsome as your pet dogs in England, you will find them well acquainted with the country, and do their duty well. I have a pointer, a bull-dog, two terriers, and a fox-hound--all of them of good courage, and ready to attack catamount, wolf, lynx, or even a bear, if required."
"It is, indeed, a very valuable present," replied Mr. Campbell, "and you have our sincere thanks."
"The cows you had better select before you go, unless you prefer that I should do it for you," observed Colonel Forster. "They shall be driven over in a day or two, as I presume the ladies will wish to have milk. By the by, Mr. Campbell, I must let you into a secret. The wild onions which grow so plentiful in this country, and which the cattle are very fond of, give a very unpleasant taste to the milk. You may remove it by heating the milk as soon as it has been drawn from the cows."
"Many thanks, Colonel, for your information," replied Mr. Campbell, "for I certainly have no great partiality to the flavor of onions in milk."
A summons to breakfast broke up the conversation. During the day, Henry and Alfred, assisted by Captain Sinclair and Martin Super, were very busy in loading the two _bateaux_ with the stores, tents, and various trunks of linen and other necessaries which they had brought with them. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, with the girls, were equally busy in selecting and putting on one side articles for immediate use on their arrival at the allotment. As they were very tired, they went to bed early, that they might be ready for the next day's re-embarkation; and after breakfast, having taken leave of the kind commandant and the other officers, they went down to the shore of the lake, and embarked with Captain Sinclair in the commandant's boat, which had been prepared for them. Martin Super, Alfred and Henry, with the five dogs, went on board of the two _bateaux_, which were manned by the corporal and twelve soldiers, lent by the commandant to Mr. Campbell. The weather was beautifully fine, and they set off in high spirits. The distance by water was not more three miles, although by land it was nearly five, and in half an hour they entered the cove adjoining to which the allotment lay.
"There is the spot, Mrs. Campbell, which is to be your future residence," said Captain Sinclair, pointing with his hand; "you observe where that brook runs down into the lake, that is your eastern boundary; the land on the other side is the property of the old hunter we have spoken of. You see his little log-hut, not much bigger than an Indian lodge, and the patch of Indian corn now sprung out of the ground which is inclosed by the fence. This portion appears not to be of any use to him, as he has no cattle of any kind, unless indeed they have gone into the bush; but I think some of our men said that he lived entirely by the chase, and that he has an Indian wife."
"Well," said Emma Percival, laughing, "female society is what we never calculated upon. What is the man's name?"
"Malachi Bone," replied Captain Sinclair. "I presume you expect Mrs. Bone to call first?"
"She ought to do so, if she knows the _usage_ of society," replied Emma; "but if she does not, I think I shall waive ceremony and go and see her. I have great curiosity to make acquaintance with an Indian squaw."
"You may be surprised to hear me say so, Miss Emma, but I assure you, without having ever seen her, that you will find her perfectly well bred. All the Indian women are--their characters are a compound of simplicity and reserve. --Keep the boat's head more to the right, Selby, we will land close to that little knoll."
The commandant's boat had pulled much faster, and was a long way ahead of the _bateaux_. In a few minutes afterward they had all disembarked and were standing on the knoll, surveying their new property. A portion of about thirty acres, running along the shore of the lake, was what is termed natural prairie, or meadow of short fine grass; the land immediately behind the meadow was covered with brushwood for about three hundred yards, and then rose a dark and impervious front of high timber which completely confined the landscape. The allotment belonging to the old hunter, on the opposite side of the brook, contained about the same portion of natural meadow, and was in other respects but a continuation of the portion belonging to Mr. Campbell.
"Well," said Martin Super, as soon as he had come up to the party on the knoll, for the _bateaux_ had now arrived, "I reckon, Mr. Campbell, that you are in luck to have this piece of grass. It would have taken no few blows of the ax to have cleared it away out of such a wood as that behind us. Why, it is as good as a fortune to a new settler."
"I think it is, Martin," said Mr. Campbell.
"Well, sir, now to work as soon as you please, for a day is a day, and must not be lost. I'll go to the wood with five or six of the men who can handle an ax, and begin to cut down, leaving you and the captain there to decide where the house is to be; the other soldiers will be putting up the tents all ready for to-night, for you must not expect a house over your heads till next full moon."
In a quarter of an hour all were in motion. Henry and Alfred took their axes, and followed Martin Super and half of the soldiers, the others were busy landing the stores and pitching the tents, while Captain Sinclair and Mr. Campbell were surveying the ground, that they might choose a spot for the erection of the house. Mrs. Campbell remained sitting on the knoll, watching the debarkation of the packages; and Percival, by her directions, brought her those articles which were for immediate use. Mary and Emma Percival, accompanied by John, as they had no task allotted to them, walked up the side of the stream toward the wood.
"I wish I had my box," said John, who had been watching the running water.
"Why do you want your box, John?" said Mary.
"For my hooks in my box," replied John.
"Why, do you see any fish in this small stream?" said Emma.
"Yes," replied John, walking on before them.
Mary and Emma followed him, now and then stopping to pick a flower unknown to them: when they overtook John, he was standing immovable, pointing to a figure on the other side of the stream, as fixed and motionless as himself.
The girls started back as they beheld a tall, gaunt man, dressed in deer hides, who stood leaning upon a long gun with his eyes fixed upon them. His face was browned and weather-beaten--indeed so dark that it was difficult to say if he were of the Indian race or not.
"It must be a hunter, Emma," said Mary Percival; "he is not dressed like the Indians we saw at Quebec."
"It must be," replied Emma; "won't he speak?"
"We will wait and see," replied Mary. They did wait for a minute or more, but the man neither spoke nor shifted his position.
"I will speak to him, Mary," said Emma at last. "My good man, you are Malachi Bone, are you not?"
"That's my name," replied the hunter in a deep voice; "and who on earth are you, and what are you doing here? Is it a frolic from the fort, or what is it, that causes all this disturbance?"
"Disturbance! --why we don't make a great deal of noise; no, it's no frolic; we are come to settle here, and shall be your neighbors."
[Illustration: MALACHI.]
"To settle here! --why, what on earth do you mean, young woman? Settle here! --not you, surely."
"Yes, indeed, we are. Don't you know Martin Super, the trapper? He is with us, and now at work in the woods getting ready for raising the house, as you call it. --Do you know, Mary," said Emma in a low tone to her sister, "I'm almost afraid of that man, although I do speak so boldly."
"Martin Super--yes, I know him," replied the hunter, who without any more ceremony threw his gun into the hollow of his arm, turned round, and walked away in the direction of his own hut.
"Well, Mary," observed Emma, after a pause of a few seconds, during which they watched the receding form of the hunter, "the old gentleman is not over-polite. Suppose we go back and narrate our first adventure?"
"Let us walk up to where Alfred and Martin Super are at work, and tell them," replied Mary.
They soon gained the spot where the men were felling the trees, and made known to Alfred and Martin what had taken place.
"He is angered, miss," observed Martin; "I guessed as much; well, if he don't like it he must squat elsewhere."
"How do you mean squat elsewhere?"
"I mean, miss, that if he don't like company so near him he must shift and build his wigwam further off."
"But, why should he not like company? I should have imagined that it would be agreeable rather than otherwise," replied Mary Percival.
"You may think so, miss; but Malachi Bone thinks otherwise; and it's natural; a man who has lived all his life in the woods, all alone, his eye never resting, his ear ever watching; catching at every sound, even to the breaking of a twig or the falling of a leaf; sleeping with his finger on his trigger and one eye half open, gets used to no company but his own, and can't abide it. I recollect the time that I could not. Why, miss, when a man hasn't spoken a word perhaps for months, talking is a fatigue, and, when he hasn't heard a word spoken for months, listening is as bad. It's all custom, miss, and Malachi, as I guessed, don't like it, and so he's _rily_ and angered. I will go see him after the work is over."
"But he has a wife, Martin, has he not?"
"Yes; but she's an Indian wife, Master Alfred, and Indian wives don't speak unless they're spoken to."
"What a recommendation," said Alfred, laughing; "I really think I shall look after an Indian wife, Emma."
"I think you had better," replied Emma. "You'd be certain of a quiet house,--when _you_ were out of it,--and when at home, you would have all the talk to yourself, which is just what you like. Come, Mary, let us leave him to dream of his squaw."
The men selected by the commandant of the fort were well used to handle the ax; before dusk, many trees had been felled, and were ready for sawing into lengths. The tents had all been pitched: those for the Campbells on the knoll we have spoken of; Captain Sinclair's and that for the soldiers about a hundred yards distant; the fires were lighted, and as the dinner had been cold, a hot supper was prepared by Martin and Mrs. Campbell, assisted by the girls and the younger boys. After supper they all retired to an early bed; Captain Sinclair having put a man as sentry, and the dogs having been tied at different places, that they might give the alarm if there was any danger; which, however, was not anticipated, as the Indians had for some time been very quiet in the neighborhood of Fort Frontignac.
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The next morning, when they assembled at breakfast, after Mr. Campbell had read the prayers, Mary Percival said, "Did you hear that strange and loud noise last night? I was very much startled with it; but, as nobody said a word, I held my tongue."
"Nobody said a word, because every body was fast asleep, I presume," said Alfred; "I heard nothing."
"It was like the sound of cart-wheels at a distance, with whistling and hissing," continued Mary.
"I think I can explain it to you, as I was up during the night, Miss Percival," said Captain Sinclair. "It is a noise you must expect every night during the summer season; but one to which you will soon be accustomed."
"Why, what was it?"
"Frogs,--nothing more; except, indeed, the hissing, which, I believe, is made by the lizards. They will serenade you every night. I only hope you will not be disturbed by any thing more dangerous."
"Is it possible that such small creatures can make such a din?"
"Yes; when thousands join in the concert; I may say millions."
"Well, I thank you for the explanation, Captain Sinclair, as it has been some relief to my mind."
After breakfast, Martin (we shall for the future leave out his surname) informed Mr. Campbell that he had seen Malachi Bone, the hunter, who had expressed great dissatisfaction at their arrival, and his determination to quit the place if they remained.
"Surely, he hardly expects us to quit the place to please him?"
"No," replied Martin; "but if he were cankered in disposition, which I will say Malachi is not, he might make it very unpleasant for you to remain, by bringing the Indians about you."
"Surely, he would not do that?" said Mrs. Campbell.
"No, I don't think he would," replied Martin; "because, you see, it's just as easy for him to go further off."
"But why should we drive him away from his property any more than we leave our own?" observed Mrs. Campbell.
"He says he won't be crowded, ma'am; he can't bear to be crowded."
"Why, there's a river between us."
"So there is, ma'am, but still that's his feeling. I said to him, that if he would go, I dared say Mr. Campbell would buy his allotment of him, and he seems to be quite willing to part with it."
"It would be a great addition to your property, Mr. Campbell," observed Captain Sinclair. "In the first place, you would have the whole of the prairie and the right of the river on both sides, apparently of no consequence now, but as the country fills up, most valuable."
"Well," replied Mr. Campbell, "as I presume we shall remain here, or, at all events, those who survive me will, till the country fills up, I shall be most happy to make any arrangement with Bone for the purchase of his property."
"I'll have some more talk with him, sir,'" replied Martin.
The second day was passed as was the first, in making preparations for erecting the house, which, now that they had obtained such unexpected help, was, by the advice of Captain Sinclair, considerably enlarged beyond the size originally intended. As Mr. Campbell paid the soldiers employed a certain sum per day for their labor, he had less scruple in employing them longer. Two of them were good carpenters, and a sawpit had been dug, that they might prepare the doors and the frames for the window-sashes which Mr. Campbell had taken the precaution to bring with him. On the third day, a boat arrived from the fort bringing the men's rations and a present of two fine bucks from the commandant. Captain Sinclair went in the boat to procure some articles which he required, and returned in the evening. The weather continued fine, and in the course of a week, a great deal of timber was cut and squared. During this time, Martin had several meetings with the old hunter, and it was agreed that he should sell his property to Mr. Campbell. Money he appeared to care little about--indeed it was useless to him; gunpowder, lead, flints, blankets, and tobacco, were the principal articles requested in the barter; the amount, however, was not precisely settled. An intimacy had been struck up between the old hunter and John; in what manner it was difficult to imagine, as they both were very sparing of their words; but this was certain, that John had contrived to get across the stream somehow or another, and was now seldom at home to his meals. Martin reported that he was in the lodge of the old hunter, and that he could come to no harm; so Mrs. Campbell was satisfied.
"But what does he do there, Martin?" said Mrs. Campbell, as they were clearing away the table after supper.
"Just nothing but look at the squaw, or at Malachi cleaning his gun, or any thing else he may see. He never speaks, that I know of, and that's why he suits old Malachi."
"He brought home a whole basket of trout this afternoon," observed Mary; "so he is not quite idle."
"No, miss; he's fishing at daylight, and gives one-half to you and the other to old Bone. He'll make a crack hunter one of these days, as old Malachi says. He can draw the bead on the old man's rifle in good style already, I can tell you."
"How do you mean, Martin?" said Mrs. Campbell.
"I mean that he can fire pretty true, ma'am, although it's a heavy gun for him to lift; a smaller one would do better for him."
"But is he not too young to be trusted with a gun, uncle?" said Mary.
"No, miss," interrupted Martin, "you can't be too young here; the sooner a boy is useful the better; and the boy with a gun is almost as good as a man; for the gun kills equally as well if pointed true. Master Percival must have his gun as soon as I am at leisure to teach him."
"I wish you were at leisure now, Martin," cried Percival.
"You forget, aunt, that you promised to learn to load and fire a rifle yourself," said Mary.
"No. I do not; and I intend to keep my word, as soon as there is time; but John is so very young."
"Well, Mary, I suppose we must enlist too?" said Emma.
"Yes; we'll be the female rifle brigade," replied Mary, laughing.
"I really quite like the idea," continued Emma; "I will put up with no impertinence, recollect, Alfred; excite my displeasure, and I shall take down my rifle."
"I suspect you will do more execution with your eyes, Emma," replied Alfred, laughing.
"Not upon a catamount, as Martin calls it. Pray what is a catamount?"
"A painter, miss."
"Oh, now I know; a catamount is a painter, a painter is a leopard or a panther. --As I live, uncle, here comes the old hunter, with John trotting at his heels. I thought he would come at last. The visit is to me, I'm sure, for when we first met he was dumb with astonishment."
"He well might be," observed Captain Sinclair; "he has not often met with such objects as you and your sister in the woods."
"No," replied Emma; "an English squaw must be rather a rarity."
As she said this, old Malachi Bone came up, and seated himself, without speaking, placing his rifle between his knees.
"Your servant, sir," said Mr. Campbell; "I hope you are well."
"What on earth makes you come here?" said Bone, looking round him. "You are not fit for the wilderness! Winter will arrive soon; and then you go back, I reckon."
"No, we shall not," replied Alfred, "for we have nowhere to go back to; besides, the people are too crowded where we came from, so we came here for more room."
"I reckon you'll crowd _me_," replied the hunter, "so I'll go further."
"Well, Malachi, the gentleman will pay you for your clearing."
"I told you so," said Martin.
"Yes, you did; but I'd rather not have seen him or his goods."
"By goods, I suppose you mean us about you?" said Emma.
"No, girl, I didn't mean you. I meant gunpowder and the like."
"I think, Emma, you are comprehended in the last word," said Alfred.
"That is more than you are, then, for he did not mention lead," retorted Emma.
"Martin Super, you know I did specify lead on the paper," said Malachi Bone.
"You did, and you shall have it," said Mr. Campbell. "Say what your terms are now, and I will close with you."
"Well, I'll leave that to Martin and you, stranger. I clear out to-morrow."
"To-morrow; and where do you go to?"
Malachi Bone pointed to the westward.
"You'll not hear my rifle," said the old hunter, after a pause; "but I'm thinking you'll never stay here. You don't know what an Ingen's life is; it ain't fit for the like of you. No, there's not one of you, 'cept this boy," continued Malachi, putting his hand on John's head, "that's fit for the woods. Let him come to me. I'll make a hunter of him; won't I, Martin?"
"That you will, if they'll spare him to you."
"We can not spare him altogether," replied Mr. Campbell, "but he shall visit you, if you wish it."
"Well, that's a promise; and I won't go so far as I thought I would. He has a good eye; I'll come for him."
The old man then rose up, and walked away, John following him, without exchanging a word with any of the party.
"My dear Campbell," said his wife, "what do you intend to do about John? You do not intend that the hunter should take him with him?"
"No, certainly not," replied Mr. Campbell; "but I see no reason why he should not be with him occasionally."
"It will be a very good thing for him to be so," said Martin. "If I may advise, let the boy come and go. The old man has taken a fancy to him, and will teach him his woodcraft. It's as well to make a friend of Malachi Bone."
"Why, what good can he do us?" inquired Henry.
"A friend in need is a friend indeed, sir; and a friend in the wilderness is not to be thrown away. Old Malachi is going further out, and if danger occurs, we shall know it from him, for the sake of the boy, and have his help too, if we need it."
"There is much good sense in Martin Super's remarks, Mr. Campbell," observed Captain Sinclair. "You will then have Malachi Bone as an advanced guard, and the fort to fall back upon, if necessary to retreat."
"And, perhaps, the most useful education which he can receive to prepare him for his future life will be from the old hunter."
"The only one which he will take to kindly, at all events," observed Henry.
"Let him go, sir; let him go," said Martin.
"I will give no positive answer, Martin," replied Mr. Campbell. "At all events, I will permit him to visit the old man; there can be no objection to that;--but it is bedtime."
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We must pass over six weeks, during which the labor was continued without intermission, and the house was raised, of logs, squared and well fitted; the windows and doors were also put in, and the roof well covered in with large squares of birch-bark, firmly fixed on the rafters. The house consisted of one large room, as a dining-room, and the kitchen, with a floor of well-beaten clay, a smaller room, as a sitting-room, and three bedrooms, all of which were floored; one of the largest of them fitted all round with bed-places against the walls, in the same way as on board of packets; this room was for the four boys, and had two spare bed-places in it. The others, which were for the two girls and Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, were much smaller. But before the house was half built, a large outhouse adjoining to it had been raised to hold the stores which Mr. Campbell had brought with him, with a rough granary made above the store-room. The interior of the house was not yet fitted up, although the furniture had been put in, and the family slept in it, rough as it was, in preference to the tents, as they were very much annoyed with musquitoes. The stores were now safe from the weather, and they had a roof over their heads, which was the grand object that was to be obtained. The carpenters were still very busy fitting up the interior of the house, and the other men were splitting rails for a snake-fence and also selecting small timber for raising a high palisade round the premises. Martin had not been idle. The site of the house was just where the brushwood joined to the prairie, and Martin had been clearing it away and stacking it, and also collecting wood for winter fuel. It had been decided that the four cows, which had been driven round from the fort, should be housed during the winter in the small building on the other side of the stream, which had belonged to Malachi Bone, as it was surrounded with a high snake-fence, and sufficiently large to hold them and even more. The commandant had very kindly selected the most quiet cows to milk, and Mary and Emma Percival had already entered upon their duties: the milk had been put into the store-house until a dairy could be built up. A very neat bridge had been thrown across the stream, and every morning the two girls, generally attended by Henry, Alfred, or Captain Sinclair, crossed over, and soon became expert in their new vocation as dairy-maids. Altogether, things began to wear a promising appearance. Henry and Mr. Campbell had dug up as fast as Martin and Alfred cleared away the brushwood, and the garden had already been cropped with such few articles as could be put in at the season. The commandant had some pigs ready for the settlers as soon as they were ready to receive them, and had more than once come up in the boats to ascertain their progress and to offer any advice that he might consider useful.
We must not, however, forget Malachi Bone. The day after Bone had come to Mr. Campbell, Emma perceived him going away into the woods, with his rifle, followed by her cousin John, and being very curious to see his Indian wife, she persuaded Alfred and Captain Sinclair to accompany her and Mary to the other side of the stream. The great point was to know where to cross it, but as John had found out the means of so doing, it was to be presumed that there was a passage, and they set off to look for it. They found that, about half a mile up the stream, which there ran through the wood, a large tree had been blown down and laid across it, and with the assistance of the young men, Mary and Emma passed it without much difficulty; they then turned back by the side of the stream until they approached the lodge of old Malachi. As they walked toward it, they could not perceive any one stirring; but at last a dog of the Indian breed began to bark; still nobody came out, and they arrived at the door of the lodge where the dog stood; when, sitting on the floor, they perceived the Indian girl whom they were in search of. She was very busy sewing a pair of moccasins out of deer leather. She appeared startled when she first saw Alfred; but when she perceived that the young ladies were with him, her confidence returned. She slightly bowed her head, and continued her work.
"How very young she is," said Emma; "why she can not be more than eighteen years old."
"I doubt if she is so much," replied Captain Sinclair.
"She has a very modest, unaffected look, has she not, Alfred?" said Mary.
"Yes; I think there is something very prepossessing in her countenance."
"She is too young a wife for the old hunter, at all events," observed Alfred.
"That is not unusual among the Indians," said Captain Sinclair; "a very old chief will often have three or four young wives; they are to be considered more in the light of his servants than any thing else."
"But she must think us very rude to talk and stare at her in this manner; I suppose she can not speak English."
"I will speak to her in her own language, if she is a Chippeway or of any of the tribes about here, for they all have the same dialect," said Captain Sinclair.
Captain Sinclair addressed her in the Indian language, and the Indian girl replied in a very soft voice.
"She says her husband is gone to bring home venison."
"Tell her we are coming to live here, and will give her any thing she wants."
[Illustration: MALACHI AND HIS WIFE.]
Captain Sinclair again addressed her, and received her answer.
"She says that you are beautiful flowers, but not the wild flowers of the country, and that the cold winter will kill you."
"Tell her she will find us alive next summer," said Emma; "and, Captain Sinclair, give her this brooch of mine, and tell her to wear it for my sake."
Captain Sinclair gave the message and the ornament to the Indian girl, who replied, as she looked up and smiled at Emma, "That she would never forget the beautiful lily who was so kind to the little strawberry-plant."
"Really her language is poetical and beautiful," observed Mary; "I have nothing to give her--Oh! yes, I have; here is my ivory needle-case, with some needles in it. Tell her it will be of use to her when she sews her moccasins. Open it and show her what is inside."
"She says that she will be able to work faster and better, and wishes to look at your foot, that she may be grateful; so put your foot out, Miss Percival."
Mary did so; the Indian girl examined it, and smiled and nodded her head.
"Oh, Captain Sinclair, tell her that the little boy who is gone with her husband is our cousin."
Captain Sinclair reported her answer, which was, "He will be a great hunter and bring home plenty of game by and by."
"Well, now, tell her that we shall always be happy to see her, and that we are going home again; and ask her name, and tell her our own."
As Captain Sinclair interpreted, the Indian girl pronounced after him the names of Mary and Emma very distinctly. "She has your names, you perceive; her own, translated into English, is the strawberry-plant."
They then nodded farewell to the young Indian, and returned home. On the second evening after their visit, as they were at supper, the conversation turned upon the hunter and his young Indian wife, when John, who had, as usual, been silent, suddenly broke out with "Goes away to-morrow!"
"They go away to-morrow, John; where do they go to?" said Mr. Campbell.
"Woods," replied John.
John was correct in his statement. Early the next morning, Malachi Bone, with his rifle on his shoulder and an ax in his hand, was seen crossing the prairie belonging to Mr. Campbell, followed by his wife, who was bent double under her burden, which was composed of all the property which the old hunter possessed, tied up in blankets. He had left word the night before with Martin that he would come back in a few days, as soon as he had squatted, to settle the bargain for his allotment of land made over to Mr. Campbell. This was just before they had sat down to breakfast, and then they observed that John was missing.
"He was here just before prayers," said Mrs. Campbell. "He must have slipped away after the old hunter."
"No doubt of that, ma'am," said Martin. "He will go with him and find out where he puts up his wigwam, and after that he will come back to you; so there is no use sending after him; indeed, we don't know which way to send."
Martin was right. Two days afterward, John made his appearance again, and remained very quietly at home during the whole week, catching fish in the stream or practicing with a bow and some arrows, which he had obtained from Malachi Bone; but the boy appeared to be more taciturn and more fond of being alone than even he was before; still he was obedient and kind toward his mother and cousins, and was fond of Percival's company when he went to take trout from the stream.
It was of course after the departure of the old hunter, that his log hut was taken possession of and the cows put into the meadow in front of it.
As the work became more advanced, Martin went out every day, accompanied either by Alfred or Henry, in pursuit of game. Mr. Campbell had procured an ample supply of ammunition, as well as the rifles, at Quebec. These had been unpacked, and the young men were becoming daily more expert. Up to the present, the supply of game from the fort, and occasional fresh beef, had not rendered it necessary for Mr. Campbell to have much recourse to his barrels of salt-pork, but still it was necessary that a supply should be procured as often as possible, that they might husband their stores. Martin was a certain shot if within distance, and they seldom returned without a deer slung between them. The garden had been cleared away and the pig-sties were finished, but there was still the most arduous portion of the work to commence, which was the felling of the trees to clear the land for the growing of corn. In this they could expect no assistance from the garrison; indeed, from the indulgence of the commandant, they had already obtained more than they could have expected. It was in the last days of August, and the men lent from the garrison were about to be recalled; the houses were completed, the palisade had been raised round the house and store-house, and the men were now required at the fort. Captain Sinclair received several hints from the commandant that he must use all convenient dispatch, and limit his absence to a few days more, which he trusted would be sufficient. Captain Sinclair, who would willingly have remained in society which he so much valued, and who had now become almost one of the family, found that he could make no more excuses. He reported that he would be ready to return on the 1st of September, and on the morning of that day the _bateaux_ arrived to take back the soldiers, and bring the pigs and fowls which had been promised. Mr. Campbell settled his account with Captain Sinclair, by a draft upon his banker at Quebec, for the pay of the soldiers, the cows, and the pigs. The Captain then took leave of his friends with mutual regret, and many kind adieus, and, accompanied by the whole of the family to the beach, embarked with all his men and pulled away for the fort.
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The Campbells remained for some time on the shore of the lake watching the receding _bateaux_ until they turned round the point and were hidden from their sight, and then they walked back to the house. But few words were exchanged as they returned, for they felt a sensation of loneliness from having parted with so many of their own countrymen; not that they were, with the exception of Captain Sinclair, companions, but that, accustomed to the sight of the soldiers at their labor, the spot now appeared depopulated by their departure. Martin, too, and John, were both absent; the latter had been two days away, and Martin, who had not yet found time to ascertain where old Malachi Bone had fixed his new abode, had gone out in search of it, and to mention to him Mr. Campbell's wishes as to John's visits to him, which were becoming more frequent and more lengthened than Mr. Campbell wished them to be.
When they entered the house, they all sat down, and Mr. Campbell then first spoke.
"Well, my dearest wife, here we are at last, left to ourselves and to our own resources. I am not at all doubtful of our doing well, if we exert ourselves, as it is our duty to do. I grant that we may have hardship to combat, difficulties to overcome, occasional disappointments and losses to bear up against; but let us recollect how greatly we have, through Providence, been already assisted and encouraged, how much help we have received, and how much kindness we have experienced. Surely we ought to feel most grateful to Heaven for blessings already vouchsafed to us, and ought to have a firm and lively faith in _Him_, who has hitherto so kindly watched over us. Let us not then repine or feel dispirited, but with grateful hearts do our duty cheerfully in that state of life to which it has pleased _Him_ to call us."
"I agree with you, my dear husband," replied Mrs. Campbell; "nay, I can say with sincerity, that I am not sorry we are now left to our own exertions, and that we have an opportunity of proving that we _can_ do without the assistance of others. Up to the present, our trial has been nothing; indeed, I can not fancy to myself what our trials are to be. Come they may, but from what quarter I can not form an idea: should they come, however, I trust we shall show our gratitude for the past blessings, and our faith derived from past deliverances, by a devout submission to whatever the Almighty may please to try or chasten us with."
"Right, my dear," replied Mr. Campbell; "we will hope for the best; we are as much under his protection here in the wilderness, as we were at Wexton Park; we were just as liable to all the ills which flesh is heir to when we were living in opulence and luxury as we are now in this log-house; but we are, I thank God, not so liable in our present position to forget Him, who so bountifully provides for us and in His wisdom ordereth all our ways. Most truly has the poet said-- "'Sweet are the uses of adversity!'"
"Well," observed Emma, after a pause, as if to give a more lively turn to the conversation. "I wonder what _my_ trials are to be! Depend upon it, the cow will kick down the pail, or the butter won't come!"
"Or you'll get chapped fingers in the winter-time, and chilblains on your feet," continued Mary.
"That will be bad; but Captain Sinclair says that if we don't take care we shall be frost-bitten and lose the tips of our noses."
"That would be hard upon you, Emma, for you've none to spare," said Alfred.
"Well, you have, Alfred, so yours ought to go first."
"We must look after one another's noses, they say, as we can not tell if our own is in danger; and if we see a white spot upon another's nose, we must take a bit of snow and rub it well; a little delicate attention peculiar to this climate."
"I can not say that I do not know what my trials are to be," said Alfred--"that is, trials certain; nor can Henry either. When I look at the enormous trunks of these trees, which we have to cut down with our axes, I feel positive that it will be a hard trial before we master them. Don't you think so, Harry?"
"I have made up my mind to have at least two new skins upon my hands before the winter comes on," replied Henry; "but felling timber was not a part of my university education--" "No," replied Alfred; "Oxford don't teach that; now, my university education--" "Your university education!" cried Emma.
"Yes, mine; I have sailed all over the universe, and that I call a university education; but here come Martin and John. Why, John has got a gun on his shoulder! He must have taken it with him when he last disappeared."
"I suppose that by this time he knows how to use it, Alfred," said Mrs. Campbell.
"Yes, ma'am," replied Martin, who had entered; "he knows well how to use and how to take care of it and take care of himself. I let him bring it home on purpose to watch him. He has fired and loaded twice as we came back, and has killed this woodchuck," continued Martin, throwing the dead animal on the floor. "Old Malachi has taught him well, and he has not forgotten his lessons."
"What animal is that, Martin,--is it good to eat?" said Henry.
"Not very good, sir; it's an animal that burrows in the ground, and is very hurtful in a garden or to the young maize, and we always shoot them when we meet with them."
"It's a pity that it's not good to eat."
"Oh! you may eat it, sir; I don't say it's not fit to eat; but there are other things much better."
"That's quite sufficient for me, Martin," said Emma, "I shall not taste him; at all events, not this time, whatever I may have to do by and by."
"I spoke to old Bone, sir, and he says it's all right; that he won't keep him more than a day without first sending him to you to ask leave."
"That's all I require, Martin."
"They have been out these two days, and had only just come home when I arrived there. The game was still in the wood."
"I shot a deer," said John.
"You shot a deer, John!" said Alfred; "why what a useful fellow you will be by and by."
"Yes, sir; old Malachi told me that the boy had shot a deer, and that he would bring it here to-morrow himself."
"I am glad of that, for I wish to speak with him," said Mr. Campbell; "but, John, how came you to take the rifle with you without leave?"
John made no answer.
"Answer me, John."
"Can't shoot without a gun," replied John.
"No, you can not; but the rifle is not yours."
"Give it to me, and I'll shoot every thing for dinner," replied John.
"I think you had better do so, father," said Henry in a low voice; "the temptation will be too strong."
"You are right, Henry," replied Mr. Campbell, aside. "Now, John, I will give you the rifle, if you will promise me to ask leave when you want to go, and always come back at the time you have promised."
"I'll always tell when I go, if mamma will always let me go, and I'll always come back when I promise, if--" "If what?"
"If I've killed," replied John.
"He means, sir, that if he is on the track when his leave is out, that he must follow it; but as soon as he has either lost his game, or killed it, he will then come home. That's the feeling of a true hunter, sir, and you must not balk it."
"Very true; well then, John, recollect that you promise."
"Martin," said Percival, "when are you to teach me to fire the rifle?"
"Oh, very soon now, sir; but the soldiers are gone, and as soon as you can hit the mark, you shall go out with Mr. Alfred or me."
"And when are we to learn, Mary?" said Emma.
"I will teach you, cousins," said Alfred, "and give a lesson to my honored mother."
"Well, we'll all learn," replied Mrs. Campbell.
"What's to be done to-morrow, Martin?" said Alfred.
"Why, sir, there are boards enough to make a fishing-punt, and if you and Mr. Henry will help me, I think we shall have one made in two or three days. The lake is full of fish, and it's a pity not to have some while the weather is so fine."
"I've plenty of lines in the store-room," said Mr. Campbell.
"Master Percival would soon learn to fish by himself," said Martin, "and then he'll bring as much as Master John."
"Fish!" said John with disdain.
"Yes, fish, Master John," replied Martin; "a good hunter is always a good fisherman, and don't despise them, for they often give him a meal when he would otherwise go to sleep with an empty stomach."
"Well, I'll catch fish with pleasure," cried Percival, "only I must sometimes go out hunting."
"Yes, my dear boy, and we must sometimes go to bed; and I think it is high time now, as we must all be up to-morrow at daylight."
The next morning, Mary and Emma set off to milk the cows--not, as usual, attended by some of the young men, for Henry and Alfred were busy, and Captain Sinclair was gone. As they crossed the bridge, Mary observed to her sister, "No more gentlemen to attend us lady milk-maids, Emma."
"No," replied Emma; "our avocation is losing all its charms, and a pleasure now almost settles down to a duty."
"Alfred and Henry are with Martin about the fishing-boat," observed Mary.
"Yes," replied Emma; "but I fancy, Mary, you were thinking more of Captain Sinclair than of your cousins."
"That is very true, Emma; I was thinking of him," replied Mary, gravely. "You don't know how I feel his absence."
"I can imagine it, though, my dearest Mary. Shall we soon see him again?"
"I do not know; but I think not for three or four weeks, for certain. All that can be spared from the fort are gone haymaking, and if he is one of the officers sent with the men, of course he will be absent, and if he is left in the fort, he will be obliged to remain there; so there is no chance of seeing him until the haymaking is over."
"Where is it that they go to make hay, Mary?"
"You know they have only a sufficiency of pasture round the fort for the cattle during the summer, so they go along by the borders of the lake and islands, where they know there are patches of clear land, cut the grass down, make the hay, and collect it all in the _bateaux_, and carry it to the fort to be stacked for the winter. This prairie was their best help, but now they have lost it."
"But Colonel Forster has promised papa sufficient hay for the cows for this winter; indeed, we could not have fed them unless he had done so. Depend upon it, Captain Sinclair will bring the hay round, and then we shall see him again, Mary; but we must walk after our own cows now. No one to drive them for us. If Alfred had any manners he might have come."
"And why not Henry, Emma?" said Mary, with a smile.
"Oh! I don't know; Alfred came into my thoughts first."
"I believe that really was the case," replied Mary. "Now I'm even with you; so go along and milk your cows."
"It's all very well, miss," replied Emma, laughing; "but wait till I have learned to fire my rifle, and then you'll be more cautious of what you say."
On their return home, they found the old hunter with a fine buck lying before him. Mr. Campbell was out with the boys and Martin, who wished his opinion as to the size of the punt.
"How do you do, Mr. Bone?" said Mary. "Did John shoot that deer?"
"Yes; and shot it as well as an old hunter, and the creatur' can hardly lift the gun to his shoulder. Which of you is named Mary?"
"I am," said Mary.
"Then I've something for you," said old Malachi, pulling from out of his vest a small parcel, wrapped up in thin bark, and handing it to her; "it's a present from the Strawberry."
Mary opened the bark, and found inside of it a pair of moccasins, very prettily worked in stained porcupines' quills.
"Oh! how beautiful, and how kind of her! Tell her that I thank her, and love her very much. Will you?"
"Yes; I'll tell her. Where's the boy?"
"Who, John? I think he's gone up the stream to take some trout; he'll be back to breakfast, and that's just ready. Come, Emma, we must go in with the milk."
Mr. Campbell and those who were with him soon returned.
Malachi Bone then stated that he had brought the buck killed by John; and that, if it suited, he would carry back with him a keg of gunpowder and some lead; that he wished Mr. Campbell to calculate what he considered due to him for the property, and let him take it out in goods, as he required them.
"Why don't you name your own price, Malachi?" said Mr. Campbell.
"How can I name a price? It was given to me and cost nothing. I leave it all to you and Martin Super, as I said before."
"You show great confidence in me, I must say. Well Bone, I will not cheat you; but I am afraid you will be a long while before you are paid, if you only take it out in goods from my store-house."
"All the better, master; they will last till I die, and then what's left will do for the boy here," replied the old hunter, putting his hand upon John's head.
"Bone," said Mr. Campbell, "I have no objection to the boy going with you occasionally; but I cannot permit him to be away always. I want him to come home the day after he has been to see you."
"Well, that's not reasonable, master. We go out after the game; who knows where we may find it, how long we may look for it, and how far it may lead us? Must we give up the chase when close upon it, because time's up? That'll never do. I want to make the boy a hunter, and he must learn to sleep out and do every thing else as concerns a hunter to do. You must let him be with me longer, and, if you please, when he comes back keep him longer; but if you wish him to be a man, the more he stays with me the better. He shall know all the Indian craft, I promise you, and the winter after this he shall take beavers and bring you the skins."
"I think, sir," observed Martin, "it's all in reason what the old man says."
"And so do I," said Alfred; "after all, it's only sending John to school. Let him go, father, and have him home for the holidays."
"I'll always come to you, when I can," said John.
"I am more satisfied at John's saying that than you might imagine," said Mrs. Campbell; "John is an honest boy, and does not say what he does not mean."
"Well, my dear, if you have no objection, I'm sure I will not raise any more."
"I think I shall gain more by John's affection than by compulsion, my dear husband. He says he will always come when he can, and I believe him; I have, therefore, no objection to let him stay with Malachi Bone, at all events for a week or so at a time."
"But his education, my dear."
"He is certain to learn nothing now that this fever for the woods, if I may so call it, is upon him. He will, perhaps, be more teachable a year or two hence. You must be aware that we have no common disposition to deal with in that child; and however my maternal feelings may oppose my judgment, it is still strong enough to make me feel that my decision is for his benefit. We must not here put the value upon a _finished_ education which we used to do. Let us give him every advantage which the peculiarity of his position will allow us to do; but we are now in the woods, to a certain degree returned to a state of nature, and the first and most important knowledge, is to learn to gain our livelihoods."
"Well, my dear, I think you are correct in your views on the subject, and therefore, John, you may go to school with Malachi Bone; come to see us when you can, and I expect you to turn out the Nimrod of the west."
Old Malachi stared at the conclusion of this speech; Alfred observed his surprise, and burst into a fit of laughter. He then said, "The English of all that is, Malachi, that my brother John has my father's leave to go with you, and you're to make a man of him."
"He who made him must make a man of him," replied Bone: "I can only make him a good hunter, and that I will, if he and I are spared. Now, master, if Martin will give me the powder and lead, I'll be off again. Is the boy to go?"
"Yes, if you desire it," replied Mrs. Campbell; "come, John, and wish me good-by and remember your promise."
John bade farewell to the whole party with all due decorum, and then trotted off after his schoolmaster.
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In the course of a week or two, things found their places, and the family began to feel more comfortable; there was also a degree of regularity and order established, which could not be effected during the time that the soldiers were employed. Mrs. Campbell and Percival took upon them all the work inside and round the house during the morning; the latter attending to the pigs and fowls, bringing water from the stream, etc. Mary and Emma milked the cows, and then assisted their mother during the day in washing, etc. Mr. Campbell instructed Percival, worked in the garden, and assisted as much as he could, where he might be found most useful; but he was too advanced in years to be capable of much hard work. Alfred, Henry and Martin Super were employed during the whole day, clearing the ground and felling the timber; but every other day, one or the other went out with Martin into the woods to procure food, bringing home with them deer, wild turkeys, or other game, which with an occasional piece of salt-pork, and the fish caught, were sufficient for the family consumption. Percival was now permitted to accompany the hunting-parties, and became somewhat expert with his rifle. He required only a little more practice to be a good shot.
They rose at half-past five,--were all assembled to prayers at half-past seven, previous to going to breakfast. They dined at one, and had a combined tea and supper at seven o'clock. At nine o'clock they went to bed. Before two months had passed away, every thing went on like clock-work. One day passed away so like another, that the time flew imperceptibly, and they wondered that the Sundays came round so quick. They had now time to unpack every thing, and the books which Mrs. Campbell had selected and brought with her had been arranged on shelves in the parlor; but they had not as yet much time to read, and were generally too tired before the day was over not to long for their beds. Indeed, the only interval of leisure during the whole day was between supper and bedtime, when they would all assemble in the kitchen and talk over the little matters which had occurred either during the chase or at home. But they were now in the middle of October, the winter was fast approaching, and they looked forward to it with some degree of anxiety.
John had kept his word very sacredly. He was occasionally absent for three or four days, but if so, he invariably came to the house and remained a day or two at home. Alfred and Martin had long finished the fishing-punt, and as it was light and easily handled, Henry and Percival went out in it together, and when he was at home, John with Percival would pull half a mile out into the lake, and soon return with a supply of large fish. Mrs. Campbell, therefore, had salted down sufficient to fill a barrel for the winter's use.
One day they were agreeably surprised by Captain Sinclair making his appearance. He had walked from the fort, to communicate to them that the hay had been gathered in, and would be sent round in a day or two, and also to inform Mr. Campbell that the commandant could spare them a young bullock, if he would wish to have it for winter provision. This offer was gladly accepted, and, having partaken of their dinner, Captain Sinclair was obliged to return to the fort, he being that night on duty. Previous, however, to his return, he had some conversation with Martin Super, unobserved by the rest of the party. Afterward he invited Alfred to walk back to the fort with him and return on the following morning. Alfred agreed to do so; and two hours before it was dark they set off, and as soon as they were on the opposite side of the brook they were joined by Martin Super.
"My reasons for asking you to come back with me were twofold," said Captain Sinclair to Alfred. "In the first place, I wish you to know the road to the fort, in case it should be necessary to make any communication during the winter; secondly, I wished to have some conversation with you and Martin relative to information we have received about the Indians. I can tell you privately what I was unwilling to say before your mother and cousins, as it would put them in a state of restlessness and anxiety, which could avail nothing and only annoy them. The fact is, we have for some time had information that the Indians have held several councils. It does not appear, however, that they have as yet decided upon any thing, although it is certain that they have gathered together in large numbers not very far from the fort. No doubt but they have French emissaries inciting them to attack us. From what we can learn, however, they have not agreed among themselves, and, therefore, in all probability, nothing will be attempted until next year, for the autumn is their season for sending out their war-parties. At the same time, there is no security, for there is a great difference between a junction of all the tribes against us and a common Indian war-party. We must, therefore, be on the alert, for we have a treacherous foe to deal with. And now, for your portion of interest in this affair. If they attack the fort, which they may do, notwithstanding our treaties with them, you of course would not be safe where you are; but, unfortunately, you may not be safe even if we are not molested; for when the Indians collect (even though the main body decide upon nothing), there are always bands of five to ten Indians, who, having left their homes, will not return if they can help it without some booty; these are not regular warriors, or if warriors, not much esteemed by the tribe; in fact, they are the worst classes of Indians, who are mere robbers and banditti. You must, therefore, be on the look-out for the visits of these people. It is fortunate for you that old Bone has shifted his abode so many miles to the westward, and that you are on such good terms with him, as it is not very likely that any party of Indians can approach you without his meeting with them or their track during his excursions."
"That's true, Captain," observed Martin, "and I will go myself and put him on his guard."
"But, will they not attack him before they attack us?" said Alfred.
"Why should they?" replied Sinclair. "He is as much an Indian almost as they are, and is well known to most of them. Besides, what would they gain by attacking him? These straggling parties, which you have to fear, are in quest of booty, and will not expect to find any thing in his wigwam except a few furs. No; they will not venture near his rifle, which they fear, when there is nothing to be obtained by so doing. I mention this to you, Alfred, that you may be prepared and keep a sharp look-out. It is very possible that nothing of the kind may occur, and that the winter may pass away without any danger, and I mention it to you and Martin, as I consider that the probabilities are not sufficient to warrant your alarming the other members of the family, especially the female portion of it. How far you may consider it advisable to communicate what has now passed to your father and Henry, it is for you to decide. As I said before, I do not imagine you have much to fear from a general attack; it is too late in the year, and we know that the councils broke up without coming to any decision. You have only to fear the attempts of small parties of marauders, and I think you are quite strong enough, both in numbers and in the defenses of your habitation, to resist them successfully, if you are not suddenly surprised. That is all that you have to fear; and now that you are warned, half the danger is over."
"Well, Captain, I'll leave you now," said Martin, "I shall go over to old Malachi's to-night; for it occurs to me that any attack is more likely to be made between the fall of the leaf and the fall of the snow than afterward; so the sooner I put Malachi on his guard the better. Good-evening, sir."
Captain Sinclair and Alfred continued on their way to the fort. They had contracted a strong friendship, and were unreserved in their communication with each other.
"You have no idea, Alfred," said Captain Sinclair, "how the peculiar position of your family occupies my thoughts. It really appears almost like madness on the part of your father to bring out your mother and cousins to such a place, and expose them to such privations and dangers. I can hardly sleep at night when I reflect upon what might happen."
"I believe," replied Alfred, "that if my father had known exactly what his present position would have been, he would have decided upon not leaving England; but you must remember that he came out with much encouragement, and the idea that he would only have to surmount the hardships of a settler in clearing his land. He fancied, at least I'm sure _we_ all did, that we should be surrounded by other farmers, and have no particular danger to incur. When at Quebec, he found that all the good land near to civilization was bought up or possessed by the French Canadians; he was advised to come further westward by those who ought to have been aware of what he would have to encounter by so doing, but who probably considered that the danger we now apprehend no longer existed; and he has followed that advice which I have no doubt was conscientiously given. I think myself, even now, that the advice was good, although we are accompanied by females who have been brought up in so different a sphere, and for whose welfare such anxiety is shown; for observe now, Sinclair, suppose, without having made our acquaintance, you had heard that some settlers, men and women, had located themselves where we have done; should you have considered it so very rash an undertaking, presuming that they were merely farmers and farmers' wives?"
"I certainly should have troubled myself very little about them, and perhaps not thought upon the subject."
"But supposing the subject had been brought up at the fort, and you had heard the parties had a stockaded house and four or five good rifles to depend upon, with the fort to fall back upon if necessary?"
"I admit that I should most probably have said that they were in a position to protect themselves."
"Most assuredly, and therefore we are equally so; your feelings of interest in us magnify the danger, and I therefore trust that in future you will not allow our position to interfere with your night's rest."
"I wish I could bring myself to that feeling of security, Alfred. If I were only with you, to assist in protecting them, I should sleep sound enough."
"Then you would not be of much use as a watch," replied Alfred, laughing. "Never fear, Sinclair, we shall do well enough," continued he, "and if we require assistance, we will apply for you and a party of soldiers."
"There would be much difficulty about that, Alfred," replied Captain Sinclair; "if there were sufficient danger to make that demand upon the commandant, the same danger would require that he should not weaken his force in the fort; no, you would have to retreat to the fort, and leave your farm to the mercy of the Indians."
"It certainly would be the wisest plan of the two," replied Alfred; "at all events, we could send the women. But the Indians have not come yet, and we must hope that they will not."
The conversation was then changed, and in half an hour more they arrived at the fort.
Alfred was welcomed at the fort by Colonel Forster, with whom he was a great favorite. The Colonel could not refrain from expressing his opinion, that Mr. Campbell and his family were in a position of some danger, and lamenting that the female portion of the family, who had been brought up with such very different prospects, should be so situated. He even ventured to hint that if Mrs. Campbell and the two Misses Percival would pass the winter in the fort he would make arrangements to accommodate them. But Alfred at once replied, that he was convinced no inducement would persuade his mother or cousins to leave his father; they had shared his prosperity, and they would cling to him in adversity; that they all were aware of what they would have to risk before they came out, and his father preferred a life of honorable independence attended with danger, to seeking the assistance of others.
"But still I can not perceive any reason for the ladies remaining to encounter the danger."
"The more we are, the stronger we are to repel danger," replied Alfred.
"But women surely will only be an incumbrance!"
"I think differently," replied Alfred. "Young and delicate as my cousins are, they will not shrink any more than my mother when their services are required. They now can all of them use a rifle, if required, and to defend a house, a determined woman is almost as effective as a man. Depend upon it, if it comes to the necessity, they will do so. You see, therefore, Colonel, that by taking away our ladies, you will weaken our force," continued Alfred, laughing.
"Well, my dear fellow, I will press it no more. Only recollect that I shall always be ready to send you any assistance when required."
"I have been thinking, Colonel Forster, that, as we have no horses at present, if you have any rockets, they might be useful in such a case. At the distance we are from you a rocket would be seen immediately if fired at night, and I promise you, that it shall not be fired without great necessity."
"I am glad that you have mentioned it, Alfred; you shall have a dozen to take with you. You go back with the boats that carry the hay to-morrow morning, do you not."
"Yes; I shall take that opportunity, to save wearing out my shoes, as we have no cobbler near to us. I presume it will be the last trip made by the boats this season?"
"Yes," replied the Colonel, "the frost will soon set in now. In another fortnight we shall probably be visited with a heavy fall of snow, and the ground will then be covered till spring. But I suppose we shall see or hear from you occasionally?"
"Yes; as soon as I can push along in my snow-shoes, I will pay you a visit," replied Alfred, "but I have that art to learn yet."
The following morning the sky was clear and the day brilliant. The sun shone upon the dark, scarlet-tinged foliage of the oaks, and through the transparent yellow leaves of the maple. A slight frost had appeared for two or three mornings about a month back, and now they were enjoying what was termed the Indian summer, which is a return of fair and rather warm weather for a short time previous to the winter setting in.
The soldiers were busy carrying the hay down to the _bateaux_, and, before noon, Alfred bade farewell to Colonel Forster and the other officers of the fort, and, accompanied by Captain Sinclair, went down to embark. All was ready, and Alfred stepped into the boat; Captain Sinclair being on duty and not able to accompany him back.
"I shall not fail to give directions to the sentries about the rockets, Alfred," said Captain Sinclair, "and so tell your mother and cousins; and mind to show them how to fire them off from out of the barrel of a musket. Good-by; God bless you, my dear fellow."
"Good-by," replied Alfred, as the boats pulled from the shore.
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{
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After Alfred's return from the fort, a few days passed away without any incident: Martin had paid a visit to Malachi Bone, who had promised that he would be on the look-out and would give immediate information and assistance in case of any hostile measures on the part of the Indians. He told Martin, that in a few days he would discover what had taken place and what might be looked forward to. When Martin returned with his communication, Alfred was satisfied, and did not acquaint any body except his brother Henry with the information which he had received from Captain Sinclair.
The monotony of their life was, however, broken in upon by the arrival of a corporal from the fort, who was the bearer of the first dispatches which they had received since their arrival at the settlement. Letters, yes letters, not only from Quebec but from England, were announced. The whole house was in confusion, all crowding round Mr. Campbell while he unsealed the large packet. First a bundle of English newspapers from the Governor of Quebec--these were laid aside; a letter from Mr. Campbell's agent at Quebec--this was on business and could wait his leisure; then the letters from England--two long, well-filled double letters from Miss Paterson to Mary and Emma; another from Mr. Campbell's agent in England, and a large one on foolscap with "On His Majesty's Service," directed to Mr. Alfred Campbell. Each party seized upon their letters, and hastened on one side with them. Mrs. Campbell being the only one who had no correspondent, anxiously watched the countenance of Alfred, who, after a hasty glance, cried out, "I am confirmed to my rank, my dear mother; I am a lieutenant in his Majesty's service--huzza! Here's a letter inclosed from Captain Lumley; I know his handwriting." Alfred received the congratulations of the whole party, handed the official letter to his mother, and then commenced the perusal of the one from Captain Lumley. After a short silence, during which they were all occupied with their correspondence, Mr. Campbell said, "I also have good news to communicate to you; Mr. H. writes to me to say, that Mr. Douglas Campbell, on finding the green-houses and hot-houses so well stocked, considered that he was bound to pay for the plants; that they have been valued at seven hundred pounds, and that he has paid that money into my agent's hands. This is extremely liberal of Mr. Douglas Campbell, and I certainly did not expect, as I found plants there on my taking possession, that I was entitled to any remuneration for what I left. However, I am too poor to refuse his offer from any feelings of delicacy, and shall therefore write and thank him for his generous behavior." Alfred had read the letter from Captain Lumley, which made him very thoughtful. The fact was, his promotion and the observations in Captain Lumley's letter had brought back all his former regret at having quitted the service, and he was very melancholy in consequence; but as his cousins read their letters aloud, he gradually recovered his spirits.
At last, all the letters were read, and then the newspapers were distributed. No more work was done that day, and in the evening they all sat round the kitchen fire and talked over the intelligence they had received until long after their usual time of retiring to bed.
"I have been thinking, my dear Emily," said Mr. Campbell, the next morning before they quitted their sleeping-room, "what a very seasonable supply of money this will be. My funds, as you have seen by the account of my Quebec agent, were nearly exhausted, and we have many things yet to procure. We shall require horses next year, and we must increase our stock in every way; indeed, if we could have another man or two, it would be very advantageous, as the sooner we clear the ground, the sooner we shall be independent."
"I agree with you, Campbell; besides, we shall now have Alfred's half-pay, poor fellow, which will help us very much; I have been thinking more of him than any thing else this night; I watched him when he read Captain Lumley's letter, and I well understood the cause of his seriousness for some time afterward; I almost feel inclined to let him return to his profession; it would be painful parting with him, but the sacrifice on his part is very great."
"Still it's his duty," replied Mr. Campbell, "and, moreover, absolutely necessary at present, that he should remain with us. When we are more settled and more independent of his assistance we will talk over the subject."
In the meantime, Mary and Emma had gone out as usual to milk the cows. It was a beautiful clear day, but there was a bracing air which cheered the spirits, and the sunshine was pleasantly warm in situations sheltered from the winds; one of the few fine days just before the rushing in of winter. They had milked their cows, and had just turned them out again, when they both sat down with their pails before them on a log, which was in front of Malachi's lodge, now used as a cow-house.
"Do you know, Mary," said Emma, after a pause, "I'm almost sorry that I have received a letter from Miss Paterson."
"Indeed, dear Emma!"
"Yes, indeed it has unsettled me. I did nothing but dream all last night. Every thing was recalled to my mind--all that I most wished to forget. I fancied myself again engaged in all the pursuits of our much-loved home; I was playing the harp, you were accompanying me on the piano as usual; we walked out in the shrubberies; we took an airing in the carriage; all the servants were before me; we went to the villages and to the almshouses; we were in the garden picking dahlias and roses; I was just going up to dress for a very large dinner-party, and had rung the bell for Simpson, when I woke up, and found myself in a log-hut, with my eyes fixed upon the rafters and bark covering of the roof, thousands of miles from Wexton Hall, and half an hour longer in bed than a dairy-maid should be."
"I will confess, my dear Emma, that I passed much such a night; old associations will rise up again when so forcibly brought to our remembrance as they have been by Miss Paterson's letters, but I strove all I could to banish them from my mind, and not indulge in useless repining."
"Repine, I do not, Mary, at least, I hope not, but one can not well help regretting; I can not help remembering, as Macduff says, that 'such things were.'"
"He might well say so, Emma; for what had he lost? his wife and all his children, ruthlessly murdered; but what have we lost in comparison? nothing--a few luxuries. Have we not health and spirits? Have we not our kind uncle and aunt, who have fostered us--our cousins so attached to us? Had it not been for the kindness of our uncle and aunt, who have brought us up as their own children, should we, poor orphans, have ever been partakers of those luxuries which you now regret? Ought we not rather to thank Heaven that circumstances have enabled us to show some gratitude for benefits heaped upon us? How much greater are these privations to my uncle and aunt now that they are so much more advanced in years, and have been so much longer accustomed to competence and ease; and shall we repine or even regret, unless it is on their account? Surely, my dear Emma, not on our own."
"I feel the truth of all you say, Mary," replied Emma; "nay, all that you have now said passed in my own mind, and I have argued to myself in almost the same words, but I fear that I am not quite so much of a philosopher as you are; and, acknowledging that what you say is correct, I still have the same feeling--that is, I wish that I had not received the letter from Miss Paterson."
"In that wish there can be no harm, for it is only wishing that you may not be tempted to repine."
"Exactly, my dear Mary; I am a daughter of Eve," replied Emma, laughing, and rising from her seat; "I will put away Miss Paterson's letter, and I dare say in a day or two I shall have forgotten all about it. Dear Alfred, how glad I am that he is promoted; I shall call him Lieutenant Campbell till he is sick of it. Come, Mary, or we shall be keeping my uncle waiting; come, Juno."
Emma's calling Juno to follow her, reminds me that I have not yet introduced the dogs to my little readers, and as they will have to play their parts in our history, I may as well do so at once. Captain Sinclair, it may be remembered, had procured five dogs for Mr. Campbell from the officers of the fort,--two terriers, which were named Trim and Snob; Trim was a small dog and kept in the house, but Snob was a very powerful bull-terrier, and very savage; a fox-hound bitch, the one which Emma had just called Juno; Bully, a very fine young bull-dog, and Sancho, an old pointer. At night, these dogs were tied up: Juno in the store-house; Bully and Snob at the door of the house within the palisade; Trim in doors, and old Sancho at the lodge of Malachi Bone, where the cows were put in at night. Mr. Campbell found it rather expensive at first feeding these dogs, but as soon as Martin and his companions brought home game, there was always plenty for them all. They were all very sharp and high-couraged dogs, for they had been born in the fort and had been brought up to hunting every kind of game indiscriminately; and I need hardly add that they were excellent watch-dogs, and considered by Mr. Campbell as a great protection. For the next two days, the family remained rather unsettled; there was so much news in the newspapers; so many recollections brought up by their perusal; so much to talk about and discuss, that very little work was done. The weather, however, was now becoming much colder, and, for the last two days the sun had not shone. The sky was of one uniform, murky, solemn gray; and every thing announced that the winter was close at hand. Martin, who had been hunting, when he came home bid them prepare for an immediate change in the weather, and his prediction was speedily verified.
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It was on the Saturday evening, when they had all assembled round the fire, for it was more cold than it had hitherto been, that the moaning of the wind among the trees of the forest announced a gale of wind from the northward.
"We shall have it soon," observed Martin, "winter mostly comes in with a gale."
"Yes; and this appears as if it would be a strong gale," replied Alfred. "Hark! how the boughs of the trees are sawing and cracking against each other."
"I reckon we may get our snow-shoes out of the store-house, John," said Martin, "and then we shall see how you can get over the ground with them when you go hunting. You have not shot a moose yet."
"Is the moose the same as the elk, Martin?" said Henry.
"I do not think it is, sir; yet I've heard both names given to the animal."
"Have you ever shot any?" said Mrs. Campbell.
"Yes, ma'am; many a one. They're queer animals; they don't run like the other deer, but they trot as fast as the others run, so it comes to the same thing. They are very shy, and difficult to get near, except in the heavy snow, and then their weight will not allow them to get over it, as the lighter deer can; they sink up to their shoulders, and flounder about till they are overtaken. You see, Master Percival, the moose can't put on snow-shoes like we can, and gives us the advantage over the animal."
"Are they dangerous animals, Martin?" inquired Mary Percival.
"Every large animal is more or less dangerous when it turns to bay, miss. A moose's horns sometimes weigh fifty pounds, and it is a strong animal to boot; but it can't do anything when the snow is deep. You'll find it good eating, at all events, when we bring one in."
"I'll bring one," said John, who was cleaning his rifle.
"I dare say you will as soon as you can manage your snow-shoes," replied Martin. "The wind is getting up higher. I guess you'll not find your way back to Malachi's lodge, Master John, as you thought to do to-morrow morning."
"It is certainly a dreadful night," observed Mrs. Campbell; "and I feel the cold very sensibly."
"Yes, ma'am; but as soon as the snow is down, you'll be warmer."
"It is time to go to bed," observed Mr. Campbell, "so put away your work: and, Henry, give me down the Bible."
During that night the gale increased to almost a hurricane; the trees of the forest clashed and crackled, groaned and sawed their long arms against each other, creating an unusual and almost appalling noise; the wind howled round the palisades and fluttered the strips of bark on the roof, and as they all lay in bed, they could not sleep from the noise outside, and the increased feeling of cold. It was also the first trial of this new house in severe weather, and some of the wakeful party were anxiously watching the result. Toward the morning the storm abated, and every thing was again quiet. In consequence of the restless night which they had passed they were not so early as usual. Emma and Mary, when they came out of their room, found Martin and Alfred up and very busy with shovels; and, to their astonishment, they perceived that the snow was at least three feet deep on the ground, and in some places had been drifted up higher than their heads.
"Why, Alfred!" cried Emma; "how shall we be able to go after the cows this morning? This is, indeed, winter come on with little warning."
"It still snows," observed Mary; "not much, indeed, but the sky is very black."
"Yes, miss; we shall have some more of it yet," observed Martin. "Mr. Campbell and Henry have gone to the store-house for more shovels, for we must work hard, and clear a footpath, and then get the snow up against the palisades."
"What a sudden change," said Emma; "I wish the sky would clear, and then I should not care."
"It will to-morrow, Miss Emma, I dare say; but the snow must come down first."
Martin and Alfred had only time to clear a path to the store-house. Mr. Campbell and Henry returned with more shovels, and as soon as breakfast was over, they commenced work. As for Mary and Emma going to milk the cows, that was impossible. Martin undertook that task until they had cleared a pathway to the hunter's lodge, in which the animals were shut up every night.
By the advice of Martin, the snow next the palisades was piled up against the palings like a wall, as high as they could reach or throw it, by which means they got rid of the snow about the house, and at the same time formed a barrier against the freezing winds which they had to expect. All worked hard; Percival and John were of great use, and even Mrs. Campbell and the girls assisted collecting the remainder of the snow, and clearing it off the window-sills and other parts. By noon the snow left off falling, the sky cleared up, and the sun shone bright, although it gave out but little warmth.
After dinner they renewed their labors, and commenced clearing away a path to the lodge, where the cows were locked in, and before nightfall they had accomplished their task as far as the bridge over the stream, which was about half-way. It had been a day of great fatigue, and they were glad to retire to rest. Mrs. Campbell and the girls had put an additional supply of blankets and skins upon the beds, for the cold was now intense, and the thermometer stood far below the freezing point.
The following morning they resumed their task; the sky was still unclouded, and the sun shone out clear and bright. By dinner-time the path to the cow house had been completed; and the men then employed themselves in carrying as much fire-wood as they could, before it was dark, within the palisades.
"Well," observed Alfred, "now things may go on as usual within doors; and what have we to do out, Martin?"
"You must first get on your snow-shoes, and learn to walk in them," observed Martin; "or otherwise you'll be a prisoner as well as the ladies. You see, John, you're not at Malachi's lodge."
"Go to-morrow," replied John.
"No; not to-morrow, for I must go with you," said Martin; "I can not trust you for finding your way; and I can not go to-morrow nor the next day either. We must kill our beef to-morrow; there's no fear but it will keep all the winter now, and we shall save our hay."
"My larder is but poorly furnished," observed Mrs. Campbell.
"Never mind, ma'am, we'll soon have something in it, which will save our beef. In another week you shall have it well stocked."
"John," said Mr. Campbell, "recollect you must not go away without Martin."
"I won't," replied John.
All the game in the larder having been consumed, they sat down to salt pork and some of the fish which had been cured. The latter was pronounced to be excellent.
"What is the name of this fish, Martin?"
"It is called the white-fish," replied Martin, "and I have heard gentry from the old country say that they have none better, if any so good."
"It is certainly most excellent," replied Mr. Campbell, "and we will not forget to have a good provision for next winter, if it please God to spare our lives."
"Where were you born, Martin?" said Henry, as they were sitting round the kitchen fire, as usual in the evening.
"Why, Mr. Henry, I was born at Quebec. My father was a corporal in the army under General Wolfe, and was wounded in the great battle fought between him and the Frenchman Montcalm."
"In which both generals were killed, but the victory was to us."
"So I've heard, sir," replied Martin. "My mother was an English woman, and I was born about four years after the surrender of Quebec. My mother died soon afterward, but my father was alive about five years ago, I believe. I can't exactly say, as I was for three or four years in the employ of the Fur Company, and when I returned, I found that he was dead."
"And you have been a hunter all your life?"
"Not all my life, and not exactly a hunter. I call myself a trapper, but I still am both. I first was out with the Indians when I was about fourteen, for you see my father wanted to make me a drummer, and I could not stand that; so I said to him, 'Father, I won't be a drummer.' 'Well,' says he, 'Martin, you must help yourself, for all my interest lies in the army.' 'So I will,' says I; 'father, I'm off for the woods.' 'Well,' says he, 'just as you like, Martin.' So one fine day I wished him good-by, and did not see him again for more than two years."
"Well, and what took place then?"
"Why, I brought home three or four packages of good skins, and sold them well. Father was so pleased, that he talked of turning trapper himself, but, as I told the old man, a man with a lame leg--for he had been wounded in the leg and halted--would not make his livelihood by hunting in the woods of Canada."
"Was your father still in the army?"
"No, ma'am, he was not in the army; but he was employed in the storekeeper's department; they gave him the berth on account of his wound."
"Well, go on, Martin."
"I haven't much more to say, ma'am, I brought home my furs, sold them, and father helped me to spend the money as long as he was alive, and very welcome he was to his share. I felt rather queer when I came back from the Fur Company and found that the old man was dead, for I had looked forward with pleasure to the old man's welcome, and his enjoying his frolic with me as usual."
"I'm afraid those frolics were not very wise, Martin."
"No, sir, they were very foolish, I believe; but I fear it will always be the case with us trappers. We are like sailors, we do not know what to do with money when we get it; so we throw it away, and the sooner the better, for it is our enemy while we have it. I assure you, sir, that I used to feel quite happy when all my money was gone, and I was setting off to the woods again. It's a hard life, but a life that unfits you for any other; a life which you become very fond of. I don't mind being here with you by way of a change; indeed, as long as there is hunting, it is almost as good as if I were in the woods, but else I think I shall die a trapper."
"But, Martin," said Mr. Campbell, "how much more wise would it be to put your money by, and after a time purchase a farm and settle down a steady man with property, perhaps married and the father of a family."
"Perhaps it might be; but if I do not like it so well as trapping, I don't see why I should do so; it would be changing my life to please others and not myself."
"That's very true, Martin," said Alfred, laughing.
"Perhaps Martin may change his mind before he is an old man," replied Mrs. Campbell. "Dear me! what noise was that?" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell, as a melancholy howl was heard without.
"Only a rascally wolf, ma'am," said Martin; "we must expect the animals to be about us now that the snow has fallen, and the winter has set in."
"A wolf! are they not dangerous, Martin?" inquired Mary Percival.
"That depends, miss, how hungry they may be; but they are not very fond of attacking a human being; if we had any sheep outside, I fancy that they would stand a bad chance."
The howl was repeated, when one or two of the dogs which had been admitted into the house and were stretched before the fire, roused up and growled.
"They hear him, ma'am, and if we were to let them out, would soon be at him. No, no, John, sit still and put down your rifle; we can't afford to hurt wolves; their skins won't fetch a half-dollar, and their flesh is not fit for a clog, let alone a Christian. Let the vermin howl till he is tired; he'll be off to the woods again before daylight."
"There is certainly something very melancholy and dreadful to me in that howl," said Emma; "it frightens me."
"What, Emma, afraid?" said Alfred, going to her; "why yes, really she trembles; why, my dear Emma, do you recollect how frightened you and Mary were at the noise of the frogs when you first came here; you got used to it very soon, and so you will to the howl of a wolf."
"There is some difference, Alfred," replied Emma, shuddering as the howl was repeated. "I don't know how it is," said she, rallying her spirits, "but I believe it was reading Little Red Riding Hood when I was a child, which has given me such a horror of a wolf; I shall get over it very soon, I have no doubt."
"I must say, that it does not create the most agreeable sensation in my mind," observed Mrs. Campbell, "but I was aware of what we were to encounter when we came here, and if it is only to be annoyed with the cry of a wild beast, we may consider that we get off very cheaply."
"I should feel much more at ease, if all the rifles were loaded," said Mary Percival, in her usual quiet way.
[Illustration: LADY-MILKMAIDS.]
"And I too," said Emma.
"Well, then, if that will at all relieve your minds, it is easily done," said Mr. Campbell; "let us all load our rifles, and put them back in their rests."
"Mine's loaded," said John.
"And the rest soon shall be," said Alfred, "even the three appropriated for your use, mother and cousins. Now don't you feel some satisfaction in knowing you can load and fire them yourselves? the practice you had during the fine weather has not been thrown away, has it, dear Emma?"
"No, it has not, and I am very glad that I did learn it; I am a coward in apprehension, Alfred, but, perhaps, if I was put to the test, I should behave better."
"That I really believe," replied Alfred; "a gale of wind at sea sounds very awful when down below jerking about in your hammock, but when on deck, you don't care a fig about it. Now the rifles are all loaded, and we may go to bed and sleep sound." They did retire to rest, but all parties did not sleep very sound; the howling of one wolf was answered by another; Emma and Mary embraced each other, and shuddered as they heard the sounds, and it was long before they forgot their alarm and were asleep.
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The next morning was bright and clear, and when Emma and Mary went out, attended by Alfred, to go and milk the cows, although the cold was intense, every thing looked so brilliant and sparkling in the sunshine that they regained their spirits. The lake was still unfrozen, and its waters, which were of an azure blue, contrasted with the whole of the country covered with snow, and the spruce firs with their branches loaded presented an alternate layer of pure white and of the darkest green. Birds there were none to be seen or heard. All was quiet, so quiet that as they stepped along the path which had been cleared away to the cow-house, they almost started at the sound of their own voices, which the atmosphere rendered more peculiarly sonorous and ringing. Alfred had his rifle on his shoulder, and walked in front of his cousins.
"I have come to prove that all your fears are groundless, my dear Emma, and that you need not have any alarm about a skulking, cowardly wolf," said Alfred.
"Well, that may be," replied Emma, "but still we are very glad of your company."
They arrived at the cow-house without any adventure, let loose Sancho, who had been tied up, as it was decided that the dog should remain at home with the others, and proceded to milk the cows. Having finished that task and supplied them with fodder, Mary Percival observed, as they were retracing their steps, "I must say that it would not only be more convenient but more agreeable if the cows were kept nearer to the house."
"It would be certainly," replied Alfred. "It is a pity that there is not a cow-shed within the palisades; but we have no means of making one at present. Next year, when my father has purchased his horses and his sheep, which he talks of doing, we are to build a regular yard and sheds for all the animals close to the house, and palisaded round as the house now is, with a passage from one palisade to the other. Then it will be very convenient; but 'Rome was not built in a day,' as the proverb says; and we must, therefore, wait another winter."
"And be devoured by the wolves in the mean time," replied Emma, laughing.
"Why, you are getting over your fright already, Emma."
"Yes; I feel pretty bold, now I think there is nothing to be afraid of."
The remainder of the week was passed away in practicing upon the snow-shoes by the males of the party, the women scarcely ever venturing out of doors, as the cold was very severe. Mary and Emma were accompanied by Alfred for the first three or four days; and after that, notwithstanding that the howling of the wolves was heard every night, they took courage when they found that the animals never made their appearance by daylight, and went as before to milk the cows by themselves. On the Saturday, they were in the hopes of seeing old Malachi Bone, but he did not make his appearance, and John, who could now get on very well in his snow-shoes, became very impatient. Alfred and Martin were also very anxious to see the old man, that they might ascertain if he had made any discoveries relative to the Indians. Sunday, as usual, was a day of rest from labor; the services were read by Mr. Campbell, and the evening passed in serious conversation. Mr. Campbell, although usually in good spirits, was certainly not so on that evening: whether it was that the severity of the winter which had set in and the known long duration of it which they had to encounter had an effect upon his spirits, he was melancholy as well as serious. He more than once referred to the former residence when in England, which was a very unusual thing for him to do, and by degrees the conversation was turned in that direction, and, although no one said so, they all felt what a change there was in their present position from that which they had been forced to leave. Mrs. Campbell, who perceived that a gloom was gathering over the whole party, made several remarks tending to reconcile them to their present lot, and, after a time Mr. Campbell observed-- "Perhaps, my dear children, it may be a divine mercy which has sent you here to this wilderness; true it is that we are removed from civilization, and shut up here by a severe winter, deprived of the enjoyments and pleasures which are to be found in the society which we were compelled to leave; but let us also bear in mind that we are removed from the many temptations which might have there assailed us."
"But still, papa, you would be very glad if circumstances would permit us to return to England; would you not?" said Percival.
"Yes, my child, I should, and even if I had remained here so long as to have become attached to the place and to the isolation which at first is felt so irksome, I would still return to England and to society, if I had the means. As Christians, we are not to fly from the world and its temptations, but to buckle on our armor, and putting our trust in Him who will protect us, fight the good fight; that is, doing our duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call us."
"But if ever we were to return to England, there would be no chance of our living as we did before we left it, would there, papa?"
"I see none, my dear boy; but we never know what is in store for us. Should any of us ever return, I presume it would be to live in a more humble way; and for my part, I should prefer that it were so, for although I trust I did not greatly misuse that wealth which I so long supposed to be mine, I should not be sorry to have much less, and therefore less responsibility."
"Indeed, my dear Campbell, imperfect as we all are, I do not believe that many could have made a better use of it than you did."
"I thought so at the time, my dear," replied Mr. Campbell, "but since it has been lost to me, I have often thought that I might have done more good with it. But the fact is, my dear children, there is nothing so dangerous to our eternal welfare as great wealth; it tends to harden the heart by affording the means of constant self-indulgence:--under such circumstances, man is apt to become selfish, easily satisfied with his own works, and too proud to see his errors. Did you observe in the Litany, which I read at this morning's service, how very appropriately is inserted the prayer, for deliverance under the perils of wealth? -- "'In all time of our tribulation, in all time of our _wealth_, in the hour of death, and in the day of judgment, good Lord deliver us.'
"Examine this, my dear children: in all time of our tribulation,--that is in poverty and distress, and perhaps famishing from want (and in few positions are people so incited to crime), _then_ in all time of our wealth, evidently and distinctly placing wealth as more dangerous to the soul's welfare than the extremest poverty and its accompanying temptations; and observe, only exceeded by the most critical of all dangerous positions, when all has been done and nothing can be undone,--the hour of death, followed by the day of judgment."
Mr. Campbell ceased speaking, and there was a pause for a minute or two in the conversation, when Mary Percival said, "What, then, my dear uncle, do you consider as the most enviable position in life?"
"I consider a moderate independence as the most enviable; not occupied in trade, as the spirit of barter is too apt to make us bend to that which is actually fraud. I should say, a country gentleman living on his own property and among his own tenants, employing the poor around him, holds a position in which he has the least temptation to do wrong, and the most opportunities of doing good."
"I agree with you, my dear Campbell," said his wife; "and yet how few are satisfied even with that lot."
"Because the craving after wealth is so strong, that every one would have more than he hath, and few men will be content. The desire of aggrandizement overcomes and masters us; and yet what can be more absurd than to witness the care and anxiety of those to gain riches, who have already more perhaps than is necessary for their wants,--thus 'heaping up riches, not knowing who may gather them,' and endangering the soul to obtain that which they must leave behind them when they die. Others amass wealth, not actuated by the avarice of hoarding it up, but by the appetite for expending it; who collect unjustly that they may lavish profusely; these are equally foolish, and how important is that lesson given in the Scriptures." Mr. Campbell opened the Bible which lay before him and read-- "And he spake a parable unto them. The ground of a certain rich man brought forth plentifully.
"And he said, What shall I do? because I have no room where to bestow my fruits.
"And he said: This will I do; I will pull down my barns and build greater, and there will I bestow all my fruits and my goods.
"And I will say to my soul: Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years, take thine ease; eat, drink, and be merry.
"But God said unto him: Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee."
After a short silence, Mrs. Campbell observed, "I have often reflected since I have been here upon what might have been our position had we decided upon remaining in England. We might at this moment have been in the greatest distress, even wanting a meal; and I have, therefore, often thanked God that He left us the means of coming here and providing for ourselves as we have done, and as I have no doubt shall, with His blessing, continue to do. How much better off are we at this moment than many thousands of our countrymen who remain in England! How many are starving! How many are driven into crime from want! while we have a good roof over our heads, sufficient clothing and more than sufficient food. We have, therefore, great reason to thank God for the mercies He has vouchsafed to us; He has heard our prayer, 'Give us this day our daily bread.'" "Yes," continued Mr. Campbell, "'Give us this day our daily bread,' is all that we are taught to ask for; and it comprehends all; and yet how heartlessly is this pronounced by many of those who do repeat their daily prayers. So is the blessing asked at meals, which is by too many considered as a mere matter of form. They forget, that He who gives can also take away; and in their presumption, suppose their own ability and exertion to have been the sole means of procuring themselves a daily supply of food; thanking themselves rather than the Giver of all good. How many thousands are there who have been supplied with more than they require from their cradle down to their grave, without any grateful feeling toward Heaven; considering the butcher and baker as their providers, and the debt canceled as soon as the bills are paid. How different must be the feeling of the poor cottager, who is uncertain whether his labor may procure him and his family a meal for the morrow, who often suffers privation and hunger, and, what is more painful, witnesses the sufferings of those he loves. How earnest must be his prayer when he cries, 'Give us this day our daily bread.'"
This conversation had a very strong effect upon the party, and when they retired to rest, which they did shortly after, they laid their heads upon their pillows not only with resignation, but with thankfulness for the mercies which had been vouchsafed to them, and felt that in the wilderness they were under the eye of a watchful and gracious Providence.
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On the Monday morning Alfred and Martin went to the cow-house, and slaughtered the bullock which they had obtained from the commandant of the fort. When it was skinned it was cut up, and carried to the storehouse, where it was hung up for their winter consumption.
As the party were sitting down to dinner, they were greeted by Captain Sinclair and a young lieutenant of the garrison. It hardly need be said that the whole family were delighted to see them. They had come overland on their snow-shoes, and brought some partridges, or grouse, as they are sometimes called, which they had shot on their way. Captain Sinclair had obtained leave from the commandant to come over and see how the Campbells were getting on. He had no news of any importance, as they had had no recent communications with Quebec or Montreal; all was well at the fort, and Colonel Forster had sent his compliments, and begged, if he could be useful, that they would let him know. Captain Sinclair and his friend sat down to dinner, and talked more than they ate, asking questions about every thing.
"By the by, Mr. Campbell, where have you built your pig-sties?"
"Inside the palisade, next to the fowl-house."
"That is well," replied Captain Sinclair, "for otherwise you may be troubled by the wolves, who are very partial to pork or mutton."
"We _have_ been troubled with them," replied Emma; "at least with their howlings at night, which make me tremble as I lie awake in bed."
"Never mind their howling, Miss Emma; we have plenty of them round the fort, I can assure you; unless attacked, they will not attack you, at least, I never knew an instance, although I must confess that I have heard of them."
"You will, of course, sleep here to-night?"
"Yes: we will, if you have a bear or buffalo skin to spare," replied Captain Sinclair.
"We will manage it, I have no doubt," said Mr. Campbell.
"And if you could manage, Captain Sinclair," said Emma, somewhat archly, "as you say that they are not dangerous animals, to bring us a few skins to-night, it would make the matter easy."
"Emma, how can you talk such nonsense?" cried Mary Percival. "Why should you ask a guest to undertake such a service? Why have you not proposed it to Alfred or Henry, or even Martin?"
"We will both try, if you please," replied Alfred.
"I must put my veto on any such attempts, Alfred," said Mr. Campbell. "We have sufficient danger to meet without running into it voluntarily, and we have no occasion for wolves' skins just now. I shall, however, venture to ask your assistance to-morrow morning. We wish to haul up the fishing-punt before the ice sets in on the lake, and we are not sufficiently strong-handed."
During the day Captain Sinclair took Alfred aside to know if the old hunter had obtained any information relative to the Indians. Alfred replied that they expected him every day, but as yet had not received any communication from him. Captain Sinclair stated that they were equally ignorant at the fort as to what had been finally arranged, and that Colonel Forster was in hopes that the hunter would by this time have obtained some intelligence.
"I should not be surprised if Malachi Bone were to come here to-morrow morning," replied Alfred. "He has been away a long while, and, I am sure, is as anxious to have John with him as John is impatient to go."
"Well, I hope he will; I shall be glad to have something to tell the Colonel, as I made the request upon that ground. I believe, however, that he was very willing that I should find an excuse for coming here, as he is more anxious about your family than I could have supposed. How well your cousin Mary is looking."
"Yes; and so is Emma, I think. She has grown half a head since she left England. By the by, you have to congratulate me on my obtaining my rank as lieutenant."
"I do indeed, my dear fellow," replied Captain Sinclair. "They will be pleased to hear it at the fort. When will you come over?"
"As soon as I can manage to trot a little faster on these snow-shoes. If, however, the old hunter does not come to-morrow, I will go to the fort as soon as he brings us any news."
The accession to their party made them all very lively, and the evening passed away very agreeably. At night, Captain Sinclair and Mr. Gwynne were ushered into the large bedroom, where all the younger male portion of the family slept, and which, as we before stated, had two spare bed-places.
The next morning, Captain Sinclair would have accompanied the Miss Percivals on their milking expedition, but as his services were required to haul up the fishing punt, he was obliged to go down, with all the rest of the men, to assist; Percival and John were the only ones left at home with Mrs. Campbell. John, after a time, having, as usual, rubbed down his rifle, threw it on his shoulder, and, calling the dogs which lay about, sallied forth for a walk, followed by the whole pack except old Sancho, who invariably accompanied the girls to the cow-house.
Mary and Emma tripped over the new-beaten snow-path to the cow-house, merry and cheerful, with their pails in their hands, Emma laughing at Captain Sinclair's disappointment at not being permitted to accompany them. They had just arrived at the cow-house, when old Sancho barked furiously, and sprang to the side of the building behind them, and in a moment afterward rolled down the snowheap which he had sprung over, holding on and held fast by a large black wolf. The struggle was not very long, and during the time that it lasted the girls were so panic-struck, that they remained like statues within two yards of the animals. Gradually the old dog was overpowered by the repeated snapping bites of the wolf, yet he fought nobly to the last, when he dropped under the feet of the wolf, his tongue hanging out, and bleeding profusely and lifeless. As soon as his adversary was overpowered, the enraged animal, with his feet upon the body of the dog, bristling his hair and showing his powerful teeth, was evidently about to attack the young women. Emma threw her arm around Mary's waist, advancing her body so as to save her sister. Mary attempted the same, and then they remained waiting in horror for the expected spring of the animal, when of a sudden the other dogs came rushing forward, cheered on by John, and flew upon the animal. Their united strength soon tore him down to the ground, and John coming up, as the wolf defended himself against his new assailants, put the muzzle of his rifle to the animal's head, and shot it dead.
The two sisters had held up during the whole of this alarming struggle; but as soon as they perceived the wolf was dead and that they were safe, Mary could stand no longer, and sank down on her knees, supporting her sister, who had become insensible.
If John showed gallantry in shooting the wolf, he certainly showed very little toward his cousins. He looked at Mary, nodded his head toward the wolf's body, and saying "He's dead," shouldered his rifle, turned round and walked back to the house.
On his return he found that the party had just come back from hauling up the punt, and were waiting the return of the Miss Percivals to go to breakfast.
"Was that you who fired just now, John?" said Martin.
"Yes," replied John.
"What did you fire at?" said Alfred.
"A wolf," replied John.
"A wolf! where?" said Mr. Campbell.
"At the cow-lodge," replied John.
"The cow-lodge!" said his father.
"Yes; killed Sancho!"
"Killed Sancho! why, Sancho was with your cousins!"
"Yes," replied John.
"Then, where did you leave them?"
"With the wolf," replied John, wiping his rifle very coolly.
"Merciful Heaven!" cried Mr. Campbell, as Mrs. Campbell turned pale; and Alfred, Captain Sinclair, Martin, and Henry, seizing their rifles, darted out from the house, and ran with all speed in the direction of the cow-house.
"My poor girls!" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell.
"Wolf's dead, father," said John.
"Dead! Why didn't you say so, you naughty boy!" cried Mrs. Campbell.
"I wasn't asked," replied John.
In the meantime the other party had gained the cow-house; and, to their horror, beheld the wolf and dog dead, and the two young women lying on the snow, close to the two animals; for Mary had fainted away shortly after John had walked off. They rushed toward the bodies of the two girls, and soon discovered that they were not hurt. In a short time they were recovered, and were supported by the young men to the house.
As soon as they arrived, Mrs. Campbell took them into their room, that they might rally their spirits, and in a quarter of an hour returned to the party outside, who eagerly inquired how they were.
"They are much more composed," replied Mrs. Campbell; "and Emma has begun to laugh again; but her laugh is rather hysterical and forced; they will come out at dinner-time. It appears they are indebted to John for their preservation, for they say the wolf was about to spring upon them when he came to their assistance. We ought to be very grateful to Heaven for their preservation. I had no idea, after what Martin said about the wolves, that they were so dangerous."
"Why, ma'am, it is I that am most to blame, and that's the fact," replied Martin. "When we killed the bullock I threw the offal on the heap of snow close to the cow-lodge, meaning that the wolves and other animals might eat it at night, but it seems this animal was hungry, and had not left his meal when the dog attacked him, and that made the beast so _rily_ and savage."
"Yes; it was the fault of Martin and me," replied Alfred. "Thank Heaven it's no worse!"
"So far from it being a subject of regret, I consider it one of thankfulness," replied Mr. Campbell. "This might have happened when there was no one to assist, and our dear girls might have been torn to pieces. Now that we know the danger, we may guard against it for the future."
"Yes, sir," replied Martin; "in future some of us will drive the cows home, to be milked every morning and evening; inside the palisade there will be no danger. Master John, you have done well. You see, ma'am," continued Martin, "what I said has come true. A rifle in the hands of a child is as deadly a weapon as in the hands of a strong man."
"Yes; if courage and presence of mind attend its use," replied Mr. Campbell. "John, I am very much pleased with your conduct."
"Mother called me naughty," replied John, rather sulkily.
"Yes, John, I called you naughty, for not telling us the wolf was dead, and leaving us to suppose your cousins were in danger; not for killing the wolf. Now I kiss you, and thank you for your bravery and good conduct."
"I shall tell all the officers at the fort what a gallant little fellow you are, John," said Captain Sinclair; "there are very few of them who have shot a wolf, and what is more, John, I have a beautiful dog, which one of the officers gave me the other day in exchange for a pony, and I will bring it over, and make it a present to you for your own dog. He will hunt any thing, and he is very powerful--quite able to master a wolf, if you meet with one. He is half mastiff and half Scotch deerhound, and he stands as high as this," continued Captain Sinclair, holding his hand about as high as John's shoulder.
"I'll go to the fort with you," said John, "and bring him back."
"So you shall, John, and I'll go with you," said Martin, "if master pleases."
"Well," replied Mr. Campbell, "I think he may; what with Martin, his own rifle, and the dog, John will, I trust be safe enough."
"Certainly, I have no objection," said Mrs. Campbell, "and many thanks to you, Captain Sinclair."
"What's the dog's name?" said John.
"Oscar," replied Captain Sinclair. "If you let him walk out with your cousins, they need not fear a wolf. He will never be mastered by one, as poor Sancho was."
"I'll lend him sometimes," replied John.
"Always; when you don't want him yourself, John."
"Yes, always," replied John, who was going out of the door.
"Where are you going, dear," said Mrs. Campbell.
"Going to skin the wolf," replied John, walking away.
"Well, he'll be a regular keen hunter," observed Martin, "I dare say old Bone has taught him to flay an animal. However, I'll go and help him, for it's a real good skin." So saying, Martin followed John.
"Martin ought to have known better than to leave the offal where he did," observed Captain Sinclair.
"We must not be too hard, Captain Sinclair," said Alfred. "Martin has a contempt for wolves, and that wolf would not have stood his ground had it been a man instead of two young women who were in face of him. Wolves are very cunning, and I know will attack a woman or child when they will fly from a man. Besides, it is very unusual for a wolf to remain till daylight, even when there is offal to tempt him. It was the offal, the animal's extreme hunger, and the attack of the dog--a combination of circumstances--which produced the event. I do not see that Martin can be blamed, as one can not foresee every thing."
"Perhaps not," replied Captain Sinclair, "and 'all's well that ends well.'"
"Are there any other animals to fear?" inquired Mrs. Campbell.
"The bear is now safe for the winter in the hollow of some tree or under some root, where he has made a den. It will not come out till the spring. The catamount or panther is a much more dangerous animal than the wolf; but it is scarce. I do think, however, that the young ladies should not venture out, unless with some rifles in company, for fear of another mischance. We have plenty of lynxes here; but I doubt if they would attack even a child, although they fight when assailed, and bite and claw severely."
The Misses Percival now made their appearance. Emma was very merry, but Mary rather grave. Captain Sinclair, having shaken hands with them both, said-- "Why, Emma, you appear to have recovered sooner than your sister!"
"Yes," replied Emma; "but I was much more frightened than she was, and she supported me, or I should have fallen at the wolf's feet. I yielded to my fears; Mary held up against hers; so, as her exertions were much greater than mine, she has not recovered from them so soon. The fact is, Mary is brave when there is danger, and I am only brave when there is none."
"I was quite as much frightened as you, my dear Emma," said Mary Percival; "but we must now help our aunt, and get dinner ready on the table."
"I can not say that I have a wolfish appetite this morning," replied Emma, laughing; "but Alfred will eat for me and himself too."
In a few minutes dinner was on the table, and they all sat down without waiting for Martin and John, who were still busy skinning the wolf.
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"Here come Martin and John at last," said Mr. Campbell, after they had been about a quarter of an hour at table.
But he was mistaken; instead of Martin and John, Malachi Bone made his appearance, and, to their surprise, accompanied by his young squaw, the Strawberry Plant.
Every one rose to welcome them, and the Misses Percival went to their little female acquaintance, and would have made her sit down with them, but she refused and took her seat on the floor near the fire.
"She ain't used to chairs and stools, miss; let her be where she is," said old Bone, "she'll be more comfortable, and that's what you want her to be, I'm sure. I brought her with me, because I could not carry all the venison myself, and also to show her the way in and out of the house, and how it is fastened, in case of sending a message by night."
"Of sending a message by night," said Mrs. Campbell, with surprise, "why, what possible occasion could there be for that?"
Captain Sinclair and Alfred, who perceived that the old hunter had said too much, were quite at a loss what to say. They did not like to frighten Mrs. Campbell and the girls about the Indians, especially as they had just been so much alarmed with the accident of the morning. At last Alfred replied, "The fact is, my dear mother, that 'forewarned is being forearmed,' as the saying is; and I told Martin to request Malachi Bone, if he should hear of any Indians being about or near us, to let us know immediately."
"Yes, ma'am, that is the whole story," continued Malachi. "It's the best plan, when you're in the woods, always to have your rifle loaded."
Mrs. Campbell and the girls were evidently not a little fluttered at this fresh intimation of danger. Captain Sinclair perceived it, and said, "We have always spies on the look-out at the fort, that we may know where the Indians are and what they are about. Last month, we know that they held a council, but that it broke up without their coming to any determination, and that no hostile feeling was expressed so far as we could ascertain. But we never trust the Indians, and they, knowing that we watch them, have been very careful not to commit any outrages; they have not done so for a long while, nor do I think they will venture again. At the same time, we like to know where they are, and I requested Alfred to speak to Malachi Bone, to send us immediately word if he heard or saw any thing of them: not, however, that I intended that the ladies should be wakened up in the middle of the night," continued Captain Sinclair, laughing; "that was not at all necessary."
Malachi Bone would have responded, but Alfred pinched his arm; the old man understood what was meant, and held his tongue; at last he said-- "Well, well, there's no harm done, it's just as well that the Strawberry should know her way about the location, if it's only to know where the dogs are, in case she comes of a message."
"No, no," replied Mr. Campbell, "I'm glad that she is come, and hope she will come very often. Now, Malachi, sit down and eat something."
"Well, but about the Indians, Captain Sinclair,--" said Mrs. Campbell; "that you have not told us all I am certain, and the conviction that such is the case, will make me and the girls very uneasy; so pray do treat us as we ought to be treated; we share the danger, and we ought to know what the danger is."
"I do not think that there is any danger, Mrs. Campbell," replied Captain Sinclair, "unless Malachi has further information to give us. I do, however, perfectly agree with you, that you ought to know all that we know, and am quite ready to enter upon the subject, trifling as it is."
"So I presume it must be, my dear," observed Mr. Campbell, "for I have as yet known nothing about the matter. So pray, Captain Sinclair, instruct us all."
Captain Sinclair then stated what he had before mentioned to Alfred, and having so done, and pointed out that there was no occasion for alarm, he requested Malachi Bone would say if he had any further information.
"The Injuns did meet as you say, and they could not agree, so they broke up, and are now all out upon their hunting and trapping for furs. But there's one thing I don't exactly feel comfortable about, which is that the 'Angry Snake,' as he is called, who was at the 'talk,' and was mighty venomous against the English, has squatted for the winter somewhere hereabout."
"The Angry Snake," said Captain Sinclair. "Is that the chief who served with the French, and wears a medal?"
"The very same, sir. He's not a chief though; he was a very good warrior in his day, and the French were very partial to him, as he served them well; but he is no chief, although he was considered as a sort of one from the consequence he obtained with the French. He is an old man now, and a very bitter one. Many's the Englishman that he has tied to the stake, and tortured during the war; He hates us, and is always stirring up the Injuns to make war with us; but his day is gone by, and they do not heed him at the council now."
"Then, why are you uncomfortable about him?" said Mr. Campbell.
"Because he has taken up his quarters for the winter hunting not far from us, with six or seven of the young warriors, who look up to him, and he is mischievous. If the Injun nation won't make war, he will do something on his own account, if he possibly can. He's not badly named, I can tell you."
"Will he attack you?"
"Me! no, no; he knows better. He knows my rifle well; he has the mark on his body; not but that he would if he dared, but I am Injun myself, and know Injun craft. Then you see, these people have strange ideas. During the whole war they never could even hit me with their rifles, and they think I am not to be hurt--that's their superstition--and my rifle, they think, never misses (they're almost right there, for it does not once in a hundred times), so what with this and that, they fear me as a supernatural, as we call it. But that's not the case with you all here; and if the Snake could creep within these palisades, he might be mischievous."
"But the tribes know very well that any attack of this kind would be considered as a declaration of hostilities," said Captain Sinclair, "and that we should retaliate."
"Yes; but you see the Snake don't belong to these tribes about us; his nation is much further off,--too far to go for redress; and the tribes here, although they allow him to join the 'talk' as an old warrior who had served against the English and from respect to his age, do not acknowledge him or his doings. They would disavow them immediately and with truth, but they can not prevent his doing mischief."
"What, then, is the redress in case of his doing any mischief?" said Henry.
"Why, upon him and his band, whenever you can find them. You may destroy them all, and the Injuns here won't say a word, or make any complaint. That's all that can be done; and that's what I will do; I mean to tell him so, when I meet him. He fears me, and so do his men; they think me medicine."
"Medicine! What is that?" said Henry.
"It means that he has a charmed life," replied Captain Sinclair. "The Indians are very superstitious."
"Yes, they be; well, perhaps, I'll prove medicine; and I'll give them a pill or two out of my rifle," said Malachi, with a grim smile. "Howsomever, I'll soon learn more about them, and will let you know when I do. Just keep your palisade gates fast at night and the dogs inside of them, and at any time I'll give you warning. If I am on their trail the Strawberry shall come, and that's why I brought her here. If you hear three knocks outside the palisade at any hour of the night, why, it will be her, so let her in."
"Well," said Mrs. Campbell, "I'm very glad that you have told me all this; now I know what we have to expect, I shall be more courageous and much more on my guard."
"I think we have done wisely in letting you know all we knew ourselves," said Captain Sinclair. "I must soon take my leave, as I must be at the fort before sunset. Martin and John are to come with me, and bring back the dog."
"Ain't the boy going with me?" said Malachi.
"Yes; to-morrow morning he may go, but after his return from the fort it will be too late."
"Well, then, I may as well stay here," replied Malachi. "Where is he?"
"He is gone to skin a wolf, which he shot this morning," replied Alfred. "He will soon be here."
Mrs. Campbell shortly related to Malachi the adventure of the wolf. The old hunter listened in silence, and then gave a nod of approbation.
"I reckon he'll bring home more skins than that this winter," said he.
The party then rose just as Martin and John made their appearance. Captain Sinclair conversed with the Misses Percival, while the old hunter spoke to the Strawberry Plant in her own dialect; the others either went out or were busy in clearing the table, till Captain Sinclair took his departure with John and Martin, each armed with a rifle.
"Well, this has been an exciting day," observed Mr. Campbell, a little before they retired to bed. "We have much to thank God for, and great reason to pray for His continued protection and assistance. God bless you all, my children; good-night."
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The next morning, a little after daybreak, Martin and John made their appearance, leading the magnificent dog which Captain Sinclair had given to John. Like most large dogs, Oscar appeared to be very good-tempered, and treated the snarling and angry looks of the other dogs with perfect contempt.
"It is, indeed, a noble animal," said Mr. Campbell, patting its head.
"It's a fine creature," observed Malachi, "a wolf would stand no chance against him, and even a bear would have more on its hands than it could well manage I expect; but, come here, boy," said the old hunter to John, leading the dog outside of the door.
"You'd better leave the dog, John," said Malachi, "the crittur will be of use here, but of no good to us."
John made no reply, and the hunter continued-- "I say it will be of use here, for the girls might meet with another wolf, or the house might be attacked; but good hunters don't want dogs. Is it to watch for us, and give us notice of danger? Why that's our duty, and we must trust to ourselves, and not to an animal. Is it to hunt for us? Why no dog can take a deer so well as we can with our rifles; a dog may discover us when we wish to be hidden; a dog's track will mark us out when we would wish our track to be doubted. The animal will be of no utility ever to us, John, and may do us harm, 'specially now the snow's on the ground. In the summer-time, you can take him and teach him how to behave as a hunter's dog should behave; but we had better leave him now, and start at once."
John nodded his head in assent, and then went in-doors.
"Good-by," said John, going up to his mother and cousins; "I shall not take the dog."
"Won't take the dog! well, that's very kind of you, John," said Mary, "for we were longing to have him to protect us."
John shouldered his rifle, made a sign to Strawberry Plant, who rose, and looking kindly at Mrs. Campbell and the girls, without speaking, followed John out of the hut. Malachi certainly was not very polite, for he walked off, in company with John and the squaw, without taking the trouble to say "Good-by." It must, however, be observed that he was in conversation with Martin, who accompanied them on the way.
The winter had now become very severe. The thermometer was twenty degrees below the freezing point, and the cold was so intense, that every precaution was taken against it. More than once Percival, whose business it was to bring in the firewood, was frost bitten, but as Mrs. Campbell was very watchful, the remedy of cold snow was always successfully applied. The howling of the wolves continued every night, but they were now used to it, and the only effect was, when one came more than usually close to the house, to make Oscar raise his head, growl, listen awhile, and then lie down to sleep again. Oscar became very fond of the girls, and was their invariable companion whenever they left the house. Alfred, Martin and Henry went out almost daily on hunting excursions; indeed, as there were no crops in the barn, they had little else to do. Mr. Campbell remained at home with his wife and nieces; occasionally, but not very often, Percival accompanied the hunters; of Malachi and John, they saw but little; John returned about every ten days, but although he adhered to his promise, his anxiety to go back to Malachi was so very apparent, and he was so restless, that Mrs. Campbell rather wished him to be away, than remain at home so much against his will.
Thus passed away the time till the year closed in; confined as they were by the severity of the weather, and having little or nothing to do, the winter appeared longer and more tedious than it would have done had they been settled longer, and had the crops to occupy their attention; for it is in the winter that the Canadian farmer gets through all his thrashing and other work connected with the farm, preparatory for the coming spring. This being their first winter, they had, of course, no crops gathered in, and were, therefore, in want of employment. Mrs. Campbell and her nieces worked and read, and employed themselves in every way that they could, but constantly shut up within doors, they could not help feeling the monotony and _ennui_ of their situation. The young men found occupation and amusement in the chase; they brought a variety of animals and skins, and the evenings were generally devoted to a narration of what occurred in the day during their hunting excursions, but even these histories of the chase were at last heard with indifference. It was the same theme only with variations, over and over again, and there was no longer much excitement in listening.
"I wonder when John will come back again," observed Emma to her sister, as they were sitting at work.
"Why he only left two days ago, so we must not expect him for some time."
"I know that; I wonder if Oscar would kill a wolf; I should like to take him out and try."
"I thought you had had enough of wolves already, Emma," replied Mary.
"Yes, well; that old Malachi will never bring us any more news about the Indians," continued Emma, yawning.
"Why, I do not think that any news about them is likely to be pleasant news, Emma, and therefore, why should you wish it?"
"Why, my dear Mary, because I want _some_ news; I want something to excite me, I feel so dull. It's nothing but stitch, stitch, all day, and I am tired of always doing the same thing. What a horrid thing a Canadian winter Is, and not one-half over yet."
"It is very dull and monotonous, my dear Emma, I admit, and if we had more variety of employment, we should find it more agreeable, but we ought to feel grateful that we have a good house over our heads, and more security than we anticipated."
"Almost too much security, Mary; I begin to feel that I could welcome an Indian even in his war-paint, just by way of a little change."
"I think you would soon repent of your wish, if it were gratified."
"Very likely, but I can not help wishing it now. When will they come home? What o'clock is it? I wonder what they'll bring: the old story I suppose, a buck; I'm sick of venison."
"Indeed, Emma, you are wrong to feel such discontent and weariness."
"Perhaps I am, but I have not walked a hundred yards for nearly one hundred days, and that will give one the blues, as they call them, and I do nothing but yawn, yawn, yawn, for want of air and exercise. Uncle won't let us move out on account of that horrid wolf. I wonder how Captain Sinclair is getting on at the fort, and whether he is as dull as we are."
To do Emma justice, it was seldom that she indulged herself in such lamentations, but the tedium was more than her high flow of spirits could well bear. Mrs. Campbell made a point of arranging the household, which gave her occupation, and Mary from natural disposition did not feel the confinement as much as Emma did; whenever, therefore, she did show symptoms of restlessness or was tempted to utter a complaint, they reasoned with and soothed, but never reproached her.
The day after this conversation, Emma, to amuse herself, took a rifle and went out with Percival. She fired several shots at a mark, and by degrees acquired some dexterity; gradually she became fond of the exercise, and not a day passed that she and Percival did not practice for an hour or two, until at last Emma could fire with great precision. Practice and a knowledge of the perfect use of your weapon gives confidence, and this Emma did at last acquire. She challenged Alfred and Henry to fire at the bull's eye with her, and whether by their gallantry or her superior dexterity, she was declared victor. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell smiled when Emma came in and narrated her success, and felt glad that she had found something which afforded her amusement.
It happened that one evening the hunters were very late; it was a clear moonlight night, but at eight o'clock they had not made their appearance; Percival had opened the door to go out for some firewood which had been piled within the palisades, and as it was later than the usual hour for locking the palisade gates, Mr. Campbell had directed him so to do. Emma, attracted by the beauty of the night, was at the door of the house, when the howl of a wolf was heard close to them; the dogs accustomed to it merely sprang on their feet, but did not leave the kitchen fire; Emma went out, and looked through the palisades to see if she could perceive the animal, and little Trim, the terrier, followed her. Now Trim was so small, that he could creep between the palisades, and as soon as he was close to them, perceiving the wolf, the courageous little animal squeezed through them and flew toward it, barking as loud as he could. Emma immediately ran in, took down her rifle and went out again, as she knew that poor Trim would soon be devoured. The supposition was correct: the wolf, instead of retreating, closed with the little dog and seized it. Emma, who could now plainly perceive the animal, which was about forty yards from her, took aim and fired, just as poor Trim gave a loud yelp. Her aim was good, and the wolf and dog lay side by side. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, and Mary, hearing the report of the rifle, ran out, and found Percival and Emma at the palisades behind the house.
"I have killed him, aunt," said Emma, "but I fear he has killed poor little Trim; do let us go out and see."
"No, no, my dear Emma, that must not be; your cousins will be home soon, and then we shall know how the case stands; but the risk is too great."
"Here they come," said Percival, "as fast as they can run."
The hunters were soon at the palisade door and admitted; they had no game with them. Emma jeered them for coming back empty handed.
"No, no, my little cousin," replied Alfred, "we heard the report of a rifle, and we threw down our game, that we might sooner come to your assistance if you required it. What was the matter?"
"Only that I have killed a wolf, and am not allowed to bring in my trophy," replied Emma. "Come, Alfred, I may go with you and Martin."
They went to the spot, and found the wolf was dead, and poor Trim dead also by his side. They took in the body of the little dog, and left the wolf till the morning, when Martin said he would skin it for Miss Emma.
"And I'll make a footstool of it," said Emma; "that shall be my revenge for the fright I had from the other wolf. Come, Oscar, good dog; you and I will go wolf-hunting. Dear me, who would have thought that I should have ever killed a wolf--poor little Trim!"
Martin said it would be useless to return for the venison, as the wolves had no doubt eaten it already; so they locked the palisade gate, and went into the house.
Emma's adventure was the topic of the evening, and Emma herself was much pleased at having accomplished such a feat.
"Well," said Martin, "I never knew but one woman who faced a wolf except Miss Emma."
"And who was that, Martin?" said Mrs. Campbell.
[Illustration: FACING A WOLF.]
"It was a wife of one of our farmers, ma'am; she was at the outhouse doing something, when she perceived a wolf enter the cottage-door, where there was nobody except the baby in the cradle. She ran back and found the wolf just lifting the infant out of the cradle by its clothes. The animal looked at her with his eyes flashing; but having its mouth full, it did not choose to drop the baby, and spring at her; all it wanted was to get clear off with its prey. The woman had presence of mind enough to take down her husband's rifle and point it to the wolf, but she was so fearful of hurting the child, that she did not put the muzzle to its head, but to its shoulder. She fired just as the wolf was making off, and the animal fell, and could not get on its feet again, and it then dropped the child out of its mouth to attack the mother. The woman caught the child up, but the wolf gave her a severe bite on the arm, and broke the bone near the wrist. A wolf has a wonderful strong jaw, ma'am. However, the baby was saved, and neighbors came and dispatched the animal."
"What a fearful position for a mother to be in!" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell.
"Where did that happen?"
"On the White Mountains, ma'am," replied Martin. "Malachi Bone told me the story; he was born there."
"Then he is an American."
"Well, ma'am, he is an American because he was born in this country, but it was English when he was born, so he calls himself an Englishman."
"I understand," replied Mrs. Campbell, "he was born before the colonies obtained their independence."
"Yes, ma'am, long before; there's no saying how old he is. When I was quite a child, I recollect he was then reckoned an old man; indeed, the name the Indians gave to him proves it. He then was called the 'Gray Badger.'"
"But is he so very old, do you really think, Martin?"
"I think he has seen more than sixty snows, ma'am; but not many more; the fact is, his hair was gray before he was twenty years old; he told me so himself, and that's one reason why the Indians are so fearful of him. They have it from their fathers that the Gray Badger was a great hunter, as Malachi was more than forty years ago; so they imagine as his hair was gray then, he must have been a very old man at that time back, and so to them he appears to live forever, and they consider him as charmed, and to use their phrase, 'great _medicine_.' I've heard some Indians declare that Malachi had seen one hundred and fifty winters, and they really believe it. I never contradicted them, as you may imagine."
"Does he live comfortably?"
"Yes, ma'am, he does; his squaw knows what he wants, and does what she is bid. She is very fond of the old man, and looks upon him, as he really is to her, as a father. His lodge is always full of meat, and he has plenty of skins. He don't drink spirits, and if he has tobacco for smoking and powder and ball, what else can he want?"
"Happy are they whose wants are so few," observed Mr. Campbell. "A man in whatever position in life, if he is content, is certain to be happy. How true are the words of the poet:-- 'Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long!'
Malachi Bone is a happier man than hundreds in England who live in luxury. Let us profit, my dear children, by his example, and learn to be content with what Heaven has bestowed upon us. But it is time to retire. The wind has risen, and we shall have a blustering night. Henry, fetch me the book."
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Alfred and Martin brought in the wolf which Emma had killed, but it was frozen so hard that they could not skin it. Poor little Trim was also carried in, but the ground was too hard frozen for them to bury the body, so they put it into the snow until the spring, when a thaw would take place. As for the wolf, they said nothing about it, but they remained up when the rest of the family retired, and after the wolf had been some time before the fire, they were able to take off the skin.
On the following morning, when the hunters went out, they were particularly desired to shoot a wild turkey if they could, as the next day was Christmas-day.
"Let us take Oscar with us," said Alfred; "he is very swift, and may run them down; we never can get up with them in our snow-shoes."
"I wonder whether they will get a turkey," said Emma, after the hunting party had left.
"I think it will be difficult," said Mrs. Campbell; "but they will try all they can."
"I hope they will; for Christmas-day without a turkey will be very un-English."
"We are not in England, my dear Emma," said Mr. Campbell; "and wild turkeys are not to be ordered from the poulterer's."
"I know that we are not in England, my dear uncle, and I feel it too. How was the day before every Christmas-day spent at Wexton Hall! What piles of warm blankets, what a quantity of duffil cloaks, flannels, and worsted stockings were we all so busy and so happy in preparing and sorting to give away on the following morning, that all within miles of us should be warmly clothed on that day. And, then, the housekeeper's room with all the joints of meat, and flour and plums and suet, in proportion to the number of each family, all laid out and ticketed ready for distribution. And then the party invited to the servants' hall, and the great dinner, and the new clothing for the school-girls, and the church so gay, with their new dresses in the aisles, and the holly and the mistletoe. I know we are not in England, my dear uncle, and that you have lost one of your greatest pleasures--that of doing good, and making all happy around you."
"Well, my dear Emma, if I have lost the pleasure of doing good, it is the will of Heaven that it should be so, and we ought to be thankful that, if not dispensing charity, at all events, we are not the objects of charity to others; that we are independent, and earning an honest livelihood. People may be very happy, and feel the most devout gratitude on the anniversary of so great a mercy, without having a turkey for dinner."
"I was not in earnest about the turkey, my dear uncle. It was the association of ideas connected by long habit, which made me think of our Christmas times at Wexton Hall; but, indeed, my dear uncle, if there was regret, it was not for myself so much as for you," replied Emma, with tears in her eyes.
"Perhaps I spoke rather too severely, my dearest Emma," said Mr. Campbell; "but I did not like to hear such a solemn day spoken of as if it were commemorated merely by the eating of certain food."
"It was foolish of me," replied Emma? "and it was said thoughtlessly."
Emma went up to Mr. Campbell and kissed him, and Mr. Campbell said, "Well, I hope there will be a turkey, since you wish for one."
The hunters did not return till late, and when they appeared in sight, Percival, who had descried them, came in and said that they were very well loaded, and were bringing in their game slung upon a pole.
Mary and Emma went out of the door to meet their cousins. That there was a heavy load carried on a pole between Martin and Alfred was certain, but they could not distinguish what it consisted of. As the party arrived at the palisade gates, however, they discovered that it was not game, but a human being, who was carried on a sort of litter made of boughs.
"What is it, Alfred?" said Mary.
"Wait till I recover my breath," said Alfred, as he reached the door, "or ask Henry, for I'm quite knocked up."
Henry then went with his cousins into the house, and explained to them that as they were in pursuit of the wild turkeys, Oscar had stopped suddenly and commenced baying; that they went up to the dog, and, in a bush, they found a poor Indian woman nearly frozen to death, and with a dislocation of the ankle, so severe that her leg was terribly swelled, and she could not move. Martin had spoken to her in the Indian tongue, and she was so exhausted with cold and hunger that she could just tell him that she belonged to a small party of Indians who had been some days out hunting, and a long way from where they had built their winter lodges; that she had fallen with the weight which she had carried, and that her leg was so bad, she could not go on with them; that they had taken her burden, and left her to follow them when she could.
"Yes," continued Alfred; "left the poor creature without food, to perish in the snow. One day more, and it would have been all over with her. It is wonderful how she can have lived through the two last nights as she has. But Martin says the Indians always do leave a woman to perish in this way or recover as she can, if she happens to meet with an accident."
"At all events, let us bring her in at once," said Mr. Campbell. "I will first see if my surgical assistance can be of use, and after that we will do what we can for her. How far from this did you find her?"
"About eight miles," replied Henry; "and Alfred has carried her almost the whole way; Martin and I have relieved each other, except once, when I took Alfred's place."
"And so you perceive, Emma, instead of a wild turkey I have brought an Indian squaw," said Alfred.
"I love you better for your kindness, Alfred," replied Emma, "than if you had brought me a wagon-load of turkeys."
In the meantime, Martin and Henry brought in the poor Indian, and laid her down on the floor at some distance from the fire, for though she was nearly dead with the cold, too sudden an exposure to heat would have been almost equally fatal. Mr. Campbell examined her ankle, and with a little assistance reduced the dislocation. He then bound up her leg and bathed it with warm vinegar, as a first application. Mrs. Campbell and the two girls chafed the poor creature's limbs till the circulation was a little restored, and then they gave her something warm to drink. It was proposed by Mrs. Campbell that they should make up a bed for her on the floor of the kitchen. This was done in a corner near the fire-place, and in about an hour their patient fell into a sound sleep.
"It is lucky for her that she did not fall into that sleep before we found her," said Martin; "she would never have awoke again."
"Most certainly not," replied Mr. Campbell. "Have you any idea what tribe she is of, Martin?"
"Yes, sir; she is one of the Chippeways; there are many divisions of them, but I will find out when she awakes again to which she belongs; she was too much exhausted when we found her, to say much."
"It appears very inhuman leaving her to perish in that way," observed Mrs. Campbell.
"Well, ma'am, so it does; but necessity has no law. The Indians could not, if they would, have carried her, perhaps one hundred miles. It would have probably been the occasion of more deaths, for the cold is too great now for sleeping out at nights for any time, although they do contrive with the help of a large fire to stay out sometimes."
"Self-preservation is the first law of nature, certainly," observed Mr. Campbell; "but, if I recollect right the savage does not value the life of a woman very highly."
"That's a fact, sir," replied Martin; "not much more, I reckon, than you would a beast of burden."
"It is always the case among savage nations," observed Mr. Campbell; "the first mark of civilization is the treatment of the other sex, and in proportion as civilization increases, so are the women protected and well used. But your supper is ready, my children, and I think after your fatigue and fasting you must require it."
"I am almost too tired to eat," observed Alfred, "I shall infinitely more enjoy a good sleep under my bear skin. At the same time I'll try what I can do," continued he, laughing, and taking his seat at table.
Notwithstanding Alfred's observation, he contrived to make a very hearty supper, and Emma laughed at his appetite after his professing that he had so little inclination to eat.
"I said I was too tired to eat, Emma, and so I felt at the time; but as I became more refreshed my appetite returned," replied Alfred, laughing, "and notwithstanding your jeering me, I mean to eat some more."
"How long has John been away?" said Mr. Campbell.
"Now nearly a fortnight," observed Mrs. Campbell; "he promised to come here Christmas-day. I suppose we shall see him to-morrow morning."
"Yes, ma'am; and old Bone will come with him, I dare say. He said as much to me when he was going away the last time. He observed that the boy could not bring the venison, and perhaps _he_ would if he had any, for he knows that people like plenty of meat on Christmas day."
"I wonder whether old Malachi is any way religious," observed Mary. "Do you think he is, Martin?"
"Yes, ma'am; I think he feels it, but does not show it. I know from myself what are, probably, his feelings on the subject. When I have been away for weeks and sometimes for months, without seeing or speaking to any one, all alone in the woods, I feel more religious than I do when at Quebec on my return, although I do go to church. Now old Malachi has, I think, a solemn reverence for the Divine Being, and strict notions of duty, so far as he understands it,--but as he never goes to any town or mixes with any company, so the rites of religion, as I may call them, and the observances of the holy feast, are lost to him, except as a sort of dream of former days, before he took to his hunter's life. Indeed, he seldom knows what day or even what month it is. He knows the seasons as they come and go, and that's all. One day is the same as another, and he can not tell which is Sunday, for he is not able to keep a reckoning. Now, ma'am, when you desired Master John to be at home on the Friday fortnight because it was Christmas-day, I perceived old Malachi in deep thought: he was recalling to mind what Christmas-day was; if you had not mentioned it, the day would have passed away like any other; but you reminded him, and then it was that he said he would come if he could. I'm sure that now he knows it is Christmas-day, he intends to keep it as such."
"There is much truth in what Martin says," observed Mr. Campbell; "we require the seventh day in the week and other stated seasons of devotion to be regularly set apart, in order to keep us in mind of our duties and preserve the life of religion. In the woods, remote from communion with other Christians, these things are easily forgotten, and when once we have lost our calculation, it is not to be recovered. But come, Alfred and Henry and Martin must be very tired, and we had better all go to bed. I will sit up a little while to give some drink to my patient, if she wishes it. Good-night, my children."
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Christmas-day was indeed a change, as Emma had observed, from their former Christmas; but although the frost was more than usually severe, and the snow filled the air with its white flakes, and the north-east wind howled through the leafless trees as they rasped their long arms against each other, and the lake was one sheet of thick ice with a covering of snow which the wind had in different places blown up into hillocks, still they had a good roof over their heads, and a warm, blazing fire on the hearth: and they had no domestic miseries, the worst miseries of all to contend against, for they were a united family, loving and beloved; showing mutual acts of kindness and mutual acts of forbearance; proving how much better was "a dish of herbs where love is, than the stalled ox with hatred therewith." Moreover they were all piously disposed; they were sensible that they owed a large debt of gratitude to Heaven for all its daily mercies in providing them with food and raiment, for warding off from them sickness and sorrow, and giving them humble and contented hearts; and on this day, they felt how little were all worldly considerations, compared with the hopes which were held out to them through the great sacrifice which the goodness and mercy of God had made for them and all the world. It was, therefore, with cheerful yet subdued looks that they greeted each other when they met previous to the morning prayers.
Mr. Campbell had already visited his patient and readjusted the bandage: her ankle was better, but still very much swelled; the poor creature made no complaints, she looked grateful for what was done and for the kindness shown to her. They were all arrayed in their best Sunday dresses, and as soon as prayers were over had just wished each other the congratulations so general, so appropriate, and yet too often so thoughtlessly given upon the anniversary, when Malachi Bone, his little squaw the Strawberry, and John, entered the door of the hut, laden with the sports of the forest, which they laid down in the corner of the kitchen, and then saluted the party.
"Here we are all together on Christmas-day," said Emma, who had taken the hand of the Strawberry.
The Indian girl smiled, and nodded her head.
"And, John, you have brought us three wild turkeys; you are a good boy, John," continued Emma.
"If we only had Captain Sinclair here now," said Martin to Emma and Mary Percival, who was by Emma's side, shaking hands with the Strawberry.
Mary colored up a little, and Emma replied, "Yes, Martin, we do want him, for I always feel as if he belonged to the family."
"Well, it's not his fault that he's not here," replied Martin; "it's now more than six weeks since he has left, and if the Colonel would allow him, I'm sure that Captain Sinclair----" "Would be here on this day," said Captain Sinclair, who with Mr. Gwynne, his former companion, had entered the door of the house without being observed; for the rest of the party were in conversation with Malachi Bone and John.
"Oh, how glad I am to see you," cried Emma; "we only wanted you to make our Christmas party complete; and I'm very glad to see you too, Mr. Gwynne," continued Emma, as she held out a hand to each.
"We had some difficulty in persuading the Colonel to let us come," observed Captain Sinclair to Mary; "but as we have heard nothing further about the Indians, he consented."
"You have nothing more to fear from the Indians this winter, Captain, and you may tell the Colonel so from me," said Malachi. "I happened to be on their hunting ground yesterday, and they have broken up and gone westward, that is, Angry Snake and his party have; I followed their track over the snow for a few miles just to make sure; they have taken every thing with them, but somehow or other, I could not find out that the squaw was with them,--and they had one in their party. They carried their own packs of fur, that I'll swear to, and they had been thrown down several times; which would not have been the case, if they had not been carried by men; for you see, the Injun is very impatient under a load, which a squaw will carry the whole day without complaining. Now that party is gone, there is no other about here within fifty miles, I'll be bound for."
"I'm very glad to hear you say so," replied Captain Sinclair.
"Then, perhaps, this poor woman whom you succored, Alfred, is the squaw belonging to the party," observed Mr. Campbell. Mr. Campbell then related to Malachi Bone what had occurred on the day before; how the hunting party had brought home the woman, whom he pointed to in the corner where she had remained unnoticed by the visitors.
Malachi and the Strawberry went up to her; the Strawberry spoke to her in the Indian tongue in a low voice, and the woman replied in the same, while Malachi stood over them and listened.
"It's just as you thought, sir; she belongs to the Angry Snake, and she says that he has gone with his party to the westward, as the beaver were very scarce down here; I could have told him that. She confirms my statement, that all the Indians are gone, but are to meet at the same place in the spring, to hold a council."
"Is she of the same tribe as the Strawberry?" inquired Henry.
"That's as may be," replied Malachi; "I hardly know which tribe the Strawberry belongs to."
"But they speak the same language."
"Yes; but the Strawberry learned the tongue from me," replied Malachi.
"From you!" said Mrs. Campbell; "how was that?"
"Why, ma'am, it's about thirteen or fourteen years back, that I happened to come in upon a skirmish which took place on one of the small lakes between one of the tribes here and a war party of Hurons who were out. They were surprised by the Hurons, and every soul, as far as I could learn, was either scalped or carried away prisoner. The Hurons had gone about an hour or two, when I came up to the place where they fought, and I sat down looking at the dead bodies, and thinking to myself what creatures men were to deface God's image in that way, when I saw under a bush two little sharp eyes looking at me; at first, I thought it was some beast, a lynx, mayhap, as they now call them, and I pointed my rifle toward it; but before I pulled the trigger, I thought that perhaps I might be mistaken, so I walked up to the bush, and there I discovered that it was an Indian child, which had escaped the massacre by hiding itself in the bush. I pulled it out; it was a girl about two years old, who could speak but a few words. I took her home to my lodge, and have had her with me ever since, so I don't exactly know what tribe she belongs to, as they all speak the same tongue. I called her the 'Strawberry,' because I found her under a bush close to the ground, and among strawberry plants which were growing there."
"And then you married her," said Percival.
"Married her! no, boy, I never married her; what has an old man of near seventy to do with marrying? They call her my squaw, because they suppose she is my wife, and she does the duty of a wife to me; but if they were to call her my daughter, they would be nearer the mark, for I have been a father to her."
"Well, Malachi, to tell you the truth, I did think that she was too young to be your wife," said Emma.
"Well, miss, you were not far wrong," replied the old man. "I do wish I could find out her tribe, but I never have been able, and indeed, from what I can learn, the party who were surprised came a long way from this, although speaking the same language; and I don't think there is any chance now, for even if I were to try to discover it, there have been so many surprises and so much slaughter within these last twenty years, that it's scarcely possible the search would be attended with success."
"But why do you wish to find out her tribe?" said Mary.
"Because I'm an old man, miss, and must soon expect to be gathered to my fathers, and then this poor little girl will be quite alone, unless I can marry her to some one before I die: and if I do marry her, why then she will leave _me_ alone; but that can't be helped, I'm an old man, and what does it matter?"
"It matters a great deal, Malachi," said Mr. Campbell; "I wish you would live with us; you would then be taken care of if you required it, and not die alone in the wilderness."
"And the Strawberry shall never want friends or a home, while we can offer her one, Malachi," said Mrs. Campbell; "let what will happen to you, she will be welcome to live here and die here, if she will remain."
Malachi made no reply; he was in deep thought, resting his chin upon his hands, which held his rifle before him. Mrs. Campbell and the girls were obliged to leave to prepare the dinner. John had sat down with the Strawberry and the Indian woman, and was listening to them, for he now understood the Chippeway tongue. Alfred, Sinclair, and the other gentlemen of the party, were in conversation near the fire, when they were requested by Mrs. Campbell to retreat to the sitting-room, that the culinary operations might not be interfered with. Malachi Bone still continued sitting where he was, in deep thought. Martin, who remained, said to the Miss Percivals in a low voice-- "Well, I really did think that the old man had married the girl, and I thought it was a pity," continued he, looking toward the Strawberry, "for she is very young and very handsome for a squaw."
"I think," replied Mary Percival, "she would be considered handsome everywhere, Martin, squaw or not; her features are very pretty, and then she has a melancholy smile, which is perfectly beautiful; but now, Martin, pluck these turkeys, or we shall not have them ready in time."
As soon as the dinner was at the fire, and could be left to the care of Martin, Mrs. Campbell and the Misses Percival went into the sitting-room. Mr. Campbell then read the morning service of the day, Henry officiating as clerk in the responses. Old Malachi had joined the party, and was profoundly attentive. As soon as the service was over, he said-- "All this puts me in mind of days long past, days which appear to me as a dream, when I was a lad and had a father and a mother, and brothers and sisters around me; but many summers and many winters have passed over my head since then."
"You were born in Maine, Malachi, were you not?"
"Yes, ma'am, half way up the White Mountains. He was a stern old man, my father; but he was a righteous man. I remember how holy Sunday was kept in our family; how my mother cleaned us all, and put on our best clothes, and how we went to the chapel or church, I forget which they called it; but no matter, we went to pray."
"Was your father of the Established Church, Malachi?"
"I can't tell, ma'am; indeed, I hardly know what it means; but he was a good Christian and a good man, that I do know."
"You are right, Malachi; when the population is crowded, you find people divided into sects, and, what is still worse, despising, if not hating each other, because the outward forms of worship are a little different. Here in our isolated position, we feel how trifling are many of the distinctions which divide religious communities, and that we could gladly give the right hand of fellowship to any denomination of Christians who hold the main truths of the Gospel. Are not all such agreed in things essential, animated with the same hopes, acknowledging the same rule of faith, and all comprehended in the same divine mercy which was shown us on this day? What do all sincere Christians believe but that God is holy, great, good, and merciful, that his Son died for us all, and that through his merits and intercession if we conform to his precepts--whether members of the Church of England, or any other communion--we shall be saved and obtain the blessedness of heaven? We may prefer, and reasonably prefer, our own mode of worship, believing it to be most edifying; but we have no right to quarrel with those who conscientiously differ from us about outward forms and ceremonies which do not involve the spirit of Christianity."
After a pause, Mary Percival said, "Malachi, tell us more about your father and your family."
"I have little to tell, miss; only that I now think that those were pleasant days which then I thought irksome. My father had a large farm and would have had us all remain with him. In the winter we felled timber, and I took quite a passion for a hunter's life; but my father would not allow me to go from home, so I staid till he died, and then I went away on my rambles. I left when I was not twenty years old, and I have never seen my family since. I have been a hunter and a trapper, a guide and a soldier, and an interpreter; but for the last twenty-five years I have been away from towns and cities, and have lived altogether in the woods. The more man lives by himself, the more he likes it, and yet now and then circumstances bring up the days of his youth, and make him hesitate whether it be best or not to live alone."
"I am glad to hear you say that, Malachi," said Mr. Campbell.
"I little thought that I should ever have said it," replied the old man, "when I first saw that girl by the side of the stream (looking at Emma),--then my heart yearned toward the boy; and now this meeting to praise God and to keep Christmas-day--all has helped."
"But do you not pray when you are alone?" said Mary.
"Yes, in a manner, miss; but it's not like your prayers; the lips don't move, although the heart feels. When I lie under a tree watching for the animals, and I take up a leaf and examine it, I observe how curious and wonderful it is,--I then think that God made it, and that man could not. When I see the young grass springing up, and _how_, I know not, except that it does so every year, I think of God and his mercy to the wild animals in giving them food; and then the sun reminds me of God; and the moon, and the stars, as I watch, make me think of Him; but I feel very often that there is something wanting, and that I do not worship exactly as I ought to do. I never have known which is Sunday, although I well recollect how holy it was kept at my father's house; and I never should have known that this was Christmas-day, had it not been that I had met with you. All days are alike to a man who is alone and in the wilderness, and that should not be--I feel that it should not."
"So true is it," observed Mr. Campbell, "that stated times and seasons are necessary for the due observance of our religious duties; and I am glad to hear Malachi say this, as I trust it will occasion his being with us more than he has been."
"Come to us every Sunday, Malachi," said Mrs. Campbell.
"I think I will, ma'am, if I can--indeed, why I say _if I can_, I know not; it was wrong to say so."
"I wish you to come not only on your own account, but for John's sake; suppose you agree to come every Sunday morning, and leave us every Monday. You will then have the whole week for your hunting."
"Please God, I will," replied Malachi.
"And bring the Strawberry with you," said Mary.
"I will, miss; it can not but do her good."
Dinner was now announced, and they all sat down, a happy party. Mr. Campbell on this occasion produced two or three bottles of his small store of wine, which he kept rather in case of illness than for any other reason, for they had all been so long without wine or spirits, that they cared little about it. Their dinner consisted of white fish (salted), roast venison, boiled salt beef, roast turkey, and a plum-pudding, and they were all very merry, although they were in the woods of Canada, and not at Wexton Hall.
"My children," said Mr. Campbell, after dinner. "I now drink all your healths, and wish you as much happiness as the world affords, and at the same time accept my most hearty thanks and my dearest love. You have all been good, obedient, and cheerful, and have lightened many a heavy load. If when it pleased Providence to send us into this wilderness, it had been part of my lot to contend with willful and disobedient children; if there had been murmuring and repining at our trials; discontent and quarreling among yourselves, how much more painful would have been our situation. On the contrary, by your good humor and attention, your willing submission to privations, and your affectionate conduct toward me, my wife, and each other, you have not allowed us to feel the change of position to which we have been reduced. I say again, my dear children all, you have my thanks, and may the Almighty bless and preserve you!"
|
{
"id": "22496"
}
|
1
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KIT WATSON.
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There was great excitement in Smyrna, especially among the boys. Barlow's Great American Circus in its triumphal progress from State to State was close at hand, and immense yellow posters announcing its arrival were liberally displayed on fences and barns, while smaller bills were put up in the post office, the hotel, and the principal stores, and distributed from house to house.
It was the largest circus that had ever visited Smyrna. At least a dozen elephants marched with ponderous steps in its preliminary procession, while clowns, acrobats, giants, dwarfs, fat women, cannibals, and hairy savages from Thibet and Madagascar, were among the strange wonders which were to be seen at each performance for the small sum of fifty cents, children half price.
For weeks the young people had been looking forward to the advent of this marvelous aggregation of curiosities, and the country papers from farther east had given glowing accounts of the great show, which was emphatically pronounced greater and more gorgeous than in any previous year. But it may be as well to reproduce, in part, the description given in the posters: BARLOW'S GREAT NORTH AMERICAN CIRCUS. Now in its triumphal march across the continent, will give two grand performances, AT SMYRNA On the afternoon and evening of May 18th. Never in all its history has this Unparalleled show embraced a greater variety of attractions, or included a larger number of world famous Acrobats, Clowns, Bare back Riders, Rope walkers, Trapeze Artists, and Star Performers, In addition to a colossal menagerie, comprising Elephants, Tigers, Lions, Leopards, and other wild animals in great variety. All this and far more, including a hundred DARING ACTS, Can be seen for the trifling sum of Fifty cents; Children half price. COME ONE! COME ALL!
Two boys paused to read this notice, pasted with illustrative pictures of elephants and circus performers on the high board fence near Stoddard's grocery store. They were Dan Clark and Christopher Watson, called Kit for short.
"Shall you go to the circus, Dan?" asked Kit.
"I would like to, but you know, Kit, I have no money to spare."
"Don't let that interfere," said Kit, kindly. "Here is half a dollar. That will take you in."
"You're a tip-top fellow, Kit. But I don't think I ought to take it. I don't know when I shall be able to return it."
"Who asked you to return it? I meant it as a gift."
"You're a true friend, Kit," said Dan, earnestly. "I don't know as I ought to take it, but I will anyhow. You know I only get my board and a dollar a week from Farmer Clifford, and that I give to my mother."
"I wish you had a better place, Dan."
"So do I; but perhaps it is as well as I can do at my age. All boys are not born to good luck as you are."
"Am I born to good luck? I don't know."
"Isn't your uncle Stephen the richest man in Smyrna?"
"I suppose he is; but that doesn't make me rich."
"Isn't he your guardian?"
"Yes; but it doesn't follow because there is a guardian there is a fortune."
"I hope there is."
"I am going to tell you something in confidence, Dan. Uncle Stephen has lately been dropping a good many hints about the necessity of being economical, and that I may have my own way to make in the world. What do you think it means?"
"Have you been extravagant?"
"Not that I am aware of. I have been at an expensive boarding school with my cousin Ralph, and I have dressed well, and had a fair amount of spending money."
"Have you spent any more than Ralph?"
"No; not so much, for I will tell you in confidence that he has been playing pool and cards for money, of course without the knowledge of the principal. I know also that this last term, besides spending his pocket money he ran up bills, which his father had to pay, to the amount of fifty dollars or more."
"How did your uncle like it?"
"I don't know. Ralph and his father had a private interview, but he got the money. I believe his mother took his part."
"Why don't you ask your uncle just how you stand?"
"I have thought of it. If I am to inherit a fortune I should like to know it. If I have my own way to make I want to know that also, so that I can begin to prepare for it."
"Would you feel bad if you found out that you were a poor boy--like me, for instance?"
"I suppose I should just at first, but I should try to make the best of it in the end."
"Well, I hope you won't have occasion to buckle down to hard work. When do you go back to school?"
"The next term begins next Monday."
"And it is now Wednesday. You will be able to see the circus at any rate. It is to arrive to-night."
"Suppose we go round to the lot to-morrow morning. We can see them putting up the tents."
"All right! I'll meet you at nine o'clock."
They were about to separate when another boy, of about the same age and size, came up.
"It's time for dinner, Kit," he said; "mother'll be angry if you are late."
"Very well! I'll go home with you. Good morning, Dan."
"Good morning, Kit. Good morning, Ralph."
Ralph mumbled out "Morning," but did not deign to look at Dan.
"I wonder you associate with that boy, Kit," he said.
"Why?" inquired Kit, rather defiantly.
"Because he's only a farm laborer."
"Does that hurt him?"
"I don't care to associate with such a low class."
"Daniel Webster worked on a farm when he was a boy."
"Dan Clark isn't a Webster."
"We don't know what he will turn out to be."
"I don't consider him fit for me to associate with," said Ralph. "It may be different in your case."
"Why should it be different in my case?" asked Kit, suspiciously.
"Oh, no offense at all, but your circumstances and social position are likely to be different from mine."
"Are they? That's just what I should like to find out."
"My father says so, and as you are under his guardianship he ought to know."
"Yes, he ought to know, but he has never told me."
"He has told me, but I am not at liberty to say anything," said Ralph, looking mysterious.
"I think I ought to be the first to be told," said Kit, not unreasonably.
"You will be told soon. There is one thing I can tell you, however. You are not to go back to boarding school on Monday."
Kit paused in the street, and gazed at his companion in surprise.
"Are you going back?" he asked.
"Yes; I'm going to keep on till I am ready for college."
"And what is to be done with me?"
Ralph shrugged his shoulders.
"I am not at liberty to tell you," he answered.
"I shall ask my uncle this very day."
"Just as you please."
Kit walked on in silence. His mind was busy with thoughts of the change in his prospects. He did not know what was coming, but he was anxious. It was likely to be a turning point in his life, and he was apprehensive that the information soon to be imparted to him would not be of an agreeable nature.
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{
"id": "22521"
}
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2
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INTRODUCES THREE CURIOSITIES.
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Stephen Watson, uncle of Kit and father of Ralph, was a man of middle age. It was difficult to trace any resemblance between him and his nephew. The latter had an open face, with a bright, attractive expression. Mr. Watson was dark and sallow, of spare habit, and there was a cunning look in his eyes, beneath which a Roman nose jutted out like a promontory. He looked like the incarnation of cold selfishness, and his real character did not belie his looks.
Five years before Kit Watson's father had died. He resembled Kit in appearance, and was very popular in Smyrna. His brother wound up the estate, and had since been living in luxury, but whether the property was his or his nephew's Kit was unable to tell. He had asked the question occasionally, but his uncle showed a distaste for the subject, and gave evasive replies.
What Kit had just heard made him anxious, and he resolved to attack his uncle once more. After dinner, therefore, he began: "Uncle Stephen, Ralph tells me I am not going back to school on Monday."
"Ralph speaks correctly," Mr. Watson replied in a measured voice.
"But why am I not to go?"
"I will explain before the time comes."
"Can you not tell me now? I am anxious to know."
"You must curb your curiosity. You will know in good time."
Kit regarded his uncle in silence. He wished to know what had caused this remarkable change, but it seemed useless to ask any more questions.
The next morning he and Dan Clark, according to agreement, met in front of Stoddard's store.
"I had hard work to get away," said Dan. "Let us go right over to the circus grounds."
These were located about a third of a mile from the hotel, in a large twenty-acre pasture. The lot, as it was called, was a scene of activity. A band of canvas men were busily engaged in putting up the big tent. Several elephants were standing round, and the cages of animals had already been put in place inside the rising tent.
On a bench outside sat a curious group, comprising Achilles Henderson, the great Scotch giant, who was set down on the bills as eight feet three inches in height, and was really about seven feet and a half; Major Conrad, the dwarf, who was about the size of an average child of three years, and Madame Celestina Morella, the queen of fat women, who was credited on the bills with a weight of five hundred and eighty seven pounds. She was certainly massive, but probably fell short a hundred and fifty pounds of these elephantine proportions.
Kit and Dan paused to look at this singular trio.
"I wonder how much pay they get?" said Dan, turning to Kit.
"I saw in some paper that the fat woman gets fifty dollars a week."
"That's pretty good pay for being fat, Kit."
"Would you be willing to be as fat for that money?"
"I think not," said Dan, "though it's a good deal more than I get now."
They were standing near the bench on which the three were seated. Achilles, who looked good-natured, as most big men are, addressed the boys.
"Well, boys, are you coming to see the show?"
"Yes," answered both.
"I used to like to myself when I was a boy. I didn't expect then I should ever travel with one."
"Were you very large as a boy?" asked Dan, with curiosity.
"When I was twelve years old I was six feet high, and people generally thought then that I was eighteen. I thought perhaps I shouldn't grow any more, but I kept on. When I was sixteen I was seven feet tall, and by twenty I had reached my present height."
"Are you eight feet three inches tall, Mr. Henderson?"
"Is that what the bills say?"
"Yes."
"Then it must be so," he said with a smile.
"How long have you been traveling with the circus?"
"Five years."
"How do you like it?"
"It's a good deal easier than working on a farm, especially in Vermont, where I was born and bred."
"But they call you the Scotch giant."
"It sounds well, doesn't it? My father was born in Scotland, but my mother was a Vermont Yankee. You know Americans are more willing to pay for a foreign curiosity than for one home born. That's why my _great_ friend here"--emphasizing the word great--"calls herself Madame Celestina Morella."
The fat lady smiled.
"People think I am French or Italian," she said, "but I never was out of the United States in my life."
"Where were you born, Madame Morella?"
"In the western part of New York State. I know what you are going to ask me. Was I always fat? No, when I was sixteen I only weighed one hundred and twenty. Then I had a fit of sickness and nearly died. After recovering, I began to gain flesh, till I became a monster, as you see."
As she said this, she laughed, and her fat sides shook with merriment. Evidently she did not let her size weigh upon her mind.
"I suppose your real name isn't Celestina Morella?" said Kit.
"My real name is Betsey Hatch. That is what they called me in my girlhood, but I should hardly know who was meant if I was called so now."
"Have you been long in the show business?"
"About seven years."
"Do you like it?"
"I didn't at first, but now I've got used to moving about. Now when the spring opens I have the regular circus fever. But I have my troubles."
"What are they?" asked Kit, seeing that the fat woman liked to talk.
"Well, I find it very difficult to secure at the hotels a bed large enough and strong enough to hold me. I suppose you won't be surprised to hear that."
"Not much."
"At Akron, Ohio, where the hotel was full, I was put in a cot bed, though I protested against it. As soon as I got in, the whole thing collapsed, and I was landed on the floor."
She laughed heartily at the remembrance.
"I remember that very well," said the giant, "for I slept in the room below. Half an hour after getting into bed, I heard a fearful noise in the room above, and thought at first the hotel had been struck by lightning, and a piercing shriek that echoed through the house led me to fear that my esteemed Italian friend was a victim. But my mind was soon relieved when I learned the truth."
"I suppose, major, you never broke down a bed," said the giant, turning to the dwarf.
"No," answered the major, in a shrill piping voice, "I never lie awake thinking of that."
"I believe you served in the civil war, major?"
"Yes, I was in the infantry."
It was a stale joke, but all four laughed at it.
"How much do you weigh, major?" Kit ventured to ask.
"Twenty-one pounds and a half," answered the dwarf. "I have with me some of my photographs, if you would like to buy," and the little man produced half a dozen cards from his tiny pocket.
"How much are they?"
"Ten cents."
"I'll take one," said Kit, and he produced the necessary coin.
"If you go into the tent you can see some of the performers rehearsing," suggested Achilles.
"Let us go in, Dan."
The two boys reached the portals and went into the big tent.
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{
"id": "22521"
}
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3
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KIT ASTONISHES TWO ACROBATS.
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The circus tent was nearly ready for the regular performance. Kit and Dan regarded the sawdust arena with the interest which it always inspires in boys of sixteen. Already it was invested with fascination for them. Two acrobats who performed what is called the "brothers' act" were rehearsing. They were placarded as the Vincenti brothers, though one was a French Canadian and the other an Irishman, and there was no relationship between them. At the time the boys entered, one had climbed upon the other's shoulders, and was standing erect with folded arms. This was, of course, easy, but the next act was more difficult. By a quick movement he lowered his head, and grasping the uplifted hands of the lower acrobat, raised his feet and poised himself aloft, with his feet up in the air, sustained by the muscular arms of his associate.
"That must take strength, Kit," said Dan.
"So it does."
"No one but a circus man could do it, I suppose?"
"I can do it," said Kit quietly.
Dan regarded him with undisguised astonishment.
"You are joking," he said.
"No, I am not."
"Where did you learn to do such a thing?" asked Dan, incredulous, though he knew Kit to be a boy of truth.
"I will tell you. In the town where I attended boarding school there is a large gymnasium, under the superintendence of a man who traveled for years with a circus. He used to give lessons to the boys, but most contented themselves with a few common exercises. I suppose I should also, but there was an English boy in the school, very supple and muscular, who was proud of his strength, and ambitious to make himself a thorough gymnast. He persuaded me to take lessons in the most difficult acrobatic feats with him, as two had to work together."
"Did you pay the professor extra to instruct you?" asked Dan.
"He charged nothing. He was only too glad to teach us all he knew. It seems he was at one time connected with Barnum's circus, and prepared performers for the arena. He told us it made him think of his old circus days to teach us. At the close of last term we gave him five dollars apiece as an acknowledgment of his services. He assured us then that we were competent to perform in any circus."
"Could you really do what the Vincenti brothers are doing?"
"Yes; and more."
"I wish I could see you do it."
The boys were seated near the sawdust arena, and the last part of their conversation had been heard by the acrobats. It was taken as an illustration of boyish braggadocio, and as circus men are always ready for practical jokes, particularly at the expense of greenhorns, they resolved that there was a good chance for a little fun.
One tipped the wink to the other, and turning to Kit, said: "What's that you're saying, kid?"
"How does he know your name?" said Dan, mistaking kid, the circus name for boy, for his friend's nickname.
"He said kid, not Kit," answered our hero.
"Do you think you can do our act?" continued the acrobat.
"I think I can," replied Kit.
This elicited a broad grin from the acrobat.
"Look here, kid," he said, "do you know how long it took me to learn the business?"
"I don't know, but I should like to know."
"Three years."
"No doubt you can do a great deal more than I." "Oh, no, certainly not!" said the acrobat, ironically.
"I see you don't believe me," said Kit.
"I'll tell you what you remind me of, kid. There was a fellow came to our circus last summer, and wanted to get an engagement as rider. He said he'd been a cowboy out in New Mexico, and had been employed to break horses. So we gave the fellow a trial. We brought out a wild mustang, and told him to show what he could do. The mustang let him get on, as was his custom, but after he was fairly on, he gave a jump, and Mr. Cowboy measured his length on the sawdust."
Kit and Dan both smiled at this story.
"I am not a cowboy, and don't profess to ride bucking mustangs," he said, "though my friend Dan may."
"I'd rather be excused," put in Dan.
"I'll tell you what, kid, if you'll go through the performance you've just seen I'll give you five dollars."
The fellow expected Kit would make some hasty excuse, but he was mistaken. Our hero rose from his seat, removed his coat and vest, and bounded into the arena.
"I am ready," he said, "but I am not strong enough to be the under man. I'll do the other."
"All right! Go ahead!"
The speaker put himself in position. Kit gave a spring, and in an instant was upon his shoulders.
There was an exclamation of surprise from the second acrobat.
"Christopher!" he exclaimed. "The boy's got something in him, after all."
"Now what shall I do?" asked Kit, as with folded arms he stood on the acrobat's shoulders.
"Keep your place while I walk round the arena."
Kit maintained his position while the acrobat ran round the circle, increasing his pace on purpose to dislodge his young associate. But Kit was too well used to this act to be embarrassed. He held himself erect, and never swerved for an instant.
"Pretty good, kid!" said the acrobat. "Now reverse yourself and stand on my hands with your feet in the air."
Kit made the change skillfully, and to the equal surprise of Dan and the other acrobat, both of whom applauded without stint.
"Can you do anything else?" asked Alonzo Vincenti.
"Yes."
Kit went through a variety of other feats, and then descending from his elevated perch, was about to resume his coat and vest, when the circus performer asked him, "Can you tumble?"
Kit's answer was to roll over the arena in a succession of somersaults and hand springs.
"Well, I'm beat!" said the acrobat. "You're the smartest kid I ever met in my travels. Are you sure you're not a professional?"
"Quite sure," answered Kit, smiling.
"You never traveled with a show, then?"
Kit shook his head.
"Where on earth did you pick up all these acts?"
"I took lessons of Professor Donaldson."
"You did! Well, that explains it. I say, kid, you ought to join a circus. You'd command a fine salary."
"Would I? How much could I get?" asked Kit, with interest.
"Ten or twelve dollars a week and all expenses paid. That's pretty good pay for a kid, isn't it?"
"It's more than I ever earned yet," answered Kit, with a smile.
"I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Barlow would give you that now. If you ever make up your mind to join a show, come round and see him."
"Thank you," said Kit.
Soon after the boys left the circus lot and went home.
"Would you really join a circus, Kit?" asked Dan.
"It isn't the life I would choose," answered Kit, seriously, "but I may have to find some way of earning a living, and that very soon."
"I thought your father left you a fortune."
"So did I; but I hear that I am to be taken from boarding school, and possibly set to work. Ralph has given me a hint of it. I shall soon know, as my uncle intimates that he has a communication to make me."
"I hope it isn't as bad as you think, Kit."
"I hope so too, but I can tell you better to-morrow. We will meet to-night at the show."
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
4
|
A SCENE NOT DOWN ON THE BILLS.
|
Just before supper Kit was asked to an interview with his uncle.
"You wish to speak to me, Uncle Stephen?" he said.
"Yes; I have decided not to postpone the explanation for which you asked yesterday."
"I shall be glad to hear it, sir."
"Ever since your father's death I have supported you, not because I was morally or legally bound to do so, but because you were my nephew."
"But didn't my father leave any property?" asked Kit in amazement.
"He was supposed to have done so."
"This house and grounds are surely worth a good deal of money!"
"So they are," answered Stephen Watson, dryly, "but unfortunately they did not belong to your father."
"This is certainly a mistake," exclaimed Kit, indignantly.
"Wait till I have finished. These stood in your father's name, but there was a mortgage of two thousand dollars held by the Smyrna Savings Bank."
"Surely the place is worth far more than two thousand dollars!"
"Curb your impatience, and you will soon understand me. The place _is_ worth far more than two thousand dollars. I consider it worth ten thousand."
"Then I don't see----" "Your father left large debts, which of course had to be paid. I was therefore obliged to sell the estate, in order to realize the necessary funds."
"For how much did you sell the place?"
"For nine thousand dollars. I regarded that as a good price, considering that it was paid in cash or the equivalent."
"To whom did you sell?"
"I bought it in myself; I was not willing that the place which my brother had loved so well, should pass into the hands of strangers."
"May I ask who was my father's principal creditor?" asked Kit.
"Ahem! I was," answered Stephen Watson, in a tone of slight embarrassment.
"You!" exclaimed Kit, in fresh surprise.
"Yes; your father owed me twelve thousand dollars borrowed at various times."
"How could he have been obliged to borrow so much?" asked Kit. "He always seemed comfortably situated. I never once heard him complain of being pressed for money."
"Very likely; he was very reticent about his affairs. I would explain, but the matter is rather a delicate one."
"I think I am entitled to know all about it, Uncle Stephen," said Kit, firmly.
"Be it so! Perhaps you are right. Let me tell you in the briefest terms, then, that in his later years your father speculated in Wall Street--not heavily, for he had not the means, but heavily for one of his property. Of course he lost. Almost every one does, who ventures into the 'street.' His first losses, instead of deterring him from further speculation, led him on to rasher ventures. It was then that he came to me for money."
"Didn't you urge him to give up speculating?" asked Kit.
"Yes, but my words availed little. Perhaps you will think I ought to have refused him loans, but he assured me in the strongest terms that unless he obtained money from some source he would be ruined, and I yielded. I might have been weak--it was weak, for I stood a chance of losing all, having merely his notes of hand to show for the money I lent. But it is hard to refuse a brother. I think I should do the same again."
Kit was silent. His uncle's words were warm, and indicated strong sympathy for Kit's father, but his tone was cold, and there seemed a lack of earnestness. Kit could not repress a feeling of incredulity. There was another obstacle to his accepting with full credence the tale which his uncle told him. He had always understood from his father that his uncle was a poor and struggling man. How could he have in his possession the sum of twelve thousand dollars to lend his brother? This question was certainly difficult to answer. He paused, then refraining from discussing the subject, said: "Why have you not told me this before, Uncle Stephen?"
"Would it have made you any happier?" returned Stephen Watson.
"No."
"Till you had acquired a fair education, I thought it better to keep the unpleasant truth from you. It would only have annoyed you to feel that you owed everything to my generosity, and were in fact a child of charity."
Kit's face flushed deeply as he heard this expression from his uncle's lips.
"Do you mean that my father left absolutely nothing?" he asked.
"Yes, absolutely nothing. Well, no, not quite that. I think there was a balance of a little over a hundred dollars left after paying all debts. That is hardly worth counting."
"Yes, that is hardly worth counting," said Kit in a dull, mechanical tone.
"Still, I determined to educate you, and give you equal advantages with my own son. I have done so up to the present moment. I wish I could continue to do so, but Ralph is getting more expensive as he grows older (and you also), and I cannot afford to keep you both at school. You will therefore stop studying, and I shall secure you some work."
"If things are as you say, I cannot complain of this," Kit said in a dull, spiritless tone, "but it comes upon me like a thunderbolt."
"No doubt, no doubt. I knew it would be a shock, and I have postponed telling you as long as possible."
"I suppose I ought to thank you. Have you anything more to say to me now?"
"No."
"Then, sir, I will leave you. I will ask further particulars some other day."
"He takes it hard," muttered Stephen Watson, eyeing the retreating form of his nephew thoughtfully. "I wonder if he will suspect that there is anything wrong. Even if he does, he is only a boy, and can prove nothing."
* * * * * "What makes you so glum, Kit?" asked Dan Clark, when they met at seven o'clock, as agreed, to go together to the show.
"Not much, Dan, only I have learned that I am a pauper."
"But the estate--the house and the grounds?" said Dan, bewildered.
"Belong to my uncle."
"Who says so?"
"He says so. But I don't want to say any more about it now. Let us start for the circus, and I will try to forget my pauper position, for one evening at least."
Before they reached the lot, they heard the circus band discoursing lively music. They were in a crowd, for all Smyrna, men, women and children, were bound for the show. It was a grand gala night. In the city, where there are many amusements, the circus draws well, but in the country everybody goes.
Outside the great tent were the side shows. In one of them Kit found his friends of the morning, the giant, the dwarf, and the fat lady, with other curiosities hereafter to be mentioned. Just inside the tent, in what might be called the ante chamber, was the collection of animals. The elephants were accorded more freedom than the rest, but the lion, tiger, and leopard were shut up in cages. The lion seemed particularly restless. He was pacing his narrow quarters, lashing his tail, and from time to time emitting deep growls, betokening irritation and anger.
"How would you like to go into the cage?" asked Dan.
"I don't care for an interview with his majesty," responded Kit.
A stranger was standing near the cage.
"Don't go too near, boys!" he said. "That lion is particularly fierce. He nearly killed a man last season in Pennsylvania."
"How was that?"
"The man ventured too near the cage. The lion stretched out his claws, and fastened them in the man's shoulder, lacerating it fearfully before he could be released. He came near dying of blood poisoning."
Kit and Dan sheered off. The lion looked wicked enough to kill a dozen men.
At eight o'clock the performance commenced. First there was a procession of elephants and horses, the latter carrying the bareback riders and other members of the circus, with the curiosities and freaks. Then came two bareback riders, who jumped through hoops, and over banners, and performed somersaults, to the wondering delight of the boys. Then came tumblers, and in preparation for another scene a gaudily dressed clown entered the ring. Suddenly there was heard a deep baying sound, which struck terror into every heart. It was the lion; but seemed close at hand. In an instant a dark, cat-like form, rushing down the aisle, sprang into the ring.
The great Numidian lion had broken from his cage, and the life of every one in the audience was in peril. Ladies shrieked, strong men grew pale, and all wildly looked about for some way of escape.
Striking down the clown, and standing with one foot on the prostrate form, the lion's cruel eyes wandered slowly over the vast assemblage.
Only ten feet from him, in front seats, sat Kit and Dan.
Kit rose in his seat pale and excited, but with a resolute fire in his eyes. He had thought of a way to vanquish the lion.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
5
|
HOW KIT VANQUISHED THE LION.
|
The danger was imminent. Under the canvas there were at least two thousand spectators. Smyrna had less than five thousand inhabitants, but from towns around there were numerous excursion parties, which helped to swell the number present. Had these people foreseen the terrible scene not down on the bills, they would have remained at home and locked the doors of their houses. But danger is seldom anticipated and peril generally finds us unprepared.
Dan Clark saw Kit about to leave his seat.
"Where are you going?" he cried.
"I am going into the arena."
"What? Are you out of your head?" asked Dan, and he took hold of Kit to detain him. But the boy tore himself from the grasp of his friend, and with blanched brow, for he knew full well the risk he ran, he sprang over the parapet, and in an instant he stood in the sawdust circle facing the angry monarch of the wilds, whose presence had struck terror into the hearts of two thousand members of a superior race.
The sudden movement of Kit created a sensation only less than the appearance of the lion.
The residents of Smyrna all knew him, but they could not understand the cause of his apparent fool-hardiness.
"Come back! Come away, for your life!" exclaimed dozens of Kit's friends and acquaintances.
"Who is that boy? Is he one of the circus men?" asked strangers who were present.
"You will be killed, Kit! Come back!" implored Dan Clark, appalled at the danger of his friend.
Kit heard, but did not heed, the various calls. He knew what he was about, and he did not mean to be killed. But there seemed the greatest danger of it. He was six feet from the angry beast, who lashed his tail with renewed wrath, when he saw his new and puny foe. Kit knew, however, that the lion's method of attack is to spring upon his victims, and that he needs a space of from twelve to fifteen feet to do it. He himself, being but six feet distant, was within the necessary space. The lion must increase the distance between them in order to accomplish its purpose.
Now it happened that Mr. Watson had in his kitchen an elderly woman, who had for years been addicted to the obnoxious habit of snuff taking--a habit, I am glad to be able to say, which is far less prevalent now than in former days. Just before Kit had started for the circus, Ellen, who was a Scotch woman, said: "Master Kit, if you are going near the store, will you buy me a quarter of a pound of snuff?"
"Certainly, Ellen," answered Kit, who was always obliging.
The snuff he had in his pocket at the time of the lion's appearance in the ring, and it was the thought of this unusual but formidable weapon that gave him courage. If he had merely had a pistol or revolver in his pocket, he would not have ventured, for he knew that a wound would only make the lion fiercer and more dangerous.
The lion stood stock still for a moment. Apparently he was amazed at the daring of the boy who had rushed into his presence. His fierce eyes began to roll wickedly and he uttered one of those deep, hoarse growls, such as are wont to strike fear alike into animals and men. He glared at Kit very much as a cat surveys a puny mouse whom she purposes to make her victim.
It was a few brief seconds, but to the audience, who were spellbound, and scarcely dared to breathe, it seemed as many minutes that the boy and lion stood confronting each other without moving. Indeed, Kit stood as if fascinated before the mighty beast, and a thrill passed through his frame as he realized the terrible danger into which he had impulsively rushed. But he knew full well that his peril was each instant growing greater. He could not retreat now, for the furious beast would improve the chance to spring upon him and rend him to pieces.
With curious deliberation he drew from his pocket a paper parcel, while the lion, as if stirred by curiosity, eyed him attentively. He opened it carefully, and then, without an instant's delay, he flung a handful of the snuff which it contained full in the eyes of the terrible animal.
No sooner had he done so than he gave a spring, and in a flash was over the parapet and back in his seat.
It was not a moment too soon!
The lion was blinded by the snuff, which caused him intense pain. He released the terrified clown, who lost no time in escaping from the arena, while the vanquished beast rolled around on the sawdust in his agony, sending forth meanwhile the most terrible roars.
By this time the circus management had recovered from its momentary panic. The trainer and half a dozen animal men (those whose duty it was to take care of the animals) rushed into the circle, and soon obtained the mastery of the lion, whose pain had subdued his fury, and who was now moaning piteously.
Then through the crowded tent there ran a thrill of admiration for the boy who had delivered them all from a terrible danger.
One man, an enthusiastic Western visitor, sprang to his feet, and, waving his hat, exclaimed: "Three cheers for the brave boy, who has shown more courage than all the rest of us put together! Hip, hip, hurrah!"
The call was responded to with enthusiasm. Men and even women rose in their seats, and joined in the cheering. But some of the friends of Kit amended the suggestion by crying, "Hurrah for Kit Watson!"
"Hurrah for Kit Watson!" cried the Western man. "He's the pluckiest kid I ever saw yet."
Kit had not been frightened before, but he felt undeniably nervous when he saw the eyes of two thousand people fixed upon him. He blushed and seemed disposed to screen himself from observation. But at this moment a tall, portly man advanced from the front of the tent, and came up to where Kit was sitting.
"My boy," he said, "do me the favor to follow me. I am Mr. Barlow."
It was indeed the proprietor of the circus. He had come in person to greet the boy who had averted such a tragedy.
Mechanically Kit followed Mr. Barlow, who led him again into the arena. Then the manager cleared his throat, and said: "Ladies and gentlemen, I have nothing to show you here to-night that is better worth your attention than the young man whose heroic act you have just witnessed and profited by. I introduce to you the boy hero, Kit Watson!"
"Speech! speech!" exclaimed the spectators, after a liberal meed of applause.
Kit stood erect, and spoke modestly.
"I don't pretend to be a hero," he said. "I was as much frightened as anybody, but I thought of the snuff in my pocket, and I recalled to mind a story of a man who subdued a lunatic by means of it. So, on the impulse of the moment, I jumped into the ring. I am very much obliged to you for your cheers, and I wish I was as brave as you seem to think. I won't take up any more of your time, for I know you want the show to go on."
Kit retired amid a burst of applause, and resumed his seat.
The entertainment of the evening now proceeded, greatly to the satisfaction of the crowded ranks of spectators. But from time to time glances were cast towards the seat which Kit occupied.
"Kit," whispered Dan, "I am proud of you! I didn't think you had it in you."
"Don't say any more, Dan, or I shall become so vain you can't endure me. Look! there are our friends, the acrobats."
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
6
|
KIT'S POOR PROSPECTS.
|
There was one of the spectators who did not admire Kit's heroic conduct, nor join in the applause which was so liberally showered upon him. This was Ralph Watson, who sat on the opposite side of the tent, with his chum, James Schuyler, a boy who had recently come to Smyrna from the city of New York. Ralph had been very pale when the lion first made his appearance in the arena, and trembled with fear, and no one had felt greater relief when the danger was past. But, being naturally of a jealous disposition, he was very much annoyed by the sudden popularity won by Kit.
"Isn't that your cousin?" asked James Schuyler.
"Yes," answered Ralph shortly.
"What a brave boy he is!"
Ralph shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't see much bravery about it," he said. "It isn't as if the lion was a wild one in his native forest. This one was tame."
"He didn't look very tame to me," rejoined James, who, though rather snobbish, was willing to admit the danger they had all incurred. "The people didn't think so either. Hear them cheer your cousin."
"It will make him terribly conceited. He will actually think he's a hero."
"I wouldn't have given much for any of our lives if he hadn't jumped into the ring, and blinded the lion."
Meanwhile Kit was enjoying the performance, and thinking very little of how his action would be regarded by Ralph, for whom he had no very cordial feeling, though they had been, from the necessity of the case, close companions for many years.
On their return home, Kit and Ralph reached the gate together.
"It seems you're a great hero all at once," said Ralph, with a sneer.
Kit understood the sneer, but did not choose to notice it.
"Thank you for the compliment," he responded quietly.
"O, I didn't mean to flatter you! You are puffed up enough."
"Are you sorry I jumped into the ring, Ralph?" asked Kit good-naturedly.
"I don't believe there was any real danger."
"Then I must congratulate you upon your courage. All the rest of us were frightened, and even Mr. Barlow admitted that there was danger."
"The lion was half tame. It isn't as if he were wild."
"He looked wild enough to me when I faced him in the ring. I confess that my knees began to tremble, and I wished myself at home."
"You'd better set up as a lion tamer," said Ralph.
"Thank you; I think I should prefer some other business, where my life would be safer."
"You are likely to have your wish, then."
"What do you mean?" asked Kit quickly, detecting a significance in Ralph's tone.
"I mean that father intends to have you learn a trade."
"Has he told you so?"
"Yes."
"Doesn't he propose to consult me?"
"Why should he? You are only a boy, and can't judge what is best for yourself."
"Still I am likely to be more interested than any one else in the way I am to earn my living. What trade are _you_ going to learn?"
"What trade am I going to learn?" repeated Ralph, with the assumption of insulted dignity. "None at all. I shall be a merchant or a professional man."
"And why should not I be the same?" asked Kit.
"Because you're a poor boy. Didn't my father tell you this afternoon that you had no money coming to you?"
"Yes; but that needn't prevent me from becoming a merchant, or studying a profession."
"So _you_ think. You can't expect my father to pay for sending you to college, or support you while you are qualifying yourself to be a merchant."
"I don't know yet what I am entitled to expect."
"You will soon know."
"How soon?"
"To-morrow. There's a blacksmith in the next town, Aaron Bickford, who has agreed to take you as an apprentice."
"So it's all settled, is it?" Kit asked, full of indignation.
"Yes, if Mr. Bickford likes your appearance. He's coming to Smyrna on business to-morrow, and will call here. You're to live at his house."
"Indeed! I am very much obliged for the information."
"Oh, you needn't get grouty about it. I've no doubt you'll have enough to eat."
"So I am to be a blacksmith, and you a merchant or----" "Lawyer. I think I shall decide to be a lawyer," said Ralph, complacently.
"That will make quite a difference in our social positions."
"Of course; but I will help you all I can. If you have a shop of your own, I will have my horses shod at your place."
"Does your father think I am particularly well fitted to be a blacksmith?"
"He thinks you will get along very well in the business, if you are industrious. A poor boy can't choose. He must take the best he can get."
Kit did not sleep very much that night. He was full of anger and indignation with his uncle. Why should his future be so different from his cousin's? At school he had distinguished himself more in his studies, and he did not see why he was not as well fitted to become a merchant or a lawyer as Ralph.
"They can't make me a blacksmith without my consent," was his final thought, as he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Kit was up early the next morning. As breakfast was not ready, he strolled over to the hotel, which was only five minutes' walk from his uncle's house.
The circus tent had vanished. Late at night, after the evening performance was over, the canvas men had busied themselves in taking them down, and packing them for transportation to a town ten miles distant on the railroad, where they were to give two exhibitions the next day. The showy chariots, the lions, tigers, elephants and camels, with all the performers, were gone. But Mr. Barlow, the owner of the circus, had remained at the Smyrna Hotel all night, preferring to journey comfortably the next morning.
He was sitting on the piazza when Kit passed. Though he had never seen Kit but once, his business made him observant of faces, and he recognized him immediately.
"Aha!" he said, "this is the young hero of last evening, is it not?"
Kit smiled.
"I am the boy who jumped into the ring," he said.
"So I thought. I hope you slept well after the excitement."
A sudden thought came to Kit. Mr. Barlow looked like a kind hearted man, and he had already shown that he was well disposed toward him.
"I slept very poorly," he said.
"Was it the thought of the danger you had been in?"
"No, sir; I learned that my uncle, without consulting me, had arranged to apprentice me to a blacksmith."
Mr. Barlow looked surprised.
"But you look like a boy of independent means," he said, puzzled.
"I have always supposed that this was the case," said Kit, "but my uncle told me yesterday, to my surprise, that I was dependent upon him, and had no expectations."
"You don't want to be a blacksmith?"
"No, sir; I consider any kind of work honorable, but that would not suit me."
"You would succeed well in my business," said the showman, "but I am very careful how I recommend it to boys. It isn't a good school for them. They are exposed to many temptations in it. But if a boy has a strong will, and good principles, he may avoid all the evils connected with it."
Kit had not thought of it before, but now the question suggested itself: "Why should I not join the circus. I should like it better than being a blacksmith."
"How much do you pay acrobats?" he asked.
"Are you an acrobat?" asked Mr. Barlow.
Kit told the story of his practicing with the Vincenti Brothers.
"Good!" said Mr. Barlow. "If they indorse you, it is sufficient. If you decide to join my company, I will give you, to begin with, ten dollars a week and your expenses."
"Thank you, sir," said Kit, dazzled by the offer, "Where will you be on Saturday?"
"At Grafton on Saturday, and Milltown on Monday."
"If I decide to join you, I will do so at one or the other of those places."
Here the railroad omnibus came up, and Mr. Barlow entered it, for he was to leave by the next train.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
7
|
AARON BICKFORD, THE BLACKSMITH.
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Kit returned to breakfast in good spirits. He saw a way out of his difficulties. Though he had no false pride, he felt that a blacksmith's life would be distasteful to him. He was fond of study, and had looked forward to a college course. Now this was out of the question. It seemed that he was as poor as his friend, Dan Clark, with his own way to make in the world. When he left school, at the beginning of the vacation, he supposed that he would inherit a competence. It was certainly a great change in his prospects, but now he did not feel dispirited. He thought, upon the whole, he would enjoy traveling with the circus. His duties would be light, and the pay liberal.
Before he returned to breakfast, Ralph had come down-stairs, and had a few words with his father.
"I think you are going to have trouble with Kit, father," he commenced.
"What makes you think so, and what about?" asked Mr. Watson.
"I told him last evening about your plan of apprenticing him to Mr. Bickford."
"You did wrong. I did not propose to mention the matter to him till Mr. Bickford's arrival. What did he say?"
"He turned up his nose at the idea. He thinks he ought to become a merchant or a professional man like me. He is too proud to be a blacksmith."
"Then he must put his pride in his pocket. It will be all I can do to pay the expenses of your education. I can't provide for two boys."
"When Kit is off your hands won't you increase my allowance, father?" asked Ralph, insinuatingly.
"Suppose we postpone that matter," replied Mr. Watson, in a tone of voice that was not encouraging. "I have lost some money lately, and I can't do anything more for you just at present."
Ralph looked disappointed, but did not venture to press the subject.
"Where have you been, Kit?" he asked, as he saw his cousin entering the gate, and coming up the path to the front door.
"I have been taking a walk," answered Kit, cheerfully.
"It's a good idea to rise early."
"Why?"
"Because you will probably be required to do so in your new place."
"What new place?"
"At the blacksmith's."
Kit smiled. To Ralph's surprise he did not appear to be annoyed.
"I see you are getting reconciled to the idea. Last evening you seemed to dislike it."
"Your father has not said anything about it to me."
"He will very soon."
"Won't you come round and see me occasionally, Ralph?" asked Kit, with a curious smile.
"Yes; I may call on Saturday. I should like to see how you look."
Kit smiled again. He thought it extremely doubtful whether Ralph would see him at the blacksmith's forge.
Half an hour after breakfast, while Ralph and Kit were in the stable, the sound of wheels was heard, and a stout, broad-shouldered man, with a bronzed complexion, drove up in a farm wagon. Throwing his reins over the horse's neck, he descended from the wagon, and turned in at the gate. Mr. Watson, who had been sitting at the front window, opened the door for him.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Bickford," he said.
"Is the boy ready?" asked the blacksmith. "I can take him right over with me this morning."
"Come into the house, I will send for him."
Mr. Bickford noticed the handsome appearance of the hall, and the front room, the door of which was partly open, and said: "If the boy's been used to livin' here, he must be kind of high strung. I can't give him no such home as this."
"Of course not, Mr. Bickford. He can't expect it. He's a poor boy, and will have to make his own way in the world. Beggars can't be choosers, you know."
A servant was sent to the stable to summon Kit. Ralph, who thought he should enjoy the scene, accompanied him.
Kit regarded the blacksmith with some curiosity.
"This is Mr. Aaron Bickford, of Oakford, Kit," began his uncle.
"I hope you are well, Mr. Bickford," said Kit, politely.
The blacksmith gazed at Kit with earnest scrutiny.
"Humph!" said he; "are you strong and muscular?"
"Pretty fair," answered Kit, with a smile.
"Kit," said his uncle, clearing his throat, "in your circumstances I have thought it desirable that you should learn a trade, and have spoken to Mr. Bickford about taking you as an apprentice."
"In what business?" asked Kit.
"I'm a blacksmith," said Mr. Bickford, taking it upon himself to reply, "and it's a good, healthy business as any you'd want to follow."
"I have no doubt of it," said Kit, quietly, "but I don't think I should like it all the same. Uncle Stephen, how does it happen that you have selected such a business for me?"
"I heard that Mr. Bickford needed an apprentice, and I have arranged matters with him to take you, and teach you his trade."
"Yes," put in Mr. Bickford, "I've agreed to give you your board and a dollar a week the first year. That's more than I got when I was 'prentice. My old master only paid me fifty cents a week."
Kit turned to his uncle.
"Do you think my education has fitted me for a blacksmith's trade?" he asked.
"It won't interfere," replied Mr. Watson, a little uneasily.
"Wouldn't it have been well to consult me in the matter? It seems to me I am rather interested."
"Oh, I supposed you would object, as you had been looking forward to being a gentleman, but I can't afford to keep you in idleness any longer, and so have arranged matters with Mr. Bickford."
"Suppose I object to going with him?" said Kit, calmly.
"Then I shall overrule your objections, and compel you to do what I think is for your good."
Kit's eye flashed with transient anger, but as he had no idea of acceding to his uncle's order, he did not allow himself to become unduly excited. Indeed he had a plan, which made temporary submission a matter of policy.
"What's the boy's name?" asked Aaron Bickford.
"I am generally called Kit. My right name is Christopher."
"Then, Kit, you'd better be getting your traps together, for I can't stop long away from the shop."
"I have arranged to have you go back with Mr. Bickford to-day," said Stephen Watson.
"That's rather short notice, isn't it?" Kit rejoined.
"The sooner the matter is arranged, the better!" answered his uncle.
"Very well," said Kit, with unexpected submission. "I'll go and pack up my clothes."
Mr. Watson looked relieved. He had expected to have more trouble with his nephew.
In twenty minutes Kit reappeared with his school valise. He had packed up a supply of shirts, socks, handkerchiefs, and underclothing.
"I am all ready," he said.
"Then we'll be going," said the blacksmith, rising with alacrity.
Kit took his place on the seat beside Mr. Bickford.
"Good-by, uncle!" he said; "it may be some time before we meet again."
"What does the boy mean?" asked Stephen Watson, turning to Ralph with a puzzled look.
"I don't know. He's been acting queer all the morning."
So Kit rode away with Aaron Bickford, but he had not the slightest intention of becoming blacksmith. Instead of blacksmith's forges, visions of a circus ring and acrobatic feats were dancing before his mind.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
8
|
KIT'S RIDE TO OAKFORD.
|
Oakford was six miles away. The blacksmith's horse was seventeen years old, and did not make very good speed. Kit was unusually busy thinking. He had taken a decisive step; he had, in fact, made up his mind to enter upon a new life. He had not objected to going away with the blacksmith, because it gave him an excuse for packing up his clothes, and leaving the house quietly.
It may be objected that he had deceived Mr. Bickford. This was true, and the thought of it troubled him, but he hardly knew how to explain matters.
Not much conversation took place till they were within a mile of Oakford. Aaron Bickford had filled his pipe at the beginning of the journey, and he had smoked steadily ever since. At last he removed his pipe from his mouth, and put it in his pocket.
"Were you ever in Oakford?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Kit. "I know the place very well."
"How do you think you'll like livin' there?"
"I don't think I shall like it."
Mr. Bickford looked surprised.
"I'll keep you at work so stiddy you won't mind where you are," he remarked dryly.
"Not if I know it," Kit said to himself.
He knew Mr. Bickford by reputation. He was a close-fisted, miserly man, who was not likely to be a very desirable employer, for he expected every one who worked for him to labor as hard as himself. Moreover, he and his wife lived in a very stingy manner, and few of the luxuries of the season appeared on their table. The fact that complaints upon this score had been made by some of Kit's predecessors in his employ, led Mr. Bickford to make inquiries with a view to ascertaining whether Kit was particular about his food.
"Are you partic'lar about your vittles?" he asked abruptly.
"I have been accustomed to good food," answered Kit.
"You can't expect to live as you have at your uncle's," continued the blacksmith. "Me and my wife have enough to eat, but we think it best to eat plain food. Some of my help have had stuck up notions, and expected first class hotel fare, but they didn't get it at my house."
"I believe you," said Kit.
Mr. Bickford eyed him sharply, not being sure but this might be a sarcastic observation, but Kit's face was straight, and betrayed nothing.
"You'll live as well as I do myself," he proceeded, after a pause. "I don't pamper my appetite by no means."
Kit was quite ready to believe this also, but did not say so.
"What time did you get up at your uncle's?" asked the blacksmith.
"We have breakfast a little before eight. I get up in time for breakfast."
"You do, hey?" ejaculated the blacksmith, scornfully. "Wa'al, I declare! You must be tuckered out gettin' up so airly."
"O no, I stand it very well, Mr. Bickford," said Kit, amused.
"Do you know what time I get up?" asked Mr. Bickford, with a touch of indignation in his tone.
"I would like to know," answered Kit meekly.
"Wa'al, I get up at five o'clock. What do you say to that, hey?"
"I think it is very early."
"I suppose you couldn't get up so early as that?"
"I might, if there was any need of it."
"I reckon there will be need of it if you're goin' to work for me."
Kit cleared his throat. He felt that the time had come for an explanation.
"Mr. Bickford," he said, "I owe you an apology."
"What?" said Bickford, regarding his young companion in surprise.
"I have deceived you."
"I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"I don't think I did right to come with you to day."
"I can't make out what you're talkin' about. Your uncle has engaged to let you work for me."
"But I haven't engaged to work for you, Mr. Bickford."
"Hey?" and the blacksmith eyed our hero in undisguised amazement.
"I may as well say that I don't intend to work for you."
"You don't mean to work for me?" repeated Bickford slowly.
"Just so. I have no intention of becoming a blacksmith."
"Is the boy crazy?" ejaculated Aaron Bickford.
"No, Mr. Bickford; I have full command of my senses. You will have to look out for another apprentice."
"Then why did you agree to come with me?"
"That is what I have to apologize for. I wanted to get away from my uncle's house quietly, and I thought it the best way to pretend to agree to his plan."
Aaron Bickford was not a sweet tempered man. He had a pretty strong will of his own, and was called, not without reason, obstinate. He began to feel angry.
"Well, boy, have you got through with what you had to say?" he asked.
"I believe so--for the present."
"Then I guess it's about time for me to say something."
"Very well, sir."
"You'll find me a tough customer to deal with, young man."
"Then perhaps it is just as well that I do not propose to work for you."
"But you are goin' to work for me!" said the blacksmith, nodding his head.
"Whether I want to or not?" interrogated Kit, placidly.
"Yes, whether you want to or not, willy nilly, as the lawyers say."
"I think, Mr. Bickford, you will find that it takes two to make a bargain."
"So it does, and there's two that's made this bargain, your uncle and me."
Mr. Bickford was not always strictly grammatical in his language, as the reader will observe.
"I don't admit my uncle's right to make arrangements for me without my consent."
"You know more'n he does, I reckon?"
"No, but this matter concerns me more than it does him."
"Maybe you expect to live without workin'!"
"No; if it is true, as my uncle says, that I have no money, I shall have to make my living, but I prefer to choose my own way of doing it."
"You're a queer boy. Bein' a blacksmith is too much work for you, I reckon."
"At any rate it isn't the kind of work I care to undertake."
"What's all this rigmarole comin' to? Here we are 'most at my house. If you ain't goin' to work for me, what are you goin' to do?"
"I should like to pass the night at your house, Mr. Bickford. After breakfast I will pay you for your accommodations, and go----" "Where?"
"You must excuse my telling you that. I have formed some plans, but I do not care to have my uncle know them."
"Are you going to work for anybody?" asked the blacksmith, whose curiosity was aroused.
"Yes, I have a place secured."
"Is it on a farm?"
"No."
"You're mighty mysterious, it seems to me. Now you've had your say, I've got something to tell you."
"Very well, Mr. Bickford."
"You say you're not goin' to work for me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I say you _are_ goin' to work for me. I've got your uncle's authority to set you to work, and I'm goin' to do it."
Kit heard this calmly.
"Suppose we postpone the discussion of the matter," he said. "Is that your house?"
Aaron Bickford's answer was to drive into the yard of a cottage. On the side opposite was a blacksmith's forge.
"That's where you're goin' to work!" he said, grimly, pointing to the forge.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
9
|
KIT MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
|
Grafton, where Barlow's circus was billed to appear on Saturday, was only six miles farther on. Oakford was about half way, so that in accompanying the blacksmith to his home, Kit had accomplished about half the necessary journey. Now that he had undeceived the blacksmith as to his intention of staying he felt at ease in his mind. It was his plan to remain over night in the house and pursue his journey early the next day.
"Are these all the clo'es you brought with you?" asked Bickford, surveying Kit's neat and rather expensive suit with disapproval.
"Yes. Am I not well enough dressed for a blacksmith?" asked Kit, with a smile.
"You're a plaguy sight too well dressed," returned Bickford. "You want a good rough suit, for the forge is a dirty place."
"I thought I told you I did not intend to work for you, Mr. Bickford."
"That's what you said, but I don't take no stock in it. Your uncle has bound you out to me, and that settles it."
"If he has bound me out, where are the papers, Mr. Bickford?" asked Kit, keenly.
This question was a poser. The blacksmith supposed that Kit might be ignorant that papers were required, but he found himself mistaken.
"There ain't no papers, but that don't make no difference," he said. "He says you're to work for me, and I'm goin' to hold you to it."
Kit did not reply, for he saw no advantage in discussion.
"You'll get a dollar a week and your board, and you can't do better. I reckon dinner is about ready now."
Kit felt ready for the dinner, for the morning's ride had sharpened his appetite. So when, five minutes later, he was summoned to the table, he willingly accepted the invitation.
"This is my new 'prentice, Mrs. Bickford," said the blacksmith, by way of introduction, to a spare, red headed woman, who was bustling about the kitchen, where the table was spread.
Mrs. Bickford eyed Kit critically.
"He's one of the kid glove kind, by his looks," she said. "You don't expect to get much work out of him, do you?"
"I reckon I will, or know the reason why," responded Bickford, significantly.
"Set right down and I'll dish up the victuals," said Mrs. Bickford. "We don't stand on no ceremony here. What's your name, young man?"
"People call me Kit."
"Sounds like a young cat. It's rediculous to give a boy such a name. First thing you know I'll be calling you Kitty."
"I hope I don't look like a cat," said Kit laughing.
"You ain't got no fur on your cheeks yet," said the blacksmith, laughing heartily at his own witticism. "What have you got for dinner, mother?"
"It's a sort of picked-up dinner," answered Mrs. Bickford. "There's some pork and beans warmed up, some slapjacks from breakfast, and some fried sassidges."
"Why, that's a dinner for a king," said the blacksmith, rubbing his hands.
He took his seat, and put on a plate for Kit specimens of the delicacies mentioned above. In spite of his appetite Kit partook sparingly, supplementing his meal with bread, which, being from the baker's shop, was of good quality. He congratulated himself that he was not to board permanently at Mr. Bickford's table.
When dinner was over, the blacksmith in a genial mood said to Kit: "You needn't begin to work till to-morrow. You can tramp round the village if you want to."
Kit was glad of the delay, as early the next morning he expected to bid farewell to Oakford, and thus would avoid a conflict.
He had been in Oakford before, and knew his way about. He went out of the yard and walked about in a leisurely way. It was early in June, and the country was at its best. The birds were singing, the fields were green with verdure, and Kit's spirits rose. He felt that it would be delightful to travel about the country, as he would do if he joined Barlow's Circus.
He overtook a boy somewhat larger than himself, a stout, strong country boy, attired in a rough, coarse working suit. He was about to pass him, when the country boy called out, "Hallo, you!"
"Were you speaking to me?" asked Kit, turning and looking back.
"Yes. Didn't I see you riding into town with Aaron Bickford?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to work for him?"
"That is what he expects," answered Kit diplomatically. He hesitated about confiding his plans to a stranger.
"Then I pity you."
"Why?"
"I used to work for him."
"Did you?"
"Yes, I stood it as long as I could."
"Then you didn't like it?"
"I guess not."
"What was the trouble?"
"Everything. He's a stingy old hunks, to begin with. I went to work for a dollar a week and board. If the board had been decent, it would have been something, but I'd as soon board at the poorhouse."
"I have taken dinner there," said Kit, smiling.
"Did you like it?"
"I have dined better. In fact I have seldom dined worse."
"What did the old woman give you?"
Kit enumerated the articles composing the bill of fare.
"That's better than usual," said the new acquaintance.
"I suppose the dollar a week is all right," said Kit.
"Good enough if you can get it. It's about as easy to get blood out of a stone, as money out of old Bickford. Generally I had to wait ten days after the time before I could get the money."
"How is the work?"
"Hard, and plenty of it. It's work early and work late, and if there isn't work at the forge, you've got to help the old woman, by drawing water and doing chores. You don't live in Oakford, do you?"
"No; I came from Smyrna."
"I thought not. Bickford can't get a boy to work for him here. What made you come? Couldn't you get a place at home?"
"I didn't try."
"Well, you haven't done much in coming here."
"I begin to think so," Kit responded, with a smile.
"Hasn't the circus been in your town?"
"Yes."
"I wanted to go, but I guess I'll manage to see it in Grafton. It shows there to-morrow."
"Are you going?" asked Kit with interest.
"Yes; I shall walk. I'll start early and spend the day there."
"We may meet there."
"You don't expect to go, do you? Bickford won't let you off."
Kit smiled.
"I don't think Mr. Bickford will have much to say about it," he said.
"Are you going to hook jack?" asked his new acquaintance.
"I didn't mean to tell you, but I will. I have made up my mind not to work for Mr. Bickford at all."
"Then why did you come here?"
"Because my uncle saw fit to arrange with him."
"What are you going to do, then?"
"I am offered work with the circus."
"You are!" exclaimed the country boy, opening wide his eyes in astonishment. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to be an acrobat."
"What's that?"
Kit explained as well as he could.
"What are they going to pay you?"
"Ten dollars a week and my expenses," answered Kit, proudly.
"Jehu!" ejaculated the other boy. "Why, that's good wages for a man. Do you think they'd hire me, too?"
"If you think you can do what they require, you can ask them."
"Why can't I do it as well as you?"
"Because I have been practicing for a long time at a gymnasium. What is your name?"
"Bill Morris."
"Then, Bill, don't say a word to any one about my plans. Suppose we go to Grafton together?"
"All right!"
Before the boys parted they made an agreement to meet at five o'clock the next morning, to set out on their walk to Grafton.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
10
|
KIT'S FIRST NIGHT AT THE BLACKSMITH'S.
|
At nine o'clock the blacksmith, giving a deep yawn, said: "You'd better be getting to bed, young feller. You'll have to be up bright and airly in the morning."
Kit was already feeling sleepy, and made no objection. Though it was yet early, he had found it hard work to get through the evening, as he could find nothing to read except a weekly paper, three months old, and a copy of "Pilgrim's Progress." In truth, neither Mr. Bickford nor his wife were of a literary turn, and did not even manage to keep up with the news of the day.
"I am ready," said Kit.
"Mother, show him to his room," added the blacksmith. "To-morrow I'll give him a lesson at the forge."
"Perhaps you will," said Kit to himself, "but I think it doubtful."
Kit's room was a small back one on the second floor. The front apartment was occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Bickford, and there was one of the same size which was used as a spare chamber.
Kit's room was supplied with a cot bed, and was furnished in the plainest manner. One thing he missed. He saw no washstand.
"Where am I to wash in the morning?" he asked.
"You can wash in the tin basin in the kitchen," answered Mrs. Bickford. "There's a bar of soap down there and a roller towel, so I guess you won't have to go dirty."
Kit shuddered at the suggestion. He had seen bars of yellow soap in the grocery at home, and didn't think he should enjoy its use. Nor did he fancy using the same towel with the blacksmith and his wife. He had seen the roller towel hanging beside the sink, and judged from its appearance that it had already been used nearly a week.
"I have been accustomed to wash in my own room," he ventured to say.
"You've been used to a great many things that you won't find here," replied Mrs. Bickford, grimly.
Kit thought it extremely likely.
"If you can't do as the rest of us do, you can get along without washing," continued the lady.
"I will try and manage," answered Kit, bearing in mind that he expected to leave the Bickford mansion forever the next morning.
"That new boy of yours is kind of uppish," remarked Mrs. Bickford, when she returned to the sitting room.
"What's the matter now?"
"He wants to wash in his own room. He's too fine a gentleman to wash in the kitchen."
"What did you tell him?"
Mrs. Bickford repeated her remark.
"Good for you, mother! We'll take down his pride a little."
"Is he goin' to work in them fine clo'es he brought with him?"
"He didn't bring any others."
"He'll spile 'em, and not have anything to wear to meetin'."
"Haven't we got a pair of overalls in the house--one that the last boy used?"
"Yes; I'll get 'em right away."
"They'll be good for him to wear."
Before Kit got into bed, the door of his chamber was unceremoniously opened, and Mrs. Bickford walked in, carrying a faded pair of overalls.
"You can put these on in the mornin'," she said. "They'll keep your clo'es clean. They may be a mite long for you, but you can turn up the legs at the bottom."
She left the room without waiting for an answer.
Kit surveyed the overalls with amusement.
"I wonder how I should look in them," he said to himself.
He drew them over his trousers, and regarded his figure as well as he could in the little seven by nine glass that hung on the wall.
"There is Kit, the young blacksmith!" he said with a smile. "On the whole, I don't think it improves my appearance. I'll take them off, and leave them for the next boy."
"What did the boy say, mother?" asked Mr. Bickford, upon his wife's return.
"He just took 'em; he didn't say anything."
"I s'pose he's never worn overalls before," said the blacksmith. "What do you think he told me on the way over?"
"I don't know."
"He said he wasn't goin' to work for me at all. He didn't like the blacksmith's trade."
"Well, of all things!"
"I just told him he hadn't no choice in the matter, that me and his uncle had arranged matters, and that I should hold him to the contract."
"I'm afraid he'll be dainty about his vittles. He didn't eat much dinner."
"Wait till he gets to work, mother. I guess he'll have appetite enough. I mean he shall earn his board, at any rate."
"I hope we won't have no trouble with him, Aaron."
"You needn't be afraid, mother."
"Somehow, Aaron, you never did manage to keep boys very long," said Mrs. Bickford, dubiously.
"Because their folks were weak, and allowed 'em to have their own way. It'll be different with this boy."
"What makes you think so?"
"Because his uncle is anxious to get rid of him. He told me the boy, till lately, had imagined he was goin' to have property. He's supported him out of charity, dressin' him like a gentleman, sendin' him to school, and spendin' a pile of money on him. Now he thinks it about time to quit, and have the boy learn a trade. Of course the boy'll complain, and try to beg off, but it won't be no use. Stephen Watson won't make no account of what he says. He keeps a horse himself, and has promised to have him shod at my shop."
"Well, it may be for the best; I hope so."
Aaron Bickford felt a good deal of confidence in himself. He understood very well that Kit was averse to working in his shop, but he meant to make him do it.
"I'd like to see the boy I can't master," he said to himself, complacently. "Years hence, when the boy has a forge of his own, he'll thank me for perseverin' with him. There's money to be made in the business. Why, when I began I wasn't worth a hundred dollars, and I owed for my anvil. Now I own this house and shop, and I've got a tidy sum in the bank."
This was true. But it must be added that the result was largely due to the pinching economy which both he and his wife had practiced.
When Mr. Bickford woke up the next morning it was half-past five o'clock.
"Strange how I came to oversleep," he said. "I guess I must have been more tuckered out than I supposed. Well, the boy's had a longer nap than I meant he should. However, it's only for one mornin'."
Mr. Bickford did not linger over his toilet. Five minutes was rather an overstatement of the time.
He went to Kit's chamber, and, opening the door, went in as unceremoniously as his wife had done the night before.
A surprise awaited him.
There was no one in the bed.
"What! has the boy got up a'ready?" he asked himself, in a bewildered way. "He's better at gettin' up than I expected."
Looking about him, he discovered on a chair by the bedside the overalls, and upon them a note and a silver dollar.
"What's all that mean?" he asked himself.
Looking closer he saw that the note was directed to him. Beginning to suspect that something was wrong, he opened it.
This was what the note contained: MR. BICKFORD--I leave you a dollar to pay for my food and lodging. I do not care to become a blacksmith. Good by.
KIT WATSON.
"I'll have him back!" exclaimed Aaron Bickford, an angry look appearing on his face. "He ain't goin' to get the best of me."
Mr. Bickford harnessed up his horse, and started after the fugitive. But in what direction should he drive? He was not long at fault. He met a milkman who had seen two boys starting out on the Grafton road, and so informed him.
"I guess they're bound for the circus," he said.
"Like as not," returned the blacksmith.
But he had a long chase of it. It was not until he was within half a mile of the circus tents that he descried the two boys, trudging along, Kit with his valise in his hand. Hearing the sound of wheels, the boys looked back, and in some dismay recognized their pursuer.
The blacksmith stood up in his wagon, and pointing his long whip at Kit, cried out, "Stop where you are, Kit Watson, or I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had!"
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
11
|
KIT FALLS INTO THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY.
|
If Aaron Bickford expected to frighten Kit by his threat, he was destined to find himself badly mistaken.
Kit was startled at first, not having anticipated that the blacksmith would get upon his track so soon. But he was a boy of spirit, and had no thought of surrender. Mr. Bickford halted his horse, and Kit faced him.
"Didn't you find my note?" he asked.
"Yes, I did."
"Then you know that I don't care to work for you."
"What's that got to do with it? Your uncle and me have settled that you shall."
"Then you'll have to unsettle it. I have a right to choose my own occupation, and I don't intend to become a blacksmith. Even if I did, I should choose some one else as my teacher."
"None of your impudence, young man! You'll have a long account to settle with me, I warn you of that."
"I had but one account to settle--for my board and lodging--and I've attended to that. Good morning, Mr. Bickford."
Kit turned and began to continue his journey.
"Hallo! Stop, I tell you!" shouted the blacksmith.
"Have you got any more to say? If so, I'll listen."
"What more I have to say, I shall say with a horsewhip!" retorted Bickford, grimly, preparing to descend from his wagon.
"Come, William, we must run for it," said Kit. "Are you good at running?"
"Try me!" was the laconic reply.
By the time Aaron Bickford was out of his wagon, the boys had increased the distance between them by several rods.
"Oho, so that's your game, is it?" said the blacksmith. "If I don't overhaul them, my name isn't Aaron Bickford."
Kit was a good runner--quite as good as his pursuer--but he had one serious disadvantage. His valise was heavy, and materially affected his speed. He had carried it several miles, and though he had shifted it from one hand to the other, both arms were now tired.
"Let me take it, Kit," said his companion, who was now on intimate terms with him.
"It'll be just as heavy for you as for me."
"Never mind! He isn't after me."
"Well, if you don't mind carrying it a little while."
The advantage of the change was soon apparent. Kit increased his speed, and William, whose arms were not tired, was not materially retarded by his burden.
"If I had no valise I would climb a tree," said Kit, while running. "I don't believe Mr. Bickford is good at climbing."
"We haven't got far to go to reach the circus tents," returned William.
But though the boys held out well, Aaron Bickford gradually gained upon them. Many years at the anvil had given him plenty of wind and endurance. Besides, he was entirely fresh, not having taken a long walk already, as the boys had done.
"You'd better give up!" he cried out, in the tone of one who was sure of victory. "It takes more than a boy like you to get the best of Aaron Bickford."
It did indeed seem as if the boys must surrender. Within a few rods Bickford would be even with them.
Kit came to a sudden determination.
"Jump over the fence!" he cried.
There was a rail fence skirting one side of the road.
No sooner said than done. Both boys clambered over the fence, and with that barrier between them faced the angry blacksmith.
"Well, I've got you!" he cried, panting.
"Have you? I don't see it," answered Kit.
"You might as well give up fust as last."
"Suppose we discuss matters a little, Mr. Bickford," said Kit, calmly. "What right have you to pursue me?"
"What right? Your uncle's given me the charge of you."
"That is something he had no right to do."
"Why not? Ain't he your guardian?"
"No."
"Who is, then?"
"I have no guardian but myself."
"That's a likely story. I can't listen to no such foolish talk."
Aaron Bickford felt that it was time to move upon the enemy's entrenchments, and, putting one leg on the lower rail, he proceeded to climb over the fence.
But the boys had anticipated this move, and were prepared for it. By the time the blacksmith was inside the field, the boys, who were considerably lighter and more active, had crossed to the reverse side.
"Here we are again, Mr. Bickford," said William Morris.
The blacksmith frowned.
"Don't you be impudent, Bill Morris," he said. "I haven't anything to do with you, but I sha'n't let you sass me."
"What have I said that's out of the way?" asked William.
"Oh, you're mighty innocent, you are! You're aidin' and abettin' Kit Watson to escape from me, his lawful master."
"I have no master, Mr. Bickford," said Kit, proudly.
"Well, that's what they used to call 'em when I was a boy. Boys weren't so pert and impudent in them days."
Meanwhile the blacksmith was recrossing the fence.
Kit and William took the opportunity to run, and by the time Mr. Bickford was again on the roadside they were several rods away.
This naturally exasperated the blacksmith, who felt mortified at his failure to overtake the youngsters. A new idea occurred to him.
"You, Bill, do you want to earn a dime?" he asked.
"How?" inquired William.
"Just help me catch that boy Kit, and I'll give you ten cents."
"I don't care to earn money that way, Mr. Bickford," responded William, scornfully.
"Good for you, William!" exclaimed Kit.
"You won't earn ten cents any easier," persisted Bickford.
"I wouldn't do such a mean thing for a dollar, nor five dollars," replied William. "Kit's a friend of mine, and I'm going to stand by him."
The blacksmith was made angry by this persistent refusal. Then again he was faint and uncomfortable from having missed his breakfast, which seemed likely to be indefinitely postponed.
"I'll lick you, Bill Morris, as well as Kit, when I catch you," he said.
"Probably you will--when you catch me!" retorted William, in an aggravating tone. "Run faster, Kit."
The boys ran, but again they were impeded by the heavy valise, and slowly but surely the blacksmith was gaining upon them.
Kit, who was again carrying the burden, began to show signs of distress, and dropped behind his companion.
"I can't hold out much longer, Bill," he said, puffing laboriously.
Aaron Bickford heard these words, and they impelled him to extra exertion. At last he caught up and grasped Kit by the collar.
"I've got ye at last!" he cried, triumphantly.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
12
|
MR. BICKFORD'S DEFEAT.
|
Aaron Bickford was a strong man. By his work at the forge he had strengthened his muscles till they were like iron. So was Kit a strong boy, but it would be absurd to represent him as a match for the sturdy blacksmith.
"I've got ye at last!" repeated Bickford tightening his grasp of Kit's coat collar.
"Let go my collar!" cried Kit, not struggling, for he knew that it would be useless.
"I'll let go your collar when I've got ye in the wagon," answered the blacksmith, "and not till then. You, Bill, bring along his valise. I'll take ye home in the wagon, though it would be only right if I let ye walk."
"Mr. Bickford," said Kit, "you have no right to touch me. You have no authority over me."
"I ain't, hey? Well, we'll argy that matter when we get home."
And he commenced dragging Kit in the direction of the wagon.
It certainly seemed as if Kit's plans were destined, if not for defeat, to postponement. Unconditional surrender was his only choice against the superior strength of Aaron Bickford. It was certainly very vexatious.
But help was nearer than he anticipated.
They were now within sight of the circus tents, and Kit, to his joy, descried the giant, Achilles Henderson, taking a morning walk, and already within hearing distance.
"Mr. Henderson!" he called out, eagerly.
"Who is that you're calling?" asked the blacksmith sharply.
Achilles heard, and instantly recognized the boy who had talked with him at Smyrna.
It took but a few strides to bring him to the spot where Kit was held in captivity.
"What does this mean?" he asked.
"This man is dragging me away without authority," answered Kit.
"Who is he?" asked the giant.
"He is a blacksmith, and claims me as an apprentice, but I never agreed to work for him."
"That's a lie," said the blacksmith, "he's my runaway apprentice."
"I would believe the boy sooner than you," said Achilles, not favorably impressed by the blacksmith's bull dog look.
"It doesn't make any difference what you believe," said Bickford, rudely; and he began to pull Kit in the direction of the wagon.
"Let go that boy's collar," cried Achilles, sternly.
"I won't!" retorted the blacksmith. "I advise you to mind your own business."
Achilles Henderson, like most big men, was good natured, but he was roused by the other's insolence. He carried war into the enemy's camp by seizing the blacksmith and shaking him till he was compelled to release his grasp.
"What do you mean by this outrage?" demanded Bickford, furiously.
"It's only a gentle hint," said Achilles, smiling. "Now, my friend, I've got a piece of advice to give you. If that is your wagon back there you'd better get into it as soon as convenient--the sooner the better--and get out of my way or I'll give you a stronger hint."
The blacksmith was too indignant to be prudent. What! Confess himself vanquished, and go home without the boy! The idea was intolerable to him.
"I'm goin' to take the boy," he said, angrily, and darting forward he essayed to seize Kit by the collar again.
"Oho! You need a stronger hint," said Achilles. With this he grasped the blacksmith about the middle, and tossed him over the fence into the adjoining field as easily as if he were a cat.
Aaron Bickford did not know what had happened to him. He lay motionless for a few seconds, and then picked himself up with some difficulty, and confronted the giant with mingled fear and anger.
"I'll have the law of ye for this," he shouted.
Achilles laughed.
"It's as you like," he said. "I've got my witnesses here," pointing to the two boys.
Mr. Bickford got over the fence, and sullenly turned in the direction of his deserted wagon.
"You'll hear from me again, all of you!" he shouted, shaking his fist.
"Don't trouble yourself to write," said the giant, jocosely. "We can worry along without a letter."
The blacksmith was too full of wrath for utterance. He kept on his way, muttering to himself, and shaking his fist at intervals.
"Now what's all this about?" asked Achilles. "What's the matter with our amiable friend?"
Kit explained.
"So you don't want to be a blacksmith? Where are you going, if I may inquire?"
"I'm going to join the circus," answered Kit.
"In what capacity--as a lion tamer?"
"No; I shouldn't fancy that business. I am to be an acrobat."
"An acrobat! But are you qualified?" asked Achilles, somewhat surprised.
He had not heard of Kit's practice with the Vincenti brothers on the day of his first visit to the circus.
"I am pretty well qualified already," answered Kit, "I saw Mr. Barlow yesterday morning, and he promised me an engagement at ten dollars a week."
"Good!" said Achilles, heartily. "I am pleased to hear it. I took a liking to you the other day, and I'm glad you're going to join us. But do you think it wise to choose such a life?"
"You have chosen it," said Kit.
"Yes; but what could I do--a man of my size? I must earn more than a common man. My board and clothes both cost more. What do you think I paid for this suit I have on?"
"I couldn't tell, sir."
"Sixty dollars. The tailor only charges thirty dollars to a man of ordinary size, but I am so absurdly large that I have to pay double price."
"Why don't you buy your suits ready made?" asked Kit, smiling.
Achilles laughed heartily at the idea.
"Show me a place where I can get ready made clothes to fit me," he answered, "and I will gladly accept your suggestion."
"That may be a little difficult, I admit."
"Why, you have no idea how inconvenient I find it to be so large. I can't find a bed to suit me in any hotel. If I go to the theater I can't crowd myself into an ordinary seat. I have to have all kinds of clothing, inside and outside, made to order. My hats and shoes must also be made expressly for me."
"I suppose you get very well paid," suggested Kit.
"Seventy-five dollars a week sounds pretty large, and would be if my expenses were not so great. You wouldn't be a giant for that money, would you?"
"I am not so ambitious," replied Kit, smiling. "But there was a moment when I wished myself of your size."
"When was that?"
"When the blacksmith grasped me by the collar."
"You don't have to work very hard," said William Morris.
"My boy, it is pretty hard work to be stared at by a crowd of people. I get tired of it often, but I see no other way of making a living."
"You would make a pretty good blacksmith."
"I couldn't earn more than a man of average strength, and that wouldn't be enough, as I have explained."
"Were your parents very tall?" asked Kit.
"My father was six feet in height, but my mother was a small woman. I don't know what put it into me to grow so big. But here we are at the lot. Will you come in?"
"When can I see Mr. Barlow?" asked Kit, anxiously.
"He is at the hotel. He won't be round till half-past nine. Have you two boys had breakfast?"
"No," answered Kit; "I'm nearly famished."
"Come round to the circus tent. You are to be one of us, and will board there. I guess we can provide for your friend, too."
Never was invitation more gladly accepted. Both Kit and William felt as if they had not broken their fast for a week.
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{
"id": "22521"
}
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13
|
BREAKFAST IN THE CIRCUS TENT.
|
Achilles entered the circus inclosure--the "lot," as it is generally called,--and made his way to a small tent situated not far from the one devoted to the performances. An attendant was carrying in a plate of hot steak and potatoes from the cook tent near by.
"Is breakfast ready?" asked Achilles.
"Yes; any time you want it."
"Is anybody inside?"
"Only Mademoiselle Louise."
"Well, I want three breakfasts--for myself and my two young friends here."
"I didn't know you had sons," said Mike, the attendant, regarding Kit and William with some curiosity.
"I haven't. One of these young men is an acrobat, who will be one of us. The other is his friend. Bring along the grub as quick as possible--we are all hungry."
"All right, sir."
Running the length of the tent, which was about twenty feet by ten, was a long table surrounded by benches.
The giant took his seat and placed the boys one on each side of him. Just opposite sat a woman of twenty-five or thereabouts, who was already eating breakfast.
"Good morning, Mlle. Louise," said the giant.
"Good morning, Mr. Henderson," responded the lady. "Who are your young companions?"
"I don't know their names, but this one," placing his hand on Kit's shoulder, "has been engaged by Mr. Barlow as an acrobat."
"Indeed! He looks young."
"I am sixteen," volunteered Kit.
"What circus have you traveled with before this season?" asked Mlle. Louise.
"I have never traveled with any, madam."
"But you are an acrobat?"
"I have had my practice in a gymnasium."
"How came Mr. Barlow to engage you?"
"At Smyrna I practiced a little with the Vincenti brothers."
"At Smyrna? Why, that's where the lion dashed into the arena!"
"Yes."
"Do you know the boy who had the courage to face him?"
Kit blushed.
"I am the boy," he said.
"You don't mean it!" exclaimed the lady, vivaciously. "Why, you're a hero. I must shake hands with you," and she reached across the table and gave Kit a hearty grasp of the hand.
"Is that so?" interposed Achilles. "Why, I didn't know you were the boy. I was not present at the time, and only heard of it afterwards. Mlle. Louise is right. You are a brave fellow."
"I am much obliged to you both for your favorable opinion," said Kit modestly, "but I didn't realize my danger till afterwards."
"Oh, heavens! I can see him now--that wicked beast!" exclaimed the lady. "I was nearly scared out of my senses. As for poor Dupont, he was nearer death than I ever want to be till my time comes."
"Was Dupont the clown?" asked Kit.
"Yes. The lion held him down, with his foot upon the poor clown's back, and but for your brave act he would have torn the poor fellow to pieces. Mr. Henderson, you missed the most thrilling act of the evening."
"So I begin to think. By the way, boys, I ought to have introduced this lady. She is the famous aerial artist, whom you saw the other evening in her wonderful feats upon the trapeze."
"Yes," said Mlle. Louise, complacently, "I think I have a pretty good act. I get plenty of applause, eh, Mr. Henderson?"
"That's true. I think I should leave the circus if I had to appear in your act. I never could summon up courage."
The lady laughed.
"Monsieur Achilles," she said, "I wouldn't advise you to emulate me. I don't believe you could find a rope strong enough to support you, and if you should fall, I pity the audience."
"You have convinced me. I shall give up all thoughts of it," said the giant, with mock gravity. "It would suit better our young friend here, who is an acrobat."
"Did you ever practice on a trapeze?" asked Mlle. Louise, turning to Kit.
"Yes, often," answered Kit, "but never at a great height."
"Would it frighten you to find yourself so high up in the air?"
"I don't think so; I have a cool head."
"You must practice. I will give you a few hints myself. If you are cool and courageous, as I judge you will soon learn. By the way, what is your name?"
"Kit Watson."
"It'll be something else when you begin work."
"Do all performers have assumed names?"
"Generally. Here I am Mademoiselle Louise Lefroy, but it isn't a bit like my real name."
Before this the boys had been served with breakfast. The steak was rather tough, and the coffee not of the best quality, but Kit and William thoroughly enjoyed it, and thought it about the best breakfast they had ever eaten. Mlle. Louise continued to converse with them, and was very gracious.
"Are you too an acrobat?" she asked William.
William became so confused that he swallowed some coffee the wrong way, and came near choking.
"No, ma'am," he answered bashfully, "but I'd like to go round with the show."
"You'll be better off at home if you've got one," said the giant. "You are not a performer; you are too small for a property man, and not strong enough for a razorback."
"What's a razorback?" asked William, in amazement.
Achilles smiled.
"It's a boy or man who helps load and unload the circus cars," he answered. "It is heavy work, and you would be thrown among a low lot of people--canvasmen, and such. Our young friend here, on the other hand, will have a good sleeping berth, eat at the first table, and be well provided for generally."
William looked disappointed. He had never thought particularly about traveling with a circus till now, but his meeting with Kit had given him a circus fever.
At ten o'clock Mr. Barlow came to the grounds, and Achilles volunteered to go with Kit to speak with him about his engagement.
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{
"id": "22521"
}
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14
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SOME CIRCUS PEOPLE.
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Mr. Barlow recognized Kit instantly.
"So you have kept your promise, my young friend," he said. "Well, have you come to join us?"
"Yes, sir, if your offer holds good."
"My offers always hold good; I never go back on my word."
Kit was glad to hear this, for he would have been placed in an embarrassing position if, like some men, Mr. Barlow had forgotten an offer made on the impulse of the moment.
"Have you any directions to give, sir?"
"You may report to my manager, Mr. Bryant. First, however, it may be well for you to see the Vincenti brothers, and arrange for a joint act."
"When do you wish me to appear, sir?"
"Whenever you are ready. You may take a week to rehearse, if necessary. Your pay will commence at once."
"Thank you, Mr. Barlow; you are very kind and considerate."
Mr. Barlow smiled, and, waving his hand, passed on.
He was very popular with all who were in his employ, and had a high reputation for kindness and strict integrity.
"I'd like to work for him," said William Morris, who had listened to the conversation between Kit and the circus proprietor.
"I should like to have you along with me," replied Kit, "but from what Mr. Henderson says there is no good opening."
It was not till eleven o'clock that Kit met his future partners, the Vincenti brothers.
"Good!" said Alonzo, in a tone of satisfaction. "We must get up a joint act. I suppose you haven't got a suit of tights?"
"No. I never expected to need one."
"I have an extra one which I think will fit you. Though I am ten years older than you we are about the same size."
Kit had occasion to remark that circus performers are short as a rule. Many of them do not exceed five feet four inches in height, but generally they are compactly built, with well developed muscles, and possess unusual strength and agility.
The circus suit was brought out. It proved to be an excellent fit.
William Morris eyed Kit with admiration.
"You look like a regular circus chap, Kit!" he exclaimed. "I wish I was in your shoes."
"Wait till you see whether I am a success, William," replied Kit.
"Now, if you are ready, we will have a little practice," said Alonzo Vincenti.
"May I look on?" asked William.
"Oh, yes; we don't generally admit spectators, but you are a friend of the boy."
They all entered the tent, and for an hour Kit was kept hard at work.
In the act devised by the Vincenti brothers, he stood on the shoulders of the second, who in his turn stood on the shoulders of the first. Various changes were gone through, in all of which Kit proved himself an adept, and won high compliments from his new associates.
"Can you tumble?" asked Antonio.
Kit smiled.
"I was afraid I should when I first got on your shoulders," he answered.
"That was what I meant,--something like this," and he whirled across the arena, rolling over and over on hands and feet in the manner of a cart wheel.
Kit imitated Antonio rather slowly and awkwardly at first, but rapidly showed improvement.
"You'll soon learn," said Antonio. "Now let me show you something else."
This something else was a succession of somersaults, made in the most rapid manner.
Kit tried this also, slowly at first, as before, but proving a rapid learner.
"In the course of three or four days you will be able to do it in public," said Alonzo.
"When do you advise me to make my first appearance?" asked Kit.
"To-night, in our first act."
"But shall I be ready?"
"You'll do. We may as well make a beginning."
"I wish I could see you, Kit," said William.
"Can't you?"
"I was going to the afternoon performance. It would make me too late home if I stayed in the evening."
"Won't there be some people over from Oakford that you can ride back with?"
"I didn't think of that. Yes, John Woods told me that his father was coming, and would bring him along. I could ride home with them."
"Good! then you'd better stay."
"Perhaps I'd better go over and buy a ticket."
But to William's satisfaction he was given free admission as a friend of Kit. Not only that, but he was invited to take dinner and supper at the circus table. In fact, he was treated with distinguished consideration.
"Kit," he said, "I was in luck to meet you."
"And it was lucky for me that I met you. I shouldn't like to have met Aaron Bickford single handed."
"I wish old Bickford would come to the circus to-night. Wouldn't he be surprised to see you performing in tights?"
"I think it would rather take him by surprise," said Kit, smiling.
Kit and William occupied seats at the afternoon performance as spectators, it having been arranged that Kit's _début_ should be made in the evening. Our hero regarded the different acts with unusual interest, and his heart beat a little quicker when he heard the applause elicited by the performances of the Vincenti brothers, for he had already begun to consider himself one of them.
When the performance was over, and the audience was dispersing, Kit felt a hand laid upon his shoulder.
He turned and his glance rested upon a man of about forty, with a grave, serious expression. He was puzzled, for it was not a face that he remembered to have ever seen before.
"You don't know me?" said the stranger.
"No, sir."
"And yet you have done me a very great service."
"I didn't know it, sir."
"The greatest service that any one person can do to another--you have saved my life."
Then a light dawned upon Kit's mind, and he remembered what Achilles Henderson had said to him in the morning.
"Is your name Dupont?" he asked.
"Yes; I am Joe Dupont, the clown, whom you saved from a horrible death. I tell you, when Nero stood there in the ring with his paw on my breast I gave myself up for lost. I expected to be torn to pieces. It was an awful moment!" and the clown shuddered at the picture which his imagination conjured up. "Yes, sir; I wouldn't see such another moment for all the money Barlow is worth. I wonder my hair didn't turn white."
"Excuse me, Mr. Dupont, but I find it hard to think you are Joe Dupont, the clown," said Kit.
"Why?"
"Because you look so grave and sedate."
Joe Dupont smiled.
"I only make a fool of myself in the ring," he said. "Outside you might take me for a merchant or minister. Indeed, I am a minister's son."
"You a minister's son!" ejaculated Kit.
"Yes; you wouldn't think it, would you? I was rather a wild lad, as minister's sons often are. My poor father tried hard to give me an education, but my mind wasn't on books or school exercises, and at sixteen I cut and run."
"Did you join a circus then?"
"Not at once. I tried hard to earn my living in different ways. Finally I struck a circus, and got an engagement as a razorback. When I got older I began to notice and imitate the clowns, and finally I made up my mind to become one myself."
"Do you like the business?"
"I have to like it. No; I am disgusted with myself often and often. You can judge from one thing. I have a little daughter, Katy, now eight years of age. She has never seen me in the ring and never will. I could never hold up my head in her presence if she had once seen me playing the fool before an audience."
All this surprised Kit. He had been disposed to think that what clowns were before the public they were in private life also. Now he saw his mistake.
"You contribute to the public amusement, Mr. Dupont," said Kit.
"True; but what sort of a life record is it? Suppose in after years Katy is asked, 'Who was your father?' and is obliged to answer, 'Joe Dupont, the clown.' But I ought not to grumble. But for you I should have died a terrible death, and Katy would be fatherless, so I have much to be thankful for after all."
Kit listened to the clown not without surprise. He could hardly realize that this was the comical man whose grotesque actions and sayings had convulsed the spectators only an hour before. When he came to think of it, he felt that he would rather be an acrobat than a clown.
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{
"id": "22521"
}
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15
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MR. BICKFORD GOES TO THE CIRCUS.
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When Aaron Bickford, balked of his prey, was compelled to get into his wagon and start for home, he felt uncommonly cross. To begin with, he was half famished, having harnessed up and set out on what turned out to be a wild goose chase without breaking his fast. Yet he could have borne this with comparative equanimity if he had effected the purpose which he had in view--the capture of his expected apprentice.
But he had been signally defeated. Indeed he had been humiliated in presence of Kit and William Morris, by being unceremoniously picked up and tossed over the fence. As William was an Oakford boy, he foresaw that his discomfiture would soon be known to all his fellow townsmen, and that public ridicule would be his portion. There seemed no way to avoid this, unless by begging William to keep silent, and this he could not bring himself to do, even if the request was likely to be granted.
"Where's the boy?" asked his wife, as, after unharnessing his horse, he went into the house.
"I don't know where he is," answered Bickford, in a surly tone.
"Didn't you find him?"
"Yes, I found him."
"Wouldn't he come back?"
"He didn't."
"I'd have made him if I were you."
"Perhaps you would, and then perhaps you wouldn't. Perhaps you couldn't."
"You don't mean to say, Aaron Bickford, that you let a whippersnapper like that defy you?"
"What could I do against a man eight feet high?"
"Goodness, Mr. Bickford, have you been drinking?" ejaculated his wife.
"No, I haven't been drinking."
"Do you mean to tell me that boy is eight feet high?"
"No, I don't mean to tell you the boy is eight feet high. But I won't answer any more foolish questions till you give me something to eat. I am fairly faint with hunger."
"Sit down, then, and I hope after you've gratified your appetite you'll be a little less mysterious."
Mrs. Bickford was privately of opinion that her husband had stopped at some drinking place--otherwise why should he prate of men eight feet tall?
Aaron Bickford ate almost ravenously, though the food set before him was not calculated to gratify the taste of an epicure. But all things are acceptable to an empty stomach.
When he seemed to be satisfied, his wife began anew.
"Who is it that is eight feet high?" she asked.
"The giant at the circus."
"What did you have to do with him?"
"Not much, but he had something to do with me," answered Bickford, grimly.
"How is that?"
"I overhauled the boy, and was dragging him back to the wagon, when this fellow hove in sight. It seems he knew the young rascal, and took his part. He seized me as easily as you would take up a cat, and flung me over the fence."
"I wish I'd been there!" exclaimed Mrs. Bickford, angrily.
"What could you have done. You would have been flung over too," said her husband, contemptuously.
"I would have got a good grip of his hair, and I guess that would have made him let go."
"You'd have to stand on a ladder, then."
"So the boy got away?"
"Of course he did."
"And where did he go?"
"I expect he went to the circus along with William Morris."
"Was that boy with him?"
"Yes."
"They were pretty well matched. What can they do at the circus?"
"I don't know. Perhaps their long-legged friend will give them a ticket to the show."
"Aaron, suppose we go to the circus?"
"What for?"
"You may get hold of the boy, and bring him back. The giant won't be with him all the time."
"I'd like to get the boy back," said Bickford, in a wavering tone. "I'd give him a lesson."
"And so would I. I guess between us we could subdue him. But of course he must be got back first."
"I'll think of it, Sarah."
Later in the day Mr. Bickford told his wife he would go to the circus, but he tried to evade taking her in order to save the expense of another ticket. To this, however, she would not agree. The upshot was, that after supper the old horse was harnessed up, and the amiable pair, bent on vengeance, started for Grafton.
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{
"id": "22521"
}
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16
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MR. BICKFORD AT THE CIRCUS.
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Mr. Bickford's chief object in going to the circus was to regain possession of Kit, his runaway apprentice, as he chose to consider him. But, besides this, he really had a curiosity to see the show, and thought this would afford him a good excuse for doing so. The same remark will apply to Mrs. Bickford, whose curiosity had been excited the year previous by seeing a circus procession. The blacksmith and his wife were not prejudiced against amusements, like many others, but were too frugal to attend them. Now that they could combine business with pleasure, they threw to the winds all hesitation.
"Do you think you'll get the boy, father?" asked Mrs. Bickford, as they jolted over the road to Grafton.
"I'll make a try for it, Sarah. He's a good strong boy, and he'll make a capital blacksmith. Did you notice his broad shoulders?"
"He looks like he'd have a hearty appetite," said the careful spouse.
"We won't pamper him, Sarah," replied Bickford, smiling grimly. "He won't get no such victuals as he did at home. Plain food and plenty of it, that's the way to bring up boys."
"Perhaps he won't be at the circus," suggested Mrs. Bickford.
"I'd be surprised if he wasn't. Boys have a natural hankering for the circus. I had when I was a boy."
"Did you ever go, Aaron?"
"No; I didn't have the money."
"Do you know how much they charge?"
"Fifty cents, I believe."
"It's an awful sight of money to pay for amusement. If it lasts two hours, that makes twenty-five cents an hour."
"So it does, Sarah. That's as much as I can earn by hard work in that time."
"I don't know as it's right to fling away so much money."
"I wouldn't do it if it wasn't for gettin' the boy back. He'll be worth a good deal to me if I do. He's a good deal stronger than Bill Morris."
"Of course that makes a difference. I don't care so much for the circus, though I should like to see the man stand up on a horse and jump through hoops. I wonder if the horse jumps through too."
"I don't know, but we'll soon know all that is to be known. The boy won't expect to see us, I reckon," concluded the blacksmith, with a chuckle.
At length they reached the circus grounds. All was bustle and excitement in the neighborhood of the lot.
"I declare, Aaron, it looks like Fourth of July," said Mrs. Bickford.
"So it does. It beats all--what a crowd there is."
They bought tickets and entered the inclosure.
In a small tent near the entrance were the curiosities. They were about to walk in when a young man curtly asked for tickets.
"We bought tickets at the gate. Here they are."
"All right; but you need separate tickets here."
"I declare that's a swindle," said Mrs. Bickford. "I thought we could see the whole show on these."
"We only charge ten cents extra for this."
"It's a shame. Shall we go in, Aaron?"
"I guess we will. I want to see that 'ere fat woman."
"I'd like to see the dwarf and the woman with hair five feet long. A circus is dreadful expensive, but bein' as we're here we might as well see the whole thing."
Twenty cents was paid at the door, and the economical pair, grown suddenly so extravagant, walked in.
The first object on which the blacksmith's eyes rested kindled him with indignation, and recalled mortifying memories. It was Achilles Henderson, the giant, who, on his side recognized Aaron Bickford.
"Good evening, my friend," he said, with a smile. "I believe we have met before."
"Do you know him?" asked Mrs. Bickford, in surprise.
Aaron's brow contracted as he answered: "It's the ruffian that threw me over the fence this morning."
"I see you remember me," said Achilles, good-naturedly.
"I ought to remember you," retorted the blacksmith.
"Come, don't bear malice. It was only a little joke."
"I don't like such jokes."
"Well, well; I'll give you satisfaction. I'll let you throw me over the fence any time you want to, and I won't make a particle of resistance."
Somehow this proposal did not strike the blacksmith as satisfactory. He asked abruptly: "Where's the boy?"
"There were two boys."
"I mean the stout, broad-shouldered boy."
"I don't know just where he is at present."
"Do you know why I've come here this evening?"
"To see the show, I expect."
"I've come to get that boy. I've no doubt he's somewhere about here."
"Oho!" thought the giant; "I must put my young friend on his guard."
"If you'll help me I'll do as much for you some time."
"So you are going to carry him back with you?" went on Achilles, desirous of learning the extent of Kit's danger.
"Yes, I am."
"You say he is your apprentice?"
"Of course he is."
"And you've got the papers to show for it?"
"I don't need no papers. I've got his uncle's consent."
"I think, my friend, you're not familiar with the law," thought Achilles. "Kit won't go with you to-night."
But it was nearly time for the performance. Mr. and Mrs. Bickford left the smaller tent, and entering the big one took their seats. They watched the performance with great wonder and enjoyment till the entrance of Kit and the Vincenti brothers. They did not immediately discover him, but when he stood on the shoulders of Alonzo Vincenti, who, in turn, stood on the shoulders of Antonio, and the three-storied acrobat walked round the ring, Mrs. Bickford recognized Kit, and, pointing with her parasol to the young acrobat, as she half raised herself from her seat, she exclaimed in a shrill voice: "Look, Aaron, there's your boy, all rigged out in circus clothes!"
"Well, that beats all!" ejaculated the blacksmith, gazing with wide open mouth at Kit.
Just then, Kit, reversing his attitude, raised his feet in the air and was borne round the ring, amid the plaudits of the spectators.
"How do you think he does it?" asked Mrs. Bickford in astonishment.
"I give it up," said the blacksmith.
"He's a smart critter. Do you think they pay him?"
"I reckon he gets two or three dollars a week, but he hain't no business to hire out to the circus folks. He's going back with us to-night, and I'll turn him out a blacksmith in two years."
When Kit had finished his act, he went to the dressing room and changed his clothes.
"I wonder whether the old fellow is after me!" he thought. "What could have put it into his head that I was here?"
As he emerged from the dressing room he met Mr. Barlow, the proprietor of the circus, who advanced towards him, and shook his hand cordially.
"Bravo, my young friend!" he said. "You did yourself great credit. Are you sure you have never performed in a circus before?"
"Quite sure, sir."
"You went through your act like an old professional. You did as well as either of the other two."
"Thank you, sir. I am glad you are satisfied."
"I ought to be. I regard you as a decided acquisition to my show. Keep on doing your best, and I can assure you that your efforts will be appreciated. How much did I agree to pay you?"
"Ten dollars a week, sir."
"That isn't enough. I raise your salary at once to twenty-five."
Kit was dazzled by his good fortune. What! Twenty-five dollars a week and traveling expenses for a boy of sixteen! It seemed marvelous.
"I am afraid I am dreaming, Mr. Barlow," he said. "I can't believe that I am really to receive so handsome a salary."
"You will realize it to-night when you collect your first week's pay."
"But this won't be a full week, sir."
"Never mind! You shall receive full pay. Do you think I forget your heroic act at Smyrna?"
"Thank you, sir. I hope nothing will prevent my continuing in your employ."
"What should prevent?" asked Mr. Barlow, quickly. "Have you had an offer from another show?"
"No, sir; I am not well known enough for that; but I saw a man in the audience who would probably like to get me away."
"Who is it?"
"A blacksmith from Oakford."
"I don't understand. What have you to do with a blacksmith?"
Kit explained briefly.
"When do you think he will try to recover possession of you?" asked the circus proprietor.
"Just after the show is over."
"Has he any papers?"
"Not one."
"Then he has no claim on you. If he makes any trouble let me know."
"I will, Mr. Barlow."
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
17
|
KIT'S STRATAGEM.
|
Kit, when dressed, sought the part of the house where he knew that William Morris was seated.
"How did I do, Will?" he asked.
"Splendidly!" answered the boy enthusiastically. "I felt proud of you."
"I think I have a right to be satisfied myself. I have had my pay raised."
"You don't mean to say you are to get more than ten dollars?" said his friend, opening his eyes in amazement.
"I am raised to twenty-five."
"You don't mean to say you are to get twenty-five dollars a week, Kit?"
"Yes, I do."
"And your board?"
"And my board and traveling expenses," added Kit, with a smile.
"I wish I were in your shoes, Kit," said William. "Think of me with only one dollar a week."
"Would you be willing to go through my acts for the money I am going to receive?"
William shook his head.
"I couldn't do it, Kit," he replied. "It always makes me dizzy when I have my head down. I don't believe I could ever do anything in a circus."
"Well, William, I won't forget you. If I save money, as I am sure to do, I'll see if I can't do something for you by and by. By the way, did you see Mr. and Mrs. Bickford?"
"No, you don't mean to say they are here?"
"Look over there!"
William followed the direction of Kit's finger, and he easily discovered the blacksmith and his wife.
"By gracious! You're right!" he said. "It's the first money I've known old Bickford to pay for any amusement for years."
"They came after me, William."
"You won't go back with them?"
"Not much. I don't care to give up twenty-five dollars a week for the privilege of learning the trade of a blacksmith."
"Suppose they try to carry you off?"
"That gives me an idea. With your help I'll try to play a trick on them. It'll be capital fun."
"Go ahead and tell me what it is, Kit. I'm with you!"
"My plan is that you should ride home with Mr. Bickford," said Kit.
"I don't understand," said William, looking puzzled.
"I'll tell you my idea. Bickford has come here with the intention of taking me back with him to Oakford."
"But you don't mean to go?"
"Of course not, but when the show is over I shall put myself in his way, and after a little objection agree to go. I will ask for five minutes to get ready. In that time I will change hats with you, and as it is dark you can easily pass yourself off for me."
"Capital!" exclaimed William, laughing. "Won't the old man look foolish when he finds out who is with him?"
"Don't let him know till you arrive, or he would force you to leave the carriage, and walk home alone, and a six mile walk is no joke."
"All right Kit! I understand, and I think I can carry out your idea. I haven't much love for the old man or his wife either, and I am glad of a chance to get even with them."
The performance continued till ten o'clock. The blacksmith and his wife enjoyed it beyond their anticipations. Amusements of any kind were new to them, and their pleasure was like that of children.
"I begin to think, Sarah, we shall get our money's worth," said Aaron cautiously, as the entertainment neared its end; "this is a great show."
"So it is, Aaron. I don't begrudge the money myself, though fifty cents is a pretty high price to pay. Then, besides, you'll have a chance to carry the boy home."
"That's so, Sarah. Just as soon as the show is over, foller me, and we'll try to find him."
At length the last act was ended, and the crowd of spectators began pouring from the tent.
Mr. Bickford hurriedly emerged from the audience, and began to look around for Kit. He had but little trouble in finding him, for the boy purposely put himself in his way. Aaron Bickford strode up to him.
"Well, I've caught you at last!" he said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"What do you want of me, Mr. Bickford?" said Kit.
"What do I want of you? Well, I want you to go home with me, of course."
"Won't you let me stay with the circus a week?" asked Kit, in a subdued tone.
"No, I won't. I've got the wagon here, and I'm goin' to take you back with me to-night."
"If you really think my uncle wishes it, perhaps I had better go," said Kit, in what appeared to be a wavering tone.
Mr. Bickford was quite elated. He feared he should have trouble in persuading Kit to accompany him. He would not have been surprised if the boy had disappeared, and given him trouble to find him, and his unexpected submissiveness was an agreeable surprise.
"Well, boy, it's time to be goin'. Oakford's six miles off, and we won't get home before midnight unless we start right off."
"I'll go and get my things, Mr. Bickford. Where is your horse and wagon?"
"Out by the entrance. It's hitched to a tree."
"All right! You go and unhitch the horse, and I'll be right along."
"But suppose you give me the slip? You'd better go along now."
"I'll bring him with me, Mr. Bickford," said the giant. "I'm sorry he isn't going to stay with us, and I'll see him off."
Achilles Henderson spoke in so straightforward a manner that Mr. Bickford was deceived.
"Very well," he said. "I'll go along with Mrs. Bickford. Don't keep me waitin', for it's gettin' late."
The blacksmith and his wife took up their march to the place where their team had been hitched. They found it safe, and untied the horse.
"We're goin' to have a dark ride home, mother," he said.
"Yes, Aaron, but you've done a good evening's work."
"That's so, Sarah. I expected I'd have more trouble with the boy."
"There's nothing like being firm, Aaron. When he saw you were in earnest, he gave up."
"I mean to keep a tight rein on him, Sarah. He's a boy that likes to have his own way, if I ain't greatly mistaken. We must break his will."
The horse was unhitched, and still Kit had not arrived. Mr. Bickford began to fear that he had been tricked after all, when two figures, contrasting strongly with each other, appeared. One was the giant, in his ample height, and the other was a boy.
"There they are, Aaron!" said Mrs. Bickford, who was the first to descry the oddly assorted pair.
"Where is the boy to sit?" asked Achilles.
"In the back seat. Mother and I will sit in front."
"All right! There you are!" said Mr. Henderson, lifting the boy in his arms, as easily as if he were a kitten, and putting him on the rear seat.
"Good-by, Kit!" he said. "I'm sorry you're going to leave us. Perhaps Mr. Bickford will let you off if we show anywhere near here."
"The boy will be at work, and can't be let off," said the blacksmith, stiffly. "But it is time we were off."
"Good-by, then, Kit!"
"Good-by!" said the supposed Kit, in a low tone, for he feared that the difference in his voice would be recognized. But Mr. Bickford had no suspicions. He was anxious to get started, for he and his wife were always in bed by this time ordinarily.
So the team started, and Achilles Henderson, suppressing a laugh, strode away to the circus cars, which were already being prepared for a midnight journey to the next place. It may be explained here that the circus of to-day generally owns its own cars, which are used for the conveyance of all connected with it, their luggage, the tents, the animals, and all the paraphernalia of the show. As soon as the show is ended, the canvas men set to work to take down and fold up the tents. All the freight is conveyed to the cars, and the razorbacks, already referred to, set about loading them. The performers, ticketmen, and candy butchers seek their berths in the sleeping cars and are often in the land of dreams before the train starts.
While Mr. Bickford was driving in the darkness to Oakford with the supposed Kit on the back seat, the real Kit was in his berth in the circus cars, preparing for a refreshing night's rest.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
18
|
MR. BICKFORD'S MORTIFYING DISCOVERY.
|
Mr. Bickford was in excellent spirits. He had enjoyed the evening, and although he had been compelled to disburse a dollar for two circus tickets, a sum which to him seemed large, he was disposed to acknowledge that he had received his money's worth. Besides, and this seemed to him the greatest triumph of all, he had recovered his runaway apprentice, or thought he had. He inwardly resolved that Kit should smart for his past insubordination, though he had not yet decided in what way he would get even with him. The unexpected submissiveness shown by Kit elated him, and confirmed him in the idea he had long entertained that he could manage boys a good deal better than the average of men.
"Talk about hard cases," he said one day to his wife. "I'd like to see the boy that can get the start of Aaron Bickford. He'll have to get up unusually airly in the mornin'."
Mr. Bickford felt a little like crowing over his captive, and turned his head partly round to survey the boy on the back seat. Fortunately for William the darkness was so great that there was small chance of his detecting the imposture.
"I reckon you didn't expect to be ridin' back to Oakford along of me this evenin'," he observed.
"No, sir," muttered William in a voice scarcely audible.
"Ho, ho, you feel kind of grouty, eh?" said the blacksmith. "Well, I ain't much surprised. You thought you could have your own way with Aaron Bickford, but you're beginnin' to see your mistake, I reckon?"
"Yes, sir," replied the supposed Kit, in a meek voice.
"Ho, ho! That's the way boys ginerally come out when they try to buck agin' their elders. Not but you might have succeeded with some men, but you didn't know the man you had to deal with this time."
There was a sort of gurgle, for William was trying hard not to laugh, as he was picturing to himself the rage and mortification of Mr. Bickford when he discovered the deceit that had been practiced upon him. But the blacksmith misunderstood the sound, and thought Kit was sobbing.
"You needn't take on!" he said, magnanimously. "It ain't so bad as it might be. You'll be a good deal better off learnin' a good trade than trampin' round the country with the circus. I hope this'll be a lesson to you. You'd better not try to run away ag'in, for it won't be no use. You won't always have that long-legged giant to help you. If I'd done right, I should have had him took up for 'sault and battery. He needn't think because he's eight feet high, more or less, that he can defy the laws of the land. I reckon he got a little skeered of what he done, or he wouldn't have acted so different this evening."
William did not reply to this. He was rather in hopes Mr. Bickford would stop addressing him, for he did not like to run the risk of answering, as it might open the eyes of the blacksmith to the fact that he had the wrong boy in the wagon.
The distance to Oakford steadily diminished, though Mr. Bickford's horse was a slow one. At length it had dwindled to half a mile.
"Now I don't care if he does find out who I am," thought William. "It ain't but a little way home now, and I shouldn't mind walking." Still his own house was rather beyond Mr. Bickford's, and it was just as well to ride the whole way, if he could escape detection so long.
"Where did you learn them circus performances, Christopher?" suddenly asked the blacksmith, turning once more in his seat.
By this time they were within a few rods of the blacksmith's yard, and William became bold, now that he had nothing to lose by it.
"My name isn't Christopher," he answered in his usual tone.
"Your name isn't Christopher? That's what your uncle told me."
"I think you are mistaken," said William quietly.
"What's got into the boy? Is he goin' to deny his own name? What is your name, then?"
"My name is William Morris," was the distinct response.
"What!" exclaimed the blacksmith in amazement.
"I think you ought to know me, Mr. Bickford. I worked for you some time, you know."
"Take off your hat, and let me look at your face!" said Aaron Bickford, sternly.
William laughed as he complied with the request. It was now rather lighter, and the blacksmith, peering into his face, saw that it was indeed true--that the boy on the back seat was not Kit Watson at all, but his ex-apprentice, William Morris.
"It's Bill Morris, by the living jingo!" he exclaimed. "What do you say to that, Sarah?"
"You're a master hand at managing boys, Aaron," said his wife sarcastically.
"How came you in the wagon, Bill Morris?" demanded Bickford, not caring to answer his wife.
"The giant put me in," answered William.
"Where is that boy, Christopher Watson?"
"I expect he is travelin' with the show, Mr. Bickford."
"Who put you up to this mean trick?" demanded the blacksmith, wrathfully.
"Kit Watson."
"I've got an account to settle with you, William Morris. I s'pose you think you've done something pretty smart."
"I think he has, Aaron," said Mrs. Bickford, who seemed to take a malicious pleasure in opening her husband's wounds afresh.
"Mrs. Bickford, it isn't very creditable in you to triumph over your husband, just after he's been spendin' fifty cents for your amusement."
"Goodness knows, Mr. Bickford, you don't often take me to shows. I guess what you spend that way won't ruin you."
While the married pair were indulging in their little recriminations, William had managed to slip out of the wagon in the rear, and he was now a rod away.
"Good night, Mr. Bickford!" he shouted. "I'm much obliged to you for bringing me home. It's saved me a long walk."
The blacksmith's reply was one that I do not care to record. He was thoroughly angry and disgusted. If it hadn't been so late he would have got out and tried to inflict punishment on William with his whip, but the boy was too far away by this time to make this possible.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
19
|
STEPHEN WATSON VISITS OAKFORD.
|
On Monday as Mr. Bickford was about his work a carriage drove into the yard, containing Stephen Watson and Ralph.
"Good morning, Mr. Bickford," said Stephen Watson. "I've called over to inquire about Kit. I hope he is doing his duty by you."
The blacksmith looked at Mr. Watson with embarrassment, and did not immediately reply.
Mr. Watson repeated his question.
"Kit isn't with me," answered Bickford, at length.
"Isn't with you!" repeated Stephen Watson, in surprise. "Where is he?"
"He's run away."
"Run away!" ejaculated Kit's uncle. "What is the meaning of that?"
"He said he didn't want to be a blacksmith, and that you had no authority to make him."
"But where has he gone? Have you any idea?"
"He has gone off with Barlow's circus."
"But what object can he have in going off with a circus?" asked Mr. Watson, no less bewildered.
"They've hired him to perform."
"Are you sure of this?"
"I ought to be," answered the blacksmith, grimly. "My wife and I saw him jumpin' round last evenin' in the circus tent over at Grafton."
"But I don't see what he--a green hand--can do. Ralph, can you throw any light on this mystery?"
Ralph explained that Kit had practiced acrobatic feats extensively at the gymnasium connected with the school.
"Did he ever talk of going off with a circus?" asked Mr. Watson.
"Never, though he enjoyed the exercise."
"I went after him and tried to get him back," said Mr. Bickford, "but he gave me the slip."
"He's done a very foolish and crazy thing. He can't get more than three or four dollars a week from the circus, and in the fall he'll be out of a job."
"Just as you say, sir. He'd have a good payin' trade if he stayed with me. What do you think it is best to do about it, Mr. Watson?"
"I shall do nothing. If the boy chooses to make a fool of himself, he may try it. Next fall, and possibly before, he'll be coming back in rags, and beg me to take him back."
"I hope you won't take him back," said Ralph, who was jealous of Kit.
"I shall not consider myself bound to do so, but if he consents to obey me, and learn a trade of Mr. Bickford, I will fit him, up and enable him to do so--out of charity, and because he is my nephew."
"Then you don't mean to do anything about it, sir?" asked Aaron Bickford, considerably disappointed, for he longed to get Kit into his power once more.
"No, I will leave the boy to himself. Ralph, as our business seems to be over, we will turn about and go home."
Mr. Watson drove out of the blacksmith's yard.
"Well, Ralph," he said, as they were on their way home, "I am very much annoyed at what your cousin has done, but I don't see that I am to blame."
"Of course you're not, pa," returned Ralph, promptly.
"Still the public may misjudge me. It will be very awkward to answer questions about Kit. I really don't know what to say."
"Say he's run away and joined the circus. We might as well tell the truth."
"I don't know but it will be best. I will add that, though it grieves me, I think it advisable, as he is so old, not to interfere with him, but let him see the error of his way for himself. I will say also that when he chooses to come back, I will make suitable arrangements for him."
"I guess that will do. I will say the same."
"I don't mind saying to you that I shall feel it quite a relief to be rid of the expense of maintaining him, for he has cost me a great deal of money. You are my son, and of course I expect to take care of you, and bring you up as a gentleman, but he has no claim upon me except that of relationship. I won't say that to others, however."
"You are quite right, pa. As he is poor, and has his own living to make, it isn't best to send him to a high-priced school, and give him too much money to spend."
It will be seen that there was a striking resemblance between the views of father and son, both of whom were intensely selfish, mean and unscrupulous.
Stephen Watson foresaw that there would be a difficulty in making outside friends of the family understand why Kit had left home. He deliberately resolved to misrepresent him, and the opportunity came sooner than he anticipated.
On the afternoon of the day of his call upon the blacksmith, there was a ring at the bell, and a middle-aged stranger was ushered into the parlor.
"I suppose you don't remember me," he said to Stephen Watson.
"I can't say I do," replied Stephen, eying him.
"I knew your brother better than I did you. I am Harry Miller, who used to go to school with you both in the old red schoolhouse on the hill."
"I remember your name, but I should not have remembered you."
"I don't wonder. Time changes us all. I am sorry to hear that your poor brother is dead."
"Yes," answered Stephen, heaving a sigh proper to the occasion, which was intended to signify his grief at the loss. "He was cut down like the grass of the field. It is the common lot."
"His wife died earlier, did she not?"
"Yes."
"But there was a son?"
"Yes."
"How old is the boy?"
"Just turned sixteen."
"May I see him? I should like to see the son of my old deskmate."
"Ah!" sighed Stephen. "I wish he were here to meet you."
"But surely he is not dead?"
"No; he is not dead, but he is a source of anxiety to me."
"And why?" asked the visitor, with concern. "Has he turned out badly?"
"Why, I don't know that I can exactly say that he has turned out badly."
"What is the matter with him, then?"
"He is wayward, and instead of being willing to devote himself to his school studies like my son Ralph, he has formed an extraordinary taste for the circus."
"Indeed! but where is he?"
"He is traveling with Barlow's circus."
"In what capacity?"
"As an acrobat."
Henry Miller laughed.
"I remember," he said, "that his father was fond of athletic sports. You never were."
"No, I was a quiet boy."
"That you were, and uncommonly sly!" thought Miller, but he did not consider it polite to say so. "Is the boy--by the way, what is his name?"
"Christopher. He is generally called Kit."
"Well, is Kit a good gymnast?"
"I believe he is."
"When did he join the circus?"
"Only yesterday. In fact it is painful for me to say so, he ran away from a good home to associate with mountebanks."
"And what are you going to do about it?"
"He is so headstrong that I have thought it best to give him his own way, and let him see for himself how foolish he has been. Of course he has a home to return to whenever he sees fit."
"That may be the best way. I should like to see the young rascal. I would follow up the circus and do so, only I am unfortunately called to California on business. I am part owner of a gold mine out there."
"I trust you have been prospered in your worldly affairs."
"Yes, I have every reason to be thankful. I suppose I am worth two hundred thousand dollars."
Stephen Watson, whose god was money, almost turned green with jealousy. At the same time he asked himself how he could take advantage of his old schoolmate's good luck.
"I wish he would take a fancy to my Ralph," he thought.
So he called in Ralph, and introduced him to the rich stranger.
"He's a good boy, my Ralph," he said; "sober and correct in all his habits, and fond of study."
Ralph was rather surprised to hear this panegyric, but presently his father explained to him in private the object he had in view. Then Ralph made himself as agreeable as he could, but he failed to please Mr. Miller.
"He is too much like his father," he said to himself.
When he terminated his call, he received a very cordial invitation to come again on his return from California.
"If Kit has returned I certainly will come," he replied, an answer which pleased neither Ralph nor his father.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
20
|
A CHAT WITH A CANDY BUTCHER.
|
Kit had a berth assigned him in one of the circus cars. His nearest neighbor was Harry Thorne, a young man of twenty-four, who filled the position of candy butcher. As this term may sound strange to my readers, I will explain that it is applied to the venders of candy, lemonade, peanuts, and other articles such as are patronized by those who come to see the show. It is really a very profitable business, as will be explained in the course of the story.
Harry Thorne was social and ready to give Kit any information about the circus.
"How long is it since you joined a circus?" asked Kit, after getting acquainted.
"I was younger than you," answered Thorne.
"Why did you join? What gave you the idea?"
"A spirit of adventure, I think. Besides, there was a large family of us--I am the oldest--and it was necessary for me to do something."
"That's a queer name--candy butcher."
"It seems so to you, but I am used to it."
"Did you become a candy butcher at once?"
"Not till I was eighteen. Before that I ran errands and made myself generally useful. I thought of being an acrobat, like you, but I was too stout and not active enough."
"I shouldn't think there would be much money made in your business," said Kit.
"That shows you don't know much about circus matters. Last fall I ran in with seven hundred dollars saved, besides paying all my expenses during the six months I was out."
"You ought to be pretty well off now, if you have been a candy butcher for five or six years."
"I haven't a cent, and am owing two hundred dollars in Philadelphia."
"How is that?"
"You don't often find a circus man that saves money. It's easy come, easy go. But I send money home every season--three or four hundred dollars at least, if I do well."
"That's a good thing any way. But if I were in your place I would put away some money every season."
"I could do it, but it's hard to make up my mind."
"I can't see how you can make such sums. It puzzles me."
"We are paid a fixed salary, say twenty-five dollars a month, and commission on sales. I was always pretty lucky in selling, and my income has sometimes been very large. But I don't make much in large places. It is in the smaller towns that the money is made. When a country beau brings his girl to the circus, he don't mind expense. He makes up his mind to spend several dollars in having a good time--so he buys lemonade, peanuts, apples, and everything that he or his girl fancies. In the city, where there are plenty of places where such things can be bought, we don't sell much. In New York or Philadelphia I make very little more than my salary."
"What is there most profit on?" asked Kit.
"Well, I should say lemonade. You've heard of circus lemonade?"
"Is there anything peculiar about it?"
"Yes, something peculiarly weak. A good-sized lemon will make half a dozen glasses, and perhaps more. But there is something cheaper still, and that is citric acid. I remember one hot day in an Ohio town. The thermometer stood at 99 degrees and there wasn't a drop of spring or well water to be had, for we had cornered it. All who were thirsty had to drink lemonade, and it took a good many glasses to quench thirst. I made a harvest that day, and so did the other candy butchers. If we could have a whole summer of such days, I could retire on a small fortune in October."
"Do you like the circus business?"
"Sometimes I get tired of it, but when the spring opens I generally have the circus fever."
"What do you do in the winter?"
"It is seldom I get anything to do. I am an expense, and that is why I find myself in debt when the new season opens. Last winter I was more lucky. A young fellow--an old circus acquaintance of mine--has a store in the country, and he offered to supply me with a stock of goods to sell on commission in country villages near by. In that way I filled up about three months, making my expenses, but doing nothing more. However, that was a great thing for me, and I start this season only two hundred dollars in debt, as I think I told you a few minutes ago."
"Is it the same way with performers?"
"No; they have a better chance. Next winter, if you try, you can probably make an engagement to perform at some dime museum or variety hall, in New York or elsewhere. I once got the position of ticket seller for a part of the winter."
"I don't think I should like to perform in a dime museum," said Kit.
"What's the odds, if you are well paid for it?"
"I don't intend to make my present business a permanent one."
"That's different. What will you do next fall?"
"I may go to school."
Harry Thorne whistled.
"That will be a novelty," he said. "I haven't been to school since I was twelve years old."
"Wouldn't you like to go now?"
"No; I'm too old. Are you much of a scholar?"
"I'm a pretty good Latin scholar, and know something of Greek."
"I'll bet there isn't another acrobat in the country that can say that. What salary do you get, if you don't mind telling?"
"Twenty-five dollars a week."
"You're in luck. How came Barlow to give you so much?"
"I think he took a liking to me. Perhaps he wanted to pay me for facing the lion at Smyrna."
"Were you the boy who did that? I thought your face looked familiar. You've got pluck, Kit."
"I hope so; but I'm not sure whether it is I or the snuff that is entitled to the most credit."
"Anyhow it took some courage, even if you did have the snuff with you."
"Do you know what is to be our route this season?"
"I think we are going West as far as St. Louis, taking all the larger towns and cities on our way. We are to show a week in Chicago. But I don't care so much for the cities as the country towns--the one-night places."
"Does Mr. Barlow go with us?"
"Not steadily. He drops in on us here and there. There's one thing I can say for him--he won't have any man in his employ drink or gamble. We have to bind ourselves to total abstinence while we are in his employ--that is, till the end of the season. Gambling is the great vice of circus men; it is more prevalent even than drinking."
"Don't the men do it on the sly?"
"They run a risk if they do. At the first offense they are fined, at the second or third they are bounced."
"That doesn't trouble me any. I neither drink nor gamble."
"Good for you."
"Say, when are you two fellows goin' to stop talkin'?" was heard from a neighboring berth. "You don't give a fellow a chance to sleep."
Kit and his new friend took the hint and addressed themselves to slumber.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
21
|
KIT MEETS A SCHOOLMATE.
|
Kit slept profoundly, being very tired. He was taken by surprise when, the next morning, he was shaken into a state of wakefulness, and opening his eyes met those of his neighbor Harry Thorne.
"Is it morning?" he asked, in a sleepy tone.
"I should say it was. It is a quarter after nine, and the parade starts at ten."
"The parade?"
"Yes; we give a morning parade in every place we visit. If you are not on hand to take part in it, you will be fined five dollars."
"I'll be up in a jiffy," said Kit, springing out of his berth. "But there's time enough, isn't there?"
"Yes; but not too much. You will want to get some breakfast. By the way, are you used to driving?"
"Oh, yes. I have done a good deal of it," answered Kit.
"I thought so, as you are a country boy. How would you like to drive a span of horses attached to one of the small chariots?"
Kit was extremely fond of a horse, and he answered promptly, "I'll do it."
"There are two. The other is driven by Charlie Davis, once a performer but now a ticket man. He is a little older than you."
"All right! I don't see how I came to sleep so late."
"You and Charlie are good matches. Once he went to bed Saturday night, and did not wake up till Monday morning."
"That beats my record!"
Kit was dressed in less than ten minutes.
"Where shall I get breakfast?" he asked.
"The regular breakfast is over, and you will have to buy some. There is a restaurant just opposite the lot. You might get in with one of the cooks, and get something in the cook tent."
"No; I'll go to the restaurant. To-morrow I'll be on hand at the regular breakfast."
The restaurant was a small one, with no pretensions to style, but Kit was hungry and not particular. At the same table there was a dark complexioned boy of about his own size, who had just begun to dispatch a beefsteak.
He looked up as Kit seated himself.
"You're the new acrobat, are you not?" asked the other.
"Yes; are you Charlie Davis?"
"Yes; how do you know me?"
"Harry Thorne was speaking of you."
"I see you're one of the late birds as well as I. I generally have to buy my breakfast outside. How do you like circus life?"
"I haven't tried it well enough to tell. This is only my second day."
"I went into it at fourteen. I've been an acrobat, too, but I have a weak ankle, and have gone into the ticket department."
"Are you going to remain in the circus permanently?"
"No, I'm trying to wean myself from it. A friend has promised to set me up in business whenever I get ready to retire. If I kept on, I would be no better off at forty than I am now."
"Yet circus people make a good deal of money, I hear."
"Right you are, my boy, but they don't keep it. They get spoiled for anything else, and soon or later they are left out in the cold. I've had a good deal of fun out of it, for I like traveling, but I'm going to give it up."
"I took it up because I had nothing else to do, but I shan't stay in it long. I'll tell you about it some day. I hear you drive one of the pony chariots."
"Yes."
"I am to drive the other."
"Good! Don't let them run away with you, my boy."
"I'll try not to," said Kit, smiling. "Is there any danger?"
"Not much. They're trained. Are you fond of horses?"
"I like nothing better."
"So it is with me. I'll wait till you are through breakfast, and then we'll go over together."
Half an hour later Kit sat on the box of a chariot, drawn by two beautiful ponies. The circus line had been formed, and the parade began. Behind him was a circus wagon, or rather a cage on wheels, through the gratings of which could be seen a tiger, crafty and cruel looking. In front was an elephant, with two or three performers on his back. Kit was dressed in street costume, his circus dress not being required.
In another part of the procession was Charlie Davis, driving a corresponding wagon.
Kit felt a peculiar exhilaration as he drove his ponies, and reflected upon the strangeness of his position, as compared with his previous experiences. He had from time to time watched circus processions, but not in his wildest and most improbable dreams had it ever occurred to him to imagine that he would ever himself take part in one. As he looked down from his perch he saw the streets lined with the usual curious crowd of spectators, among whom boys were largely represented.
"I suppose some of them are envying me," he thought to himself, with a smile. "Suppose there was some one who recognized me?"
No sooner had the thought come into his mind, than he heard his own name called in a voice indicating amazement.
"Kit Watson, by all that's wonderful!" were the words that fell on his ears.
Looking to the right, his glance fell upon Jack Dormer, a schoolmate, who had been attending the same academy with him for a year past.
Kit colored, feeling a little embarrassed.
"How are you, Jack?" he said.
"How came you in this circus procession, Kit?"
"I can't tell you now. Come round to the lot, after the parade is over, and I'll tell you all about it."
Jack availed himself of the invitation and presented himself at the circus grounds.
"What does it all mean, Kit?" he asked. "Have you really and truly joined the circus?"
"Come round this afternoon, and you'll see me perform. I am one of the Vincenti brothers, acrobats."
"But what put it in your head? That's what I want to know?"
"I thought I would like it better than being a blacksmith."
"But who ever dreamed of your being a blacksmith?"
"My uncle did. I'll tell you all about it."
Kit told his story. Jack Dormer listened with sympathetic interest.
"Do they pay you well?" he asked.
"I get twenty-five dollars a week, and all expenses."
"Can you get me a job?" asked Jack quite overcome by the magnificence of the salary.
"As an acrobat, Jack?" asked Kit, laughing, for Jack had the reputation of being one of the clumsiest boys in school.
"Well, no, I don't suppose I could do much in that way, but isn't there something I could do?"
"Take my advice, Jack, and give it up. You've got a good home, and there is no need of your going into any such business even if you were qualified."
"Don't you like it?"
"I can't tell yet. Of course it is exciting, but those who have been in it a good while advise against it. I may not stay in it more than one season."
"Shall I tell the fellows at school where you are?"
"No, I would rather you wouldn't."
"Does your cousin Ralph come back to school?"
"Yes."
"We could spare him a good deal better than you."
"I am not fond of Ralph myself, but the world is wide enough for us both."
Kit saw his schoolmate again after the afternoon performance, and received many compliments.
"I couldn't believe it was you," he said. "You acted as if you were an old hand at the business."
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
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22
|
NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
|
Sunday was of course a day of rest for the circus employees. Most of them observed it by lying in bed unusually late. Kit, however, rose in good season, and found himself first at breakfast. When the proper time arrived, he walked to the village, and selecting the first church he came to, entered. He had always been in the habit of attending church, and felt that there was no good reason why he should give up the practice now that he was away from home.
He stood in the lobby, waiting for the sexton to appear, when a fine-looking man of middle age entered the church with a young girl of fourteen at his side.
He glanced at Kit with interest, and after a moment's pause walked up to him.
"Are you a stranger here?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," answered Kit.
"I shall be glad to have you accept a seat in my pew."
"Thank you, sir," said Kit, politely; "I was waiting for the sexton, intending to ask him for a seat."
"I have plenty of room in my pew, having only my daughter with me. Are you staying long in the town?"
"Only as long as the circus does," answered Kit.
The gentleman looked surprised.
"Are you connected with the circus?" he asked, quickly.
"Yes, sir."
By this time the young girl was examining Kit with interest and attention.
"Is it possible you are a performer?"
"Yes, sir."
"I wouldn't have dreamed it. You look like a young gentleman."
"I hope I am, sir."
"Pardon me, I meant no offense, but you don't at all answer my idea of a circus performer."
"I have only been two days with the circus," said Kit; "and that may account for my not having a circus look."
"It is time to take our seats. I will speak with you afterwards. First, however, let me introduce my daughter, Evelyn Grant."
"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Evelyn," said Kit, removing his hat. "My name is Christopher Watson."
Evelyn offered her hand with a smile.
"I had no idea circus young men were so polite," she said.
There was no chance for any further conversation, as they had entered the church. Mr. Grant's pew was in a prominent position. He drew back to let the two young people enter. They seated themselves at the lower end of the pew and Mr. Grant took his seat at the head. Kit noticed that several persons in neighboring pews regarded him with apparent curiosity.
Kit enjoyed the services, which were of an interesting character. He had expected to feel like a stranger, but thanks to the kindness of Mr. Grant, he felt quite as much at home as when he sat in his uncle's pew at Smyrna.
When the services were over, they filed slowly out of church. A new surprise was in store for Kit.
"If you have no engagement we shall be glad to have you dine with us, Master Watson," said Mr. Grant.
"You will come, won't you?" said Evelyn, with a smile.
"You are very kind," said Kit, in grateful surprise. "Nothing could be more agreeable to me."
Just then a gentleman approached Mr. Grant, and said: "I am glad to see you looking so well, Mr. Mayor."
"Is your father the mayor of the city?" asked Kit.
"Yes; he was elected last December."
"I am very fortunate to be invited to dinner by the mayor."
"And by the mayor's daughter. Don't forget that."
"You may be sure I appreciate that, too."
"How funny it seems to me to be walking with a circus performer! What do you do? You don't stand upon a horse's back, and jump through hoops, do you?"
"No, I can't do that."
"But what do you do?"
"I am an acrobat."
Kit explained to her what he did.
"It must be very hard."
"Oh, no! I learned to do it in a gymnasium, before I ever dreamed of being connected with a circus."
"Where was the gymnasium?"
"Attached to Dr. Codman's academy."
"Why, I had a cousin who attended there," said Evelyn, in surprise.
"What was his name?"
"Edward Moore."
"I know him very well. He is a nice fellow."
At this moment Kit, in looking around, was surprised to see the familiar face and figure of Mr. Barlow, the circus proprietor, who had evidently, like himself, been attending the service. Recognition was mutual.
"I am glad to see you here, Watson," said Mr. Barlow, offering his hand. "I always attend church myself when I have an opportunity, but I am afraid few in my employ follow my example. I always feel more confidence in any young man who seems to enjoy a church service."
Mr. Barlow was a man whose name was widely known, and Kit saw that Mr. Grant looked as if he would like to be introduced.
"Mr. Barlow," he said, "allow me to introduce a new friend, Mr. Grant, the mayor of the town."
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mayor," said the showman, offering his hand.
"The pleasure is mutual, sir," said the mayor. "I need not say that your name has long been familiar to me."
"I am glad you have taken one of my young men under your wing. He is a recent acquisition, but I have reason to think well of him."
"He is to dine with us to-day. I shall be glad to extend an invitation to you also, Mr. Barlow."
"You are very kind, and but for a previous engagement I would accept with pleasure. I shall be glad to see you at my show to-morrow with complimentary tickets."
"What a nice old gentleman Mr. Barlow is," said Evelyn, in a low voice.
"I have found him an excellent friend. He won't allow any of us to drink or gamble while we are in his employ."
"I hope you wouldn't want to do either, Mr. Watson."
"I have no disposition to do so. But, Miss Evelyn, I want to ask you a favor."
"What is it? If it isn't anything very great, I may grant it."
"Don't call me Mr. Watson."
"What shall I call you then?"
"My friends call me Kit."
"That's a nice name. Yes, I'll call you Kit."
It will be seen that the two young people were getting on famously.
"Do you live far away, Miss Evelyn?"
"About a quarter of a mile from here."
In turning the corner of a street, Kit met his friend Harry Thorne, walking with Charlie Davis. Both regarded Kit with surprise.
"Kit seems to be getting on," said Charlie. "Do you know who he is walking with?"
"No; do you?"
"With the daughter of the mayor."
"How do you know?"
"The gentleman in front was pointed out to me as the mayor. I shouldn't wonder if he were going to dine there."
When Kit returned to the circus tents about four o'clock in the afternoon, he met with some good-natured raillery which he took in good part. He felt that he had passed the day in a much more satisfactory manner than if, like the great majority of his companions, he had risen late and lounged about the circus grounds, beguiling the time with smoking and story telling.
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{
"id": "22521"
}
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23
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KIT'S DARING ACT.
|
Kit's acts thus far had been confined to the ring, but now a new one was expected from him. Early in the performance a series of flying leaps from a springboard, in which all the acrobats took part, was introduced. From a point thirty feet back the performer ran swiftly till he reached the springboard, from which a leap was made accompanied by a somersault, carrying him over a considerable space in advance.
It was the custom to place first one elephant, then a second, and finally a third, in front of the springboard. There was only one man who could leap over three elephants. The two Vincenti brothers took part regularly, but Kit, being a new hand, had thus far been excused. But one of the regular performers being temporarily unwell, it was considered desirable that his place should be supplied.
"Do you think you can do it?" asked Alonzo Vincenti, somewhat doubtfully.
"Yes," answered Kit, confidently.
"It will be sufficient if you jump over one elephant," continued his associate. "Then you can drop out."
"I can do better than that," said Kit.
"I don't know about that. My brother can only jump over two."
"You jump over three elephants."
"Yes; but I am the only one who can do it. It takes a good spring to clear even two. It won't do to lose your head."
"Can I have a chance to rehearse?"
"Yes, I will speak about it."
"Then I will appear this evening."
"But if you fail you are likely to hurt yourself."
"I know that. That is why I would rather make the first trial in the evening. The lights and the crowd will excite and help me."
Kit was not foolhardy in his undertaking, for he had already had some practice in similar feats with his old teacher. Besides, he was ambitious. In school his ambition had shown itself in his attempt to eclipse his schoolfellows in scholarship. In the gymnasium he had ranked first, and now that he had joined the circus he didn't like to be assigned to a place in the rear.
Let me take the opportunity here to advise my young readers not to imitate Kit in essaying dangerous parts. "Be bold, but not too bold!" is a very good motto.
During the forenoon Kit found an opportunity to practice in the empty tent, in order to settle the question whether he had lost any of his old-time skill. The result was satisfactory, and renewed his confidence.
"I can do better before a tent full of spectators than when practicing by myself," he decided.
The evening came.
Standing near the ticket seller half an hour before the show began, Kit heard his name called.
Turning quickly he saw his friends of the previous day, Mayor Grant and his daughter Evelyn.
"Good evening, my boy!" said the mayor cordially. "We have come to see what you can do."
"Then I hope I shall do myself credit," said Kit, shaking hands with the mayor and his daughter. "Have you engaged seats?"
"Not yet."
"Then let me select them for you."
"With pleasure. I am glad to have a friend at court."
Kit selected seats as near as possible to the ring where he was to perform.
"These are splendid seats," said Evelyn. "How soon do you appear?"
"In a few minutes. I shall have to leave you now, but I will be back after my first act."
"What a nice boy he is, papa!" said Evelyn.
"Yes; it is a pity he is attached to a circus."
"Why? Isn't it a respectable business?"
"Yes; but there are many temptations connected with it, and most circus performers never rise any higher."
Evelyn was not inclined to discuss the question, though there is no doubt that she took a more favorable view of the circus profession than her father. The procession had just begun to move round the inner ring of the circus, including the elephants, the riders, the clowns, and performers of all kinds. Kit appeared, as in the public procession, driving a span of ponies.
This was the introduction. Then the various parts of the programme succeeded. Soon Kit performed his act in the ring. He had a new act to-night. Standing on the shoulders of one of the Vincenti brothers, he turned a somersault and landed on the shoulders of the other, standing six to eight feet away.
"I don't see how he does it, papa," said Evelyn. "He must be very smart."
"I see you are determined to make a hero of this young man, Evelyn."
"Don't you admire him yourself, papa?"
"Admire is rather a strong word, daughter. I will admit, however, that I like him, and hope he will soon change his business."
After the act was over, Kit came round and received congratulations. Evelyn repeated what her father said.
"I agree with you, sir," said Kit, "I haven't selected this as my life business, but shall keep my engagement till the end of the season."
"How, on the whole, do you like your new associates? I don't need to be told that they are very different from those to whom you are accustomed."
"They are very kind to me, and generous to each other when there is need. They will divide their last dollar with a friend."
"They often come to their last dollar, don't they?"
"Yes; they can't keep money. They are always in debt when the new season opens, no matter how much they brought home with them at the end of the last."
"Are there no exceptions?"
"Yes, a few. I have heard of one circus manager who commenced as a candy butcher, and now is proprietor of a very fair-sized show. Of course he had to save up money or he would never have succeeded so well."
Kit had to cut short his visit, for the new act, already referred to, was near at hand.
In the list of leapers Kit came last. First of all, there was a simple somersault from the springboard. This was easy. Just after Kit came the clown, who, though really a clever acrobat, stopped short when he came to the board and merely jumped up and down to the amusement of the young spectators.
"He can't jump no more'n I can," said one small boy, contemptuously.
"I shouldn't think they'd let him try," said another.
Both boys were surprised when, in the next trial, where the task was to jump over an elephant, the despised clown made a good spring and landed fairly on his feet.
"I guess he was afraid before," said the first boy.
"No; he only pretended for fun. Do you see that boy? I wonder if he can jump over the elephant."
The question was soon answered. Kit took his turn and sprang with apparent ease over the great beast.
Next another elephant was driven in alongside of the first. Again the leapers advanced to try their skill. But two held back, not feeling competent for the task. The clown once more made a feint of jumping, but only jumped up and retired apparently filled with confusion.
Evelyn gazed in intense excitement.
"It must be awfully hard to jump like that, papa," she said.
"I don't think I shall ever try it, Evelyn."
Another elephant was driven alongside the other two, making three in all. The other contestants retired, for only Alonzo had succeeded hitherto in executing this difficult feat. He expected to be the only one now, but noticed with surprise that Kit seemed ready to follow him.
"You don't mean to try it, Kit?" he said, in amazement.
"Why not?"
"You will fail, and if you do, you may hurt yourself seriously."
"I shall not fail," said Kit, confidently.
Alonzo looked anxious, but there was no time to expostulate. He ran swiftly to the board, made a vigorous spring, and landed handsomely on the bedding which had been provided beyond. He had scarcely stepped aside, when, to the astonishment of the other acrobats, Kit gathered himself up, ran to the springboard, and exerting himself to the utmost, made his leap, and landed a foot ahead of Alonzo.
Then the tent rang with applause, and there were many exclamations of astonishment, not only among the spectators, but also among the circus performers.
Kit's face flushed with pleasure, and bowing his acknowledgments, he withdrew.
"He is certainly a wonderful boy," said the mayor.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
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24
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KIT RECEIVES A LETTER.
|
Kit received compliments enough to spoil him, if he had not been strong-minded and level-headed boy. Among others Mr. Barlow, who had been present and witnessed his daring act, took the opportunity to congratulate him.
"You seem to be born for a circus performer, my young friend," he said. "You have come to the front at once."
"Thank you, sir," said Kit. "I am glad that I succeeded, but such success as that does not satisfy my ambition."
"You mean, perhaps, that you want to jump over four, perhaps five elephants?" suggested the manager.
Kit smiled.
"No," he answered; "I don't think I shall venture beyond three. But I don't expect to remain in the circus more than this season."
"That is almost a pity, when you are so well qualified to excel in it."
"Mr. Barlow," said Kit, seriously, "if I were a great manager like you, I would not mind, but I don't care to go through life as a circus performer."
"I don't know but you are right, my boy. In fact I know you are. I shouldn't care to be a performer myself."
"I don't think you would excel in that line," said Kit, with a glance at the portly form of the well-known showman.
"You wouldn't advise me to try jumping over elephants, I infer," said Mr. Barlow, with an amused smile.
"No, sir."
"I will take your advice, my boy. Though your share of worldly experience isn't great, you are certainly correct in that. I shall relieve the fears of Mrs. Barlow at once by telling her that I have decided not to enter the ring."
Kit also received the congratulations of the mayor and Evelyn, but the former added: "Though your act was a daring one, I was almost sorry to see it."
"Why, sir?"
"I feared it would confirm you in your love of your present business."
"No, sir, there is no danger," replied Kit. "I have a fair education already, and prefer to qualify myself for something different."
"I am glad to hear you say so. You are undoubtedly right."
"I must say good-by now," said Kit; "for we get off at midnight."
"Shall you not return this way?"
"No, sir; we are to go West, I hear."
"I hope when the season is over, you will make us a visit. Come and stay a week," said the mayor, hospitably.
"Do come," said Evelyn, earnestly.
"How can I thank you for your kindness to a stranger?" said Kit, gratefully. "I shall certainly avail myself of your hospitality. There are not many who would take such notice of a circus boy."
"You are something more than a circus boy," said the mayor, "or I might not have been so drawn to you. Good-by, then, and if you ever need a friend, don't forget that you are at liberty to call upon me."
It was a source of regret to Kit that he was obliged to part with friends whom in so short a time he had come to value so highly. He resolved that he would accept the mayor's offer at the close of the season. He would need a friend and adviser, and he felt confident that Mayor Grant's counsel would be wise and judicious.
Kit was already asleep in his bunk when the circus train started for the next place on the route. When he woke up he was in the town of Colebrook. Here a surprise was in store for him in the shape of a letter from his uncle. When he saw the familiar handwriting and the postmark "Smyrna," he broke the seal with a feeling of curiosity. He did not expect to derive either pleasure or satisfaction from the perusal.
We will look over his shoulder while he is reading the letter.
NEPHEW CHRISTOPHER,--I cannot express to you my surprise and disappointment when I rode over to Oakford to see you, and learned from Mr. Bickford that you had run away from his house and joined the circus. There must be something low and depraved in your tastes, that you should thus abandon the prospect of earning a respectable livelihood, and go tramping through the country with a circus. What do you think your father would say if he could come to life, and become aware of the course you have so rashly taken?
I should be justified in forcibly removing you from your present associations, and returning you to your worthy employer, Mr. Aaron Bickford, and perhaps it is my duty to do so. But I think it wiser for you to realize for yourself the folly of your course. You have deliberately deserted a good home and a kind guardian and become a tramp, if I may so express myself. I cannot imagine my son Ralph doing such a thing. He is, I hope, too dutiful and too sensible to throw away the advantages which fortune has secured him, to become a mountebank.
It is very embarrassing to me to answer questions about you. There are some who will be unjust enough, I doubt not, to blame me for your wild course, but I shall be sustained by the consciousness of my entire innocence in the matter. At great expense I have maintained you and paid the cost of your education, giving you privileges and advantages equal to those I have given my own boy. I have done so cheerfully, because you were my nephew, and I am sorry you have made me so poor a return. But I shall look for my reward to my own conscience, and hope you may yet see the folly and wickedness of your course.
I have only to add that when that time comes you are welcome to return to my roof and protection, and I will intercede with your excellent employer, Mr. Bickford, to take you back and teach you his trade, whereby you may be enabled to earn a more respectable living than you are doing at present. Ralph joins with me in this wish.
Your uncle, STEPHEN WATSON.
Kit's lip curled when he read this hypocritical letter, and was tempted to despise his uncle more now than ever. He lost no time in sending this reply: UNCLE STEPHEN,--I have received your letter, and can only express my surprise at the view you take of your treatment of me. Whether my father really left me as destitute as you claim, I am not in a position to say. If you have really gone to personal expense in maintaining and educating me up to this point, I shall, when I am able, reimburse you to the last cent. But I cannot forgive you for your trying to force a boy, reared and educated as I have been, to learn the trade of a blacksmith. You say that I have enjoyed advantages similar to those of your son Ralph. I wish to ask whether you would dream of apprenticing him to any such business.
You speak of my low associations, and call me a mountebank. In the town I have just left I was the guest of the mayor, and have promised to spend a week at his house on a visit when the circus season is over. Though you have done your best to lower me socially, I am confident that I shall be able to win a good place by my own unaided exertions.
I have no intention in continuing as a circus performer, though I am very liberally paid. It is too soon for me to decide upon my future course, but you may tell Mr. Bickford he need not wait for me to resume my place in his shop.
I do not know when I shall see you or Ralph again, but you need have no fear that I shall appeal to your generosity.
Your nephew, CHRISTOPHER WATSON.
Stephen Watson read this letter with surprise and chagrin. He was sorry to hear that Kit was doing so well, and alarmed at his implied doubt whether he had really been left destitute by his father.
"That boy is going to give me trouble," he muttered.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
25
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THE ATTACK ON THE CIRCUS TENT.
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Four weeks passed, in which Kit continued to acquit himself to the satisfaction of the manager. His youth and pleasant face, added to his uncommon skill, made him a favorite with the public, and being a boy with a love of adventure he enjoyed thoroughly the constant variety of circus life and travel.
All circus existence is not sunshine, however. There are communities which are always dreaded by circus managers, on account of the rough and lawless element which dominates them.
Early one morning Barlow's circus arrived at the mining town of Coalville (as we will call it), in Pennsylvania. An afternoon performance was given, and passed off smoothly; but in the evening a gang of about twenty miners made their appearance, bent on mischief.
Mr. Clark, the manager, sought Mr. Barlow.
"I think we shall have trouble this evening, Mr. Barlow," he said.
"Guard against it, then. What indications have you seen?"
"A gang of twenty miners have just entered the lot. They look ugly."
"Have the canvas men on guard, and summon the razorbacks, if necessary. Don't provoke a conflict, but be ready for one."
Mr. Clark hastily made his arrangements as quietly as possible. Near the ticket seller lounged a body of men, strong and muscular.
These were the canvas men. Some of them looked as reckless and dangerous as the miners, from whom a disturbance was feared.
These canvas men, whose duty it is to set up and take down the tents, are, for the most part, a rough set. They are paid from fifteen to twenty dollars a month and board. Their accommodations are very poor, but as good perhaps as they are accustomed to. They are not averse to a scrimmage, and obeyed with alacrity the directions of Mr. Clark.
The body of miners marched in procession to the ticket seller and then halted, one serving as spokesman.
"Give us twenty tickets, boss," said the leader.
"Where is your money?" asked the ticket seller, cautiously.
"Never you mind! We're on the free list, ain't we, boys?"
"Yes, we are!" was the chorus from his followers.
"There are no deadheads admitted to the show," said the ticket agent, firmly.
"You'll be a deadhead yourself if you ain't careful, young feller!" was the retort.
"Keep back, men! There are others waiting for a chance to buy tickets."
"Let 'em wait! Just hand over them tickets, or we'll run over you."
The fellow looked so dangerous that the ticket seller saw there was no time to parley.
He raised the well-known circus cry, which is called out in times of danger, like a summons to arms, "Hey, Rube!"
Instantly the canvas men and razorbacks rushed to the rescue, and made an impetuous attack on the disorderly crowd of miners. They, too, were aching for a fight, and there was a wild scene of battle, in which, as in the ancient days, the opposing forces fought hand to hand.
The canvas men were strong, but so were the miners. Their muscles were toughened by daily toil, and it looked as if the outsiders might win.
Kit was not of course called upon to take part in the contest, but he was unwillingly involved.
One of the miners detached himself from the main body, and creeping stealthily to the big tent, whipped out a large knife, and was on the point of cutting one of the ropes, his intention being to sever one after another till the big tent collapsed. Kit saw his design, and rushing forward seized his arm.
"Hold on there!" he cried. "What are you about?"
"Let me alone, and mind your own business!" returned the miner, in a hoarse, deep voice.
But Kit saw that it was a critical moment, and that great mischief might be done. He looked about him for help, for he was far from able to cope with his brawny antagonist. Still he clung to the arm of the intruder, and succeeded in delaying his purpose.
"Let go or I'll cut you!" said the miner, savagely.
Then Kit in desperation raised the cry, "Hey, Rube!"
But it hardly seemed likely to bring the needed assistance, for all the fighting men were engaged in the battle near the ticket seller.
"That won't do no good, young bantam!" said the ruffian, as he aimed a blow at our hero.
Kit's career would in all probability have been cut short, but for the timely arrival of Achilles Henderson. The giant had heard the boy's warning cry, and being near at hand, rushed to his aid. His arrival was most opportune. He seized the miner in his powerful grasp, and the ruffian, strong and muscular as he was, was like a child in his clutch. His knife fell from his hand, as he was shaken like a reed by the giant.
"Secure the knife, Kit!" cried Achilles.
Kit needed no second bidding. He stooped swiftly and took up the weapon.
But Achilles was needed in another direction.
The contest between the miners and the canvas men still raged fiercely near the ticket stand. It looked as if the intruders would conquer. From the ranks of the defenders rose a wild and desperate cry, "Hey, Rube!"
Achilles heard it.
"Come, Kit!" he said. "We are wanted."
He hurled the miner in his grasp to the ground with such force that the man lay senseless; then he rushed with all the speed which his long limbs enabled him to attain to the scene of the conflict.
Here again he was none too soon. The leader of the miners, who had been the first spokesman and aggressor, was armed with a powerful club with which he was preparing to deal the ticket seller a terrible and possibly fatal blow, when Achilles rushed into the _mêlée_ like a hurricane. He snatched the club from the hands of the ruffian, and dealt about unsparingly.
The ringleader was the first to fall. Next Achilles attacked the rest of the brutal gang, till half a dozen men with broken heads lay upon the ground. The attacking force were completely demoralized, and in dismay fled from the field.
The ticket seller breathed a sigh of relief.
"I thought I was done for, Mr. Henderson," he said, when the giant returned flushed with his exertions. "You are equal to half a dozen men."
"I haven't had so much exercise in a long time," said Achilles, panting. "Kit, where is the knife that scalawag was going to cut the rope with?"
"Here it is, Mr. Henderson."
"I will keep it in remembrance of this little adventure. Perhaps I had better go and look after the original owner."
He met the ruffian limping like one disabled. His look was sullen and menacing.
"Give me my knife," he growled.
"I couldn't think of it, my man!" said Achilles blandly. "Evidently you are not old enough to be trusted with a knife."
"I'd like to thrash you!" growled the miner again.
"I've no doubt of it, my friend; your intentions are good, but can't be carried out. And now I have a word to say," he continued, sternly. "Just get out of the lot as fast as your legs can carry you, or I'll serve you worse than I did before."
The ruffian looked toward the ticket stand. He saw several of his friends limping away like himself, looking like whipped curs, and he saw that there was no choice for him but to obey. With a muttered oath and a sullen scowl, he left the grounds.
"Kit," said the giant, "it won't do for me to exercise like this every day. I shall need a second supper."
"You are certainly entitled to one, Mr. Henderson," replied our hero.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
26
|
KIT IS MADE A PRISONER.
|
It had been a day of exciting adventure, but so far as Kit was concerned the end was not yet. He performed as usual, but as his second act was over at quarter past nine, he thought, being fatigued, that he would not wait until the close, but go at once to the circus car in which he had a berth, and go to bed.
He crossed the lot, and emerged into the street.
It was moderately dark, there being no moon, and only the light of a few stars to relieve the gloom.
Kit had not taken a dozen steps from the lot when two stout men approached him, both evidently miners.
"That's the kid that prevented my cutting the rope," he heard one say.
"Is he? I saw him with the giant."
"I mean to settle his hash for him," said the first.
Kit saw that he was in danger, and turned to run back to his friends. But it was too late! The first speaker laid a strong arm upon his shoulder, and his boyish strength was not able to overcome it.
"Don't be in such a hurry, kid," said his captor.
"Let me go," cried Kit.
"You belong to the circus, don't you?"
"Yes."
"What do you do?"
"I am an acrobat."
"What's that?"
"I leap and turn somersaults, and so on."
"Yes, I know. Do you remember me?"
"I might if it were lighter."
The man lit a match and held it close to his face.
"Do you know me now?"
"Yes."
"Who am I?"
"You are the man who tried to cut the ropes of the tent."
"Right you are. I would have succeeded but for you."
"I suppose you would."
"Did you call that giant to pitch into me?"
"No; I didn't know he was near."
"He treated me like a brute," said the man, wrathfully. "My limbs are aching now from the fall he gave me."
Kit did not answer.
"I'd like to give him a broken head, as he gave some of my friends. Where is he?"
"I suppose he is somewhere in the lot. I'll go and call him, if you want me to."
"That's too thin! Now I've got you I won't let you off so easy."
"What do you intend to do?" asked Kit becoming alarmed.
"To give you a lesson."
Kit did not ask what kind of a lesson was meant, but he feared it included bodily injury. Then at least, if never before, he wished himself back at his uncle's house in Smyrna, uncongenial as it was otherwise.
The first speaker spoke in a low voice to the second. Kit did not hear the words, but judged what they were from what followed.
The two men placed him beside them, and he was sternly ordered to move on.
They kept the road for perhaps half a mile, then turned off into a narrow lane which appeared to ascend a hill. Finally they stopped in front of a dark cabin, of one story, which seemed to be unoccupied. The outer door was fastened by a bolt.
One of the men drew out a bolt, and threw open the door. A dark interior was revealed. One of the men lit a match, throwing a fitful light upon an empty room. At one end of the apartment was a ring, fixed in a beam, and in the corner was a stout rope.
"That will do," said the first speaker.
He took the rope, secured one end of it to the ring, and then tied Kit firmly with the balance. It was long enough to allow of his lying down.
"Now," said the first man grimly, "I reckon the kid will be safe here till to-morrow."
They prepared to leave the cabin.
"Are you going to leave me here?" asked Kit, in dismay.
"Yes."
"What good will it do you?"
"You'll see--to-morrow."
Kit had ten dollars in his pocket, and he thought of offering it in return for his freedom, but it occurred to him fortunately that his captors would deprive him of it, as it was quite within their power to do, and not compensate him in any way. He understood by this time the character of the men into whose hands he had fallen, and he thought it prudent to remain silent.
As the first captor stood with the door open, while just on the point of leaving, he said grimly, "How do you like it, kid?"
"Not at all," answered Kit.
"If you beg my pardon for what you did, I might let you go."
Kit did not believe this, and he had no intention of humiliating himself for nothing.
"I only did my duty," he said. "I have nothing to ask pardon for."
"You may change your mind--to-morrow!"
Another ominous reference to to-morrow. Evidently he was only deferring his vengeance, and intended to wreak it on his young prisoner the next day.
It was not a comforting thought, nor was it calculated to sooth Kit, weary as he was, to sleep.
The door was closed, and Kit heard the sliding of the bolt on the outside. He was a prisoner, securely enough, and with small chance of rescue.
Now, though Kit is my hero, I do not mean to represent him as above human weakness, and I won't pretend that he didn't feel anxious and disturbed. His prospects seemed very dark. He could not hope for mercy from the brutal men who had captured him. As they could not get hold of the giant they would undoubtedly seek to make him expiate the offenses of Achilles Henderson as well as his own.
"If only Mr. Henderson knew where I was," he said to himself, "I should soon be free."
But there seemed little hope of this. He had not told any one that he intended to retire to the circus cars earlier than usual. The chances were that he would not be missed till the circus company had reached the next town on their route, ten miles away. Then there would be no clew to his whereabouts, and even if there were he might be killed before any help could come to him. So far as he had been able to observe, the miners were--a portion of them, at least--a lawless set of men, who were not likely to be influenced by considerations of pity or ordinary humanity.
Kit had been very religiously brought up during his father's life, at least, and he had not lost his faith in an overruling Providence. So in this great peril it was natural for him to pray to God for deliverance from danger. When his prayer was concluded, he felt easier, and in spite of his disagreeable surroundings he managed to fall asleep.
Meanwhile the circus performance terminated, and preparations were commenced for the journey to the next town. The canvas men swarmed around the tents and swiftly took them down and conveyed them to the freight cars, where they assisted the razorbacks to pack them in small compass.
Harry Thorne, who had his berth next to Kit, turned in rather late. He looked into Kit's bed, and to his surprise found it unoccupied.
"What can have become of the boy?" he asked himself.
He went outside, and espying Achilles Henderson, he said: "Have you seen anything of Kit Watson?"
"Isn't he in his berth?" asked Mr. Henderson, surprised.
"No."
Inquiry developed the fact that Kit had not been seen by any one since the conclusion of his act.
"I am afraid the boy has come to harm," said Achilles. "This is a rough place, and there are plenty of tough characters about, as our experience this afternoon showed."
"What shall we do? The cars will soon be starting, and we must leave him behind."
"If he doesn't show up before that time, I will stay behind and hunt him up. He is too good a boy to be left to his fate."
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
27
|
A MINER'S CABIN.
|
Kit's principal captor was known as Dick Hayden. He was an Englishman, and a leader in every kind of mischief. If there was any disturbance between the miners and their employers, he was generally found to be at the bottom of it. A naturally quarrelsome disposition was intensified by intemperance. In the attack upon the circus tents he found himself in his element. His ignominious defeat made him ugly and revengeful.
His wife was dead, but he had one child, Janet, a girl of thirteen, who cooked for him and took care of his cabin. The poor girl had a hard time of it, but she endeavored so far as possible to avoid trouble with her brutal parent.
It was near ten o'clock when Hayden came home after locking Kit in the deserted cabin. He had gone away without supper, but late as it was, Janet had something hot ready for him on the stove.
"Well, Janet, child, have you my supper ready?" he said, not unpleasantly, for his victory over Kit and the meditated revenge of the next day had put him in good humor.
"Yes, father; it's on the stove and ready to dish up."
"Lay the table, then, for I'm main tired and hungry."
The little girl quickly spread the cloth, and Dick Hayden ate like a voracious animal.
When supper was over he sat back in his chair and lit a pipe. A comfortable supper made him loquacious.
"Well, Janet, you don't ask where I've been."
"Was it to the circus, father?"
"Yes."
"How did you like the show?"
"I didn't see it," he growled, a frown gathering upon his brow.
"And why not, father?"
"Because we had a fight to get in free, and got the worst of it."
"They must be main strong, then, those circus men."
"Strong!" repeated Hayden, scornfully. "Well, mayhap they are, but we'd have bested them but for the giant."
"The giant! Is it the big man I saw in the parade?"
"Yes; he's as strong as three men. He flung me down as easily as I'd throw a boy."
"Then he must have been strong, for you're a powerful man, father."
"There isn't a man as works in the mine'll compare with me, lass," said Hayden, proudly; "but all the same I'm no match for a monster."
"Tell me about it, father," said Janet, with natural curiosity.
Dick Hayden went on to describe the fight around the ticket stand, and how he had slipped away, intending to cut the ropes of the tent and let it down on the heads of the spectators gathered inside.
"I'd have done it, too," he added, "but for a kid."
"I thought just now you said it was the giant."
"And I stick to it, lass; but this boy saw what I was doing, and brought the giant to the spot. I could do nothing after that. He threw me down, so that for a few minutes I was stunned."
"And how did the fight come out at the ticket stand, father?"
"Our men had almost overpowered the circus men, when the giant rushed into the midst, and, seizing a club from Bob Stubbs, laid about him, till half a dozen of our strongest men lay on the ground with broken heads."
What puzzled Janet was, that her father should have come home in such good humor after so disastrous a defeat. It was contrary to her experience of him. She would naturally have expected that he would be surly and quarrelsome. The mystery was soon made clear.
"But we've got even with them!" chuckled Hayden directly after.
"How is that, father?"
"We caught the kid."
"You have?"
"Yes; he was goin' to the circus cars to turn in when Stubbs and I caught him."
"You--you didn't kill him, father?" asked Janet in alarm.
"No, not yet."
"Where is he?"
"Do you mind the deserted cabin on Knob Hill?"
"Yes, father."
"He's locked up in that, tied hand and foot."
"How long do you mean to keep him there?" asked Janet, anxiously.
"Till to-morrow, and then----" Dick paused ominously.
"Well, and then?"
"He'll be lucky if he gets off with a whole skin," growled her father. "But for him I'd have brought down the tent about the ears of the people that sat inside, and we'd have had a fine revenge on the showmen."
"You don't mean to kill the boy, do you, father?"
"What is it to you, lass? You'd best mind your own business. You've got nothing to do with it."
"How does the boy look? Was it the one that drove the first chariot, father?"
"Like enough, lass! Did you see him?"
"Yes; I saw the parade. Everybody was out in the streets then."
"And you took partic'lar notice of the boy? That's like a lass," chuckled Hayden.
"But it was his duty, father, to stand by the show, seein' he belongs to it."
"I don't trouble myself about that. He brought that monster on me, and I'm sore yet with the fall he gave me. I'll take it out of the kid."
"But it seems to me, father, it would be better to lay for the giant."
"What folly is that, lass? I'd be main glad to give the giant a dose of what he gave me, but he'll leave town to-night, and I ain't big enough to tackle him, even if I had the chance. So I'll revenge myself on his friend, the boy. The kid may be his son, for aught I know."
"And what will you do for him, father?" asked Janet, pertinaciously. "You won't kill him?"
"Well, I won't go so far as that, for I've no mind to put my neck in a noose, but I'll flog him within an inch of his life. I'll teach him to mind his own business for the future."
Janet knew her father's strength and brutality, and she shuddered at the idea of the boy being exposed to it. She knew very well it would be of no use to make a protest. She would only get herself into trouble. Yet she couldn't reconcile herself to the thought of poor Kit being cruelly punished. She asked herself what she could do to prevent it.
There was one thing in favor of a rescue. She knew where Kit was confined. If it were not so late she would steal out, and going to the cabin relieve him from captivity. But it was too late, and too dark for that. Besides, she could not leave her father's cabin without observation.
"I will wait till to-morrow morning," she said to herself.
It so chanced that on account of some slight repairs the mine in which her father was employed was shut down for a few days. This was favorable, for he would lie in bed till eight o'clock at least, and there would be a chance to get out without observation.
The next morning, about five o'clock, Janet rose from her bed, hastily dressed herself, and crept to the door of her father's chamber. He was sound asleep, and breathing heavily. There was small chance of his awakening before seven o'clock.
Janet took a little meat and bread in a tin pail, for she thought the captive might be in need of breakfast, and then, putting a sharp knife in her pocket to cut the ropes that bound him, she left the house and took her way over the hill to the deserted cabin which served as Kit's prison.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
28
|
KIT RESCUED BY A GIRL.
|
Kit had succeeded in getting a little sleep during the night, but his position was necessarily constrained and he was but very slightly refreshed. Moreover he was a prey to anxiety, for he did not know what fate awaited him on the succeeding day.
At four o'clock in the morning a little light found its way into the cabin through a small window at the rear. The other windows were boarded up.
Kit, appreciating the desirability of escaping before a visit should be made him by his captors, tried hard to work himself out of his bonds, but only succeeded in confining himself more closely than before.
"What will they do to me?" he asked himself anxiously.
He had heard from some of the circus men accounts of the roughness and brutality of the miners, or at least of a certain class of them, for some were quiet and peaceable men, and he knew that there was no extreme of which they were not capable. Life is sweet, and to a boy of sixteen, in good health and strength, it is especially dear. Suppose he should lose his life in this region? Probably none of his friends would ever learn what had become of him, and his uncle and cousin would not scruple to spread rumors to his discredit.
It was certainly tantalizing that he should be tied hand and foot, utterly unable to help himself.
More and more light crept in at the window, and there was every indication of its being a glorious day. But this prospect brought no pleasure to poor Kit.
"Before this time the circus people must have found out my absence," he thought. "Will they take the trouble to look for me?"
Kit was on good terms with his comrades, indeed he was popular with them all, as a bright boy is apt to be, and he did not like to think that no effort would be made to find him. Still, as he could not help owning to himself, they had no clew that was likely to lead to success. He had given no one notice where he was going, and his capture was not likely to have been observed by any one.
While he was indulging in these sorrowful reflections, his attention was drawn to a noise at the window.
"They can't have come back so early," he said to himself in surprise.
He twisted himself round to catch a glimpse, if possible, of the early visitor, and to his delight, he caught a partial view of Janet's dress. Suppose she should prove a deliverer, he said to himself with beating heart.
The visitor, whoever it was, was evidently trying to peer into the cabin. Kit was so placed in a corner as to be almost out of sight in the dark interior. He felt that he must attract attention.
"Hallo, there!" he cried in a loud clear voice.
"He's there!" thought Janet, "just as father said."
"Let me out!" cried Kit, eagerly. "Draw out the bolt, and open the door!"
"Will she do it, or will she be frightened away?" he asked himself, with his heart filled with suspense.
He did not have long to wait for an answer, and a favorable one. He heard the bolt withdrawn, then the door was opened, and the girl's face appeared. Janet Hayden was small, not especially pretty, and rather old-fashioned in looks, but to poor Kit she seemed like an angel.
"Are you the circus boy?" she asked timidly.
"Yes; I am tied here. Have you got a knife to cut this rope?"
"Yes; I brought one with me."
"Then you knew I was here?" Kit asked in surprise.
"Yes; it was my father that locked you up here--my father and another man."
"Will you cut the rope and let me go, then?"
"Yes; that is what I came for."
The little maid went up to the captive, bent over, and with considerable sawing, for the knife she had with her was a dull case knife, succeeded in severing the rope, and Kit was able to rise and stand upon his feet. It was a perfect luxury to feel himself once more free and unshackled.
"I'm very much obliged to you," he said, gratefully. "You can't imagine how stiff I am."
"I should think you would be," said Janet, sympathetically.
"When did your father tell you that I was here?"
"After he got home last night. It was after he had eaten his supper."
"And where is he now?"
"At home and asleep."
"Does he get up early?" asked Kit, in some anxiety.
"Yes, when he is at work; but the mine is shut down for a few days, so he lies abed longer."
"Did he say anything about coming here to-day?"
"Yes, he meant to come--he and the other man--and I was afraid he would do you some harm."
"He would have done so, I am sure," said Kit, shuddering. "I don't see how such a rough father should have so good a daughter."
Janet blushed, and seemed pleased with the compliment.
"I think I take after my mother," she said.
"Is your mother alive?"
"No, she died two years ago," answered Janet, sorrowfully. "She was Scotch, and that is why I am called by a Scotch name."
"What is your name, if you don't mind telling me?"
"Janet. I am Janet Hayden."
"I shall always remember it, for you have done me a great service."
"What is your name?" asked Janet, feeling less timid than at first.
"Kit Watson."
"That is a funny name--Kit, I mean."
"My right name is Christopher, but my friends call me Kit. Can you direct me to the next town--Groveton, where the circus shows to-day."
"Yes, if you will come outside, I will point out which way it is."
Kit emerged from the cabin, nothing loath, and Janet pointed in a westerly direction.
"You go over the hill," she said, "and you will come to a road. You will know it, for near the stile there is a red house."
"Thank you. How far is it to the next town?"
"Eight miles, I believe."
"That would be a long walk. Do you think I could get any one to take me over in a wagon?"
"I think the man who lives in the red house, Mr. Stover, would take you over, if you pay him."
"I shall be glad to pay him, and----" Kit paused, for he felt rather delicate about offering any money to Janet, though he knew she had rendered him most valuable service. "Will you let me offer you a little present?"
He took a five dollar bill from his pocket, and offered it to Janet.
"What is that?" she asked.
"It is a five dollar bill."
"You must be rich," she said, for this seemed to her a great deal of money.
"Oh, no! but will you take it?"
"No," answered Janet, shrinking back, "I didn't come here for money."
"I am sure you didn't, but I should like to give you something."
"No, I would rather not. Besides, if father knew I had money, he would suspect something, and beat me."
"Like the brute that he is," thought Kit.
"But I must go at once, for he may wake up and miss me. Good-by!"
"Good-by!" said Kit.
He had no time to say more, for the child was already hurrying down the hill.
|
{
"id": "22521"
}
|
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