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47
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THE DEAN ELECT
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During the entire next week Barchester was ignorant who was to be its new dean on Sunday morning. Mr Slope was decidedly the favourite; but he did not show himself in the cathedral, and then he sank a point or two in the betting. On Monday, he got a scolding from the bishop in the hearing of the servants, and down he went till nobody would have him at any price; but on Tuesday he received a letter, in an official cover, marked private, by which he fully recovered his place in the public favour. On Wednesday, he was said to be ill, and that did not look well; but on Thursday morning he went down to the railway station, with a very jaunty air; and when it was ascertained that he had taken a first-class ticket for London, there was no longer any room for doubt on the matter.
While matters were in this state of ferment at Barchester, there was not much mental comfort at Plumstead. Our friend the archdeacon had many grounds for inward grief. He was much displeased at the result of Dr Gwynne's diplomatic mission to the palace, and did not even scruple to say to his wife that had he gone himself he would have managed the affair much better. His wife did not agree with him, but that did not mend the matter.
Mr Quiverful's appointment to the hospital was, however, a fait accompli, and Mr Harding's acquiescence in that appointment was not less so. Nothing would induce Mr Harding to make a public appeal against the bishop; and the Master of Lazarus quite approved of his not doing so.
'I don't know what has come to the Master,' said the archdeacon over and over again. 'He used to be ready enough to stand up for his order.'
'My dear archdeacon,' Mrs Grantly would say in reply, 'what is the use of always fighting? I really think the Master is right.' The Master, however, had taken steps of his own, of which neither the archdeacon nor his wife knew anything.
'Then Mr Slope's successes were henbane to Dr Grantly; and Mrs Bold's improprieties were as bad. What would be all the world to Archdeacon Grantly if Mr Slope should become the Dean of Barchester and marry his wife's sister! He talked of it, and talked of it till he was nearly ill. Mrs Grantly almost wished that the marriage was done and over, so that she might hear no more about it.
And there was yet another ground of misery which cut him to the quick, nearly as closely as either of the two others. That paragon of a clergyman, whom he had bestowed upon St Ewold's, that college friend of whom he had boasted so loudly, that ecclesiastical knight before whose lance Mr Slope was to fall and bite the dust, that worthy bulwark of the church as it should be, that honoured representative of Oxford's best spirit, was--so at least his wife had told him half a dozen times--misconducting himself!
Nothing had been seen of Mr Arabin at Plumstead for the last week, but a good deal had, unfortunately, been heard of him. As soon as Mrs Grantly had found herself alone with the archdeacon, on the evening of the Ullathorne party, she had expressed herself very forcibly as to Mr Arabin's conduct on that occasion. He had, she declared, looked and acted and talked very unlike a decent parish clergyman. At first the archdeacon had laughed at this, and assured her that she need not trouble herself; that Mr Arabin would be found to be quite safe. But by degrees he began to find out that his wife's eyes had been sharper than his own. Other people coupled the signora's name with that of Mr Arabin. The meagre little prebendary who lived in the close, told him to a nicety how often Mr Arabin had visited at Dr Stanhope's, and how long he had remained on the occasion of each visit. He had asked after Mr Arabin at the cathedral library, and an officious little vicar choral had offered to go and see whether he could be found at Dr Stanhope's. Rumour, when she has contrived to sound the first note on her trumpet, soon makes a loud peal audible enough. It was too clear that Mr Arabin had succumbed to the Italian woman, and that the archdeacon's credit would suffer fearfully if something were not done to rescue the brand from the burning. Besides, to give the archdeacon his due, he was really attached to Mr Arabin, and grieved greatly at his backsliding.
They were sitting talking over their sorrows, in the drawing-room before dinner on that day after Mr Slope's departure for London; and on this occasion Mrs Grantly spoke her mind freely. She had opinions of her own about parish clergymen, and now thought it right to give vent to them.
'It you would have been led by me, archdeacon, you would never have put a bachelor into St Ewold's.'
'But, my dear, you don't mean to say that all bachelor clergymen misbehave themselves.'
'I don't know that clergymen are so much better than other men,' said Mrs Grantly. 'It's all very well with a curate whom you have under your own eye, and whom you can get rid of if he persists in improprieties.'
'But Mr Arabin was a fellow, and couldn't have had a wife.'
'Then I would have found some one who could.'
'But, my dear, are fellows never to get livings?'
'Yes, to be sure they are, when they got engaged. I never would put a young man into a living unless he were married, or engaged to be married. Now here is Mr Arabin. The whole responsibility lies upon you.'
'There is not at this moment a clergyman in all Oxford more respected for morals and conduct than Arabin.'
'Oh, Oxford!' said the lady, with a sneer. 'What men choose to do at Oxford, nobody ever hears of. A man may do very well at Oxford who would bring disgrace on a parish; and, to tell you the truth, it seems to me that Mr Arabin is just such a man.'
The archdeacon groaned deeply, but he had no further answer to make.
'You really must speak to him, archdeacon. Only think what the Thornes will say if they hear that their parish clergyman spends his whole time philandering with this woman.'
The archdeacon groaned again. He was a courageous man, and knew well enough how to rebuke the younger clergymen of the diocese when necessary. But there was that about Mr Arabin which made the doctor feel that it would be very difficult to rebuke him with good effect.
'You can advise him to find a wife for himself, and he will understand well enough what that means,' said Mrs Grantly.
The archdeacon had nothing for it but groaning. There was Mr Slope; he was going to be made dean; he was going to take a wife; he was bout to achieve respectability and wealth; and excellent family mansion, and a family carriage; he would soon be among the comfortable elite of the ecclesiastical world of Barchester; whereas his own protege, the true scion of the true church, by whom he had sworn, would still be a poor vicar, and that with a very indifferent character for moral conduct! It might be all very well recommending Mr Arabin to marry, but how would Mr Arabin when married support a wife?
Things were ordering themselves thus at Plumstead drawing-room when Dr and Mrs Grantly were disturbed in their sweet discourse by the quick rattle of a carriage and a pair of horses on the gravel sweep. The sound was not that of visitors, whose private carriages are generally brought up to country-house doors with demure propriety, but belonged rather to some person or persons who were in a hurry to reach the house, and had not intention of immediately leaving it. Guests invited to stay a week, and who were conscious of arriving after the first dinner bell, would probably approach in such a manner. So might arrive an attorney with the news of a granduncle's death, or a son from college with all the fresh honours of a double first. No one would have had himself driven to the door of a country house in such a manner who had the slightest doubt of his own right to force an entry.
'Who is it?' said Mrs Grantly, looking at her husband.
'Who on earth can it be?' said the archdeacon to his wife. He then quietly got up and stood with the drawing-room door open in his hand. 'Why, it is your father!'
It was indeed Mr Harding, and Mr Harding alone. He had come by himself in a post-chaise with a couple of horses from Barchester, arriving almost after dark, and evidently full of news. His visits had usually been made in the quietest manner; he had rarely presumed to come without notice, and had always been driven up in a modest old green fly, with one horse, that hardly made itself heard as it crawled up to the hall door.
'Good gracious, Warden, is it you?' said the archdeacon, forgetting in his surprise the events of the last few years. 'But come in; nothing is the matter, I hope?'
'We are very glad you are come, papa,' said his daughter. 'I'll go and get your room ready at once.'
'I an't warden, archdeacon,' said Mr Harding. 'Mr Quiverful is warden.'
Oh, I know, I know,' said the archdeacon, petulantly. 'I forgot all about it at the moment. Is anything the matter?'
'Don't go at the moment, Susan,' said Mr Harding; 'I have something to tell you.'
'The dinner bell will ring in five minutes,' said she.
'Will it?' said Mr Harding. 'Then, perhaps I had better wait.' he was big with news which he had come to tell, but which he knew could not be told without much discussion. He had hurried away to Plumstead as fast as two horses could bring him, and now, finding himself there, he was willing to accept the reprieve which dinner would give him.
'If you have anything of moment to tell us, said the archdeacon, 'pray let us hear it at once. Has Eleanor gone off?'
'No, she has not,' said Mr Harding, with a look of great disclosure.
'Has Slope been made dean?'
'No, he has not; but--' 'But what?' said the archdeacon, who was becoming very impatient.
'They have--' 'They have what?' said the archdeacon.
'They have offered it to me,' said Mr Harding, with a modesty which almost prevented his speaking.
'Good heavens!' said the archdeacon, and sank back exhausted in an easy-chair.
'My dear, dear, father,' said Mrs Grantly, and threw her arms around his neck.
'So I thought I had better come out and consult with you at once,' said Mr Harding.
'Consult!' shouted the archdeacon. 'But, my dear Harding, I congratulate you with my whole heart--with my whole heart. I do indeed. I never heard anything in my life that gave me so much pleasure;' and he got hold of both his father-in-law's hands, and shook them as though he were going to shake them off, and walked round and round the room, twirling a copy of the Jupiter over his head, to show his extreme exultation.
'But--' began Mr Harding.
'But me no buts,' said the archdeacon. 'I never was so happy in my life. It was just the proper thing to do. Upon my honour, I'll never say another word against Lord--the longest day I have to live.'
'That's Dr Gwynne's doing, you may be sure,' said Mrs Grantly, who greatly liked the master of Lazarus, he being an orderly married man with a large family.
'I suppose it is,' said the archdeacon.
'Oh, papa, I am so truly delighted,' said Mrs Grantly, getting up and kissing her father.
'But, my dear,' said Mr Harding. It was all in vain that he strove to speak; nobody would listen to him.
'Well, Mr Dean,' said the archdeacon, triumphing; 'the deanery gardens will be some consolation for the hospital elms. Well, poor Quiverful! I won't begrudge him his good fortune any longer.'
No, indeed,' said Mrs Grantly. 'Poor woman, she has fourteen children. I am sure I am very glad they have got it.'
'So am I,' said Mr Harding.
'I would give twenty pounds,' said the archdeacon, 'to see how Mr Slope will look when he hears it.' The idea of Mr Slope's discomfiture formed no small part of the archdeacon's pleasure.
At last Mr Harding was allowed to go up-stairs and wash his hands, having, in fact, said very little of all that he had come out to Plumstead on purpose to say. Nor could anything more be said till the servants were gone after dinner. The joy of Dr Grantly was so uncontrollable that he could not refrain from calling his father-in-law Mr Dean before the men; and therefore, it was soon matter for discussion in the lower regions how Mr Harding, instead of his daughter's future husband, was to be the new dean, and various were the opinions on the matter. The cook and butler, who were advanced in years, thought that it was just as it should be; but the footman and lady's maid, who were younger, thought it was a great shame that Mr Slope should lose his chance.
'He's a mean chap all the same,' said the footman; 'and it an't along of him that I says so. But I always did admire the missus's sister; and she'd well become the situation.'
While these were the ideas down-stairs, a very great difference of opinion existed above. As soon as the cloth was drawn and the wine on the table, Mr Harding made for himself the opportunity of speaking. It was, however, with much troubling that he said-- 'It's very kind of Lord--very kind, and I feel it deeply, most deeply. I am, I must confess, gratified by the offer--' 'I should think so,' said the archdeacon.
'But, all the same, I am afraid that I can't accept it.'
The decanter almost fell from the archdeacon's had upon the table; and the start he made was so great as to make his wife jump from her chair. Not accept the deanship! If it really ended in this, there would be no longer any doubt that his father-in-law was demented. The question now was whether a clergyman with low rank, and preferment amounting to less than 200 pounds a year, should accept high rank, 1200 pounds a year, and one of the most desirable positions which his profession had to afford!
'What!' said the archdeacon, gasping for breath, and staring at his guest as though the violence of his emotion had almost thrown him into a fit.
'What!'
'I do not find myself fit for new duties,' urged Mr Harding.
'New duties! what duties?' said the archdeacon, with unintended sarcasm.
'Oh, papa,' said Mrs Grantly, 'nothing can be easier that what a dean has to do. Surely you are more active than Dr Trefoil.'
'He won't have half as much to do as at present,' said Dr Grantly.
'Did you see what the Jupiter said the other day about young men?'
'Yes; and I saw that the Jupiter said all that it could to induce the appointment of Mr Slope. Perhaps you would wish to see Mr Slope made dean.'
Mr Harding made no reply to this rebuke, though he felt it strongly. He had not come over to Plumstead to have further contention with his son-in-law about Mr Slope, so he allowed it to pass by.
'I know I cannot make you understand my feeling,' he said, 'for we have been cast in different moulds. I may wish that I had your spirit and energy and power of combatting; but I have not. Every day that is added to my life increases my wish for peace and rest.'
'And where on earth can a man have peace and rest if not in a deanery?' said the archdeacon.
'People will say I am too old for it.'
'Good heavens! What people? What need you care for any people?'
'But I think myself I am too old for any new place.'
'Dear papa,' said Mrs Grantly, 'men ten years older than you have been appointed to new situations day after day.'
'My dear,' said he, 'it is impossible that I should make you understand my feelings, nor do I pretend to any great virtue in the matter. The truth is, I want the force of character which might enable me to stand against the spirit of the times. The call on all sides now is for young men, and I have not the nerve to put myself in opposition to the demand. Were the Jupiter, when it hears of my appointment, to write article after article, setting forth my incompetency, I am sure it would cost me my reason. I ought to be able to bear with such things, you will say. Well, my dear, I own that I ought. But I feel my weakness and I know that I can't. And, to tell you the truth, I know no more than a child what the dean has to do.'
'Pshaw!' exclaimed the archdeacon.
'Don't be angry with me, archdeacon; don't let us quarrel about it, Susan. If you knew how keenly I feel the necessity of having to disoblige you in this matter, you would not be angry with me.'
This was a dreadful blow to Dr Grantly. Nothing could possibly have suited him better than having Mr Harding in the deanery. Though he had never looked down on Mr Harding on account of his great poverty, he did fully recognise the satisfaction of having those belonging to him in comfortable positions. It would be much more suitable that Mr Harding should be dean of Barchester than vicar of St Cuthbert's and precentor to boot. And then the great discomfiture of that arch enemy of all that was respectable in Barchester, of that new low church clerical parvenu that had fallen amongst them, that alone would be worth more, almost than the situation itself. It was frightful to think that such unhoped for good fortune should be marred by the absurd crotchets and unwholesome hallucinations by which Mr Harding allowed himself to be led astray. To have the cup so near his lips and then to lose the drinking of it, was more than Dr Grantly could endure.
And yet it appears as though he would have to endure it. In vain he threatened and in vain he coaxed. Mr Harding did not indeed speak with perfect decision of refusing the proffered glory, but he would not speak with anything like decision of accepting it. When pressed again and again, he would again and again allege that he was wholly unfitted to new duties. It was in vain that the archdeacon tried to insinuate, though he could not plainly declare, that there were no new duties to perform. It was in vain he hinted that in all cases of difficulty he, the archdeacon, was willing and able to guide a weak-minded dean. Mr Harding seemed to have a foolish idea, not only that there were new duties to do, and that no one should accept the place who was not himself prepared to do them.
The conference ended in an understanding that Mr Harding should at once acknowledge the letter he had received from the minister's private secretary, and should beg that he might be allowed two days to make up his mind; and that during those two days the matter should be considered.
On the following morning the archdeacon was to drive Mr Harding back to Barchester.
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"id": "2432"
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48
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MISS THORNE SHOWS HER TALENT FOR MATCH-MAKING
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On Mr Harding's return to Barchester from Plumstead, which was effected by him in due course in company with the archdeacon, some tidings of a surprising nature met him. He was, during the journey, subjected to such a weight of unanswerable argument, all of which went to prove that it was his bounden duty not to interfere with the paternal government that was so anxious to make him a dean, that when he arrived at the chemist's door in High Street, he barely knew which way to turn himself in the matter. But, perplexed as he was, he was doomed to further perplexity. He found a note there from his daughter, begging him to most urgently to come to her immediately. But we must again go back a little in our story.
Miss Thorne had not been slow to hear the rumours respecting Mr Arabin, which had so much disturbed the happiness of Mrs Grantly. And she, also, was unhappy to think that her parish clergyman should be accused of worshipping a strange goddess. She, also, was of opinion, that rectors and vicars should all be married, and with that good-natured energy which was characteristic of her, she put her wits to work to find a fitting match for Mr Arabin. Mrs Grantly, in this difficulty, could think of no better remedy than a lecture from the archdeacon. Miss Thorne thought that a young lady, marriageable, and with a dowry, might be of more efficacy. In looking through the catalogue of her unmarried friends, who might possibly be in want of a husband, and might also be fit for such a promotion as a country parsonage affords, she could think of no one more eligible than Mrs Bold; and, consequently, losing no time, she went into Barchester on the day of Mr Slope's discomfiture, the same day that her brother, had had his interesting interview with the last of the Neros, and invited Mrs Bold to bring her nurse and baby to Ullathorne and make a protracted visit.
Miss Thorne suggested a month or two, intending to use her influence afterwards in prolonging it so as to last out the winter, in order that Mr Arabin might have an opportunity of becoming fairly intimate with his intended bride. 'We'll have Mr Arabin too,' said Miss Thorne to herself; 'and before the spring they'll know each other; and in twelve or eighteen months' time, if all goes well, Mrs Bold will be domiciled at St Ewold's'; and then the kind-hearted lady gave herself some not undeserved praise for her matching genius.
Eleanor was taken a little by surprise, but the matter ended in her promising to go to Ullathorne, for at any rate a week or two; and on the day previous to that on which her father drove out to Plumstead, she had had herself driven out to Ullathorne.
Miss Thorne would not perplex her with her embryo lord on that same evening, thinking that she would allow her a few hours to make herself at home; but on the following morning Mr Arabin arrived. 'And now,' said Miss Thorne to herself,' I must contrive to throw them in each other's way.' That same day, after dinner, Eleanor, with an assumed air of dignity which she could no maintain, with tears that she could not suppress, with a flutter which she could not conquer, and a joy which she could not hide, told Miss Thorne that she was engaged to marry Mr Arabin, and that it behoved her to get back home to Barchester as quick as she could.
To say simply that Miss Thorne was rejoiced at the success of the schemed, would give a very faint idea of her feelings on the occasion. My readers may probably have dreamt before now that they have had before them some terrible long walk to accomplish, some journey of twenty or thirty miles, an amount of labour frightful to anticipate, and that immediately on starting they have ingeniously found some accommodating short cut which have brought them without fatigue to their work's end in five minutes. Miss Thorne's waking feelings were somewhat of the same nature. My readers may perhaps have had to do with children, and may on some occasion have promised to their young charges some great gratification intended to come off, perhaps at the end of the winter, or at the beginning of summer. The impatient juveniles, however, will not wait, and clamorously demand their treat before they go to bed. Miss Thorne had a sort of feeling that an inexperienced gunner, who has ill calculated the length of the train that he has laid. The gunpowder exploded much too soon and poor Miss Thorne felt that she was blown up by the strength of her own petard.
Miss Thorne had had lovers of her own, but they had been gentlemen of old-fashioned and deliberate habits. Miss Thorne's heart also had not always been hard, though she was still a virgin spinster; but it had never yielded in this way at the first assault. She had intended to bring together a middle-aged studious clergyman, and a discreet matron who might possibly be induced to marry again; and in doing she had thrown fire among tinder. Well, it was all as it should be, but she did feel perhaps a little put out by the precipitancy of her own success; and perhaps a little vexed at the readiness of Mrs Bold to be wooed.
She said, however, nothing about it to any one, and ascribed it all to the altered manners of the new age. Their mothers and grandmothers were perhaps a little more deliberate; but, it was admitted on all sides that things were conducted very differently now that in former times. For aught Miss Thorne knew of the matter, a couple of hours might be quite sufficient under the new regime to complete that for which she in her ignorance had allotted twelve months.
But we must not pass over the wooing so cavalierly. It has been told, with perhaps tedious accuracy, how Eleanor disposed of two of her lovers at Ullathorne; and it must also be told with equal accuracy, and if possible with less tedium, how she encountered Mr Arabin.
It cannot be denied that when Eleanor accepted Miss Thorne's invitation, she remembered that Ullathorne was in the parish of St Ewold's. Since her interview with the signora she had done little else than think about Mr Arabin, and the appeal that had been made to her. She could not bring herself to believe or try to bring herself to believe, that what she had been told was untrue. Think of it how she would, she could not but accept it as a fact that Mr Arabin was fond of her; and then when she went further, and asked herself the question, she could not but accept it as a fact also that she was fond of him. If it were destined for her to be the partner of his hopes and sorrows, to whom she could she look for friendship so properly as to Miss Thorne? This invitation was like an ordained step towards the fulfilment of her destiny, and when she also heard that Mr Arabin was expected to be at Ullathorne on the following day, it seemed as though all the world was conspiring in her favour. Well, did she not deserve it? In that affair of Mr Slope, had not all the world conspired against her?
She could not, however, make herself easy and at home. When in the evening after dinner Miss Thorne expatiated on the excellence of Mr Arabin's qualities, she hinted that any little rumour which might be ill-naturedly spread abroad concerning him really meant nothing, Mrs Bold found herself unable to answer. When Miss Thorne went a little further and declared that she did not know a prettier vicarage-house in the country than St Ewold's, Mrs Bold remembering the projected bow-window and the projected priestess still held her tongue; though her ears tingled with the conviction that all the world would know that she was in love with Mr Arabin. Well; what could that matter if they could only meet and tell each other what each now longed to tell?
And they did meet. Mr Arabin came early in the day, and found the two ladies together at work in the drawing-room. Miss Thorne, who had she known all the truth would have vanished into air at once, had no conception that her immediate absence would be a blessing, and remained chatting with them till luncheon-time. Mr Arabin could talk about nothing but the Signora Neroni's beauty, would discuss no people but the Stanhopes. This was very distressing to Eleanor, and not very satisfactory to Miss Thorne. But yet there was evidence of innocence in his open avowal of admiration.
And then they had lunch, and then Mr Arabin went out on parish duty; and Eleanor and Miss Thorne were left to take a walk together.
'Do you think the Signora Neroni is so lovely as people say?' Eleanor asked as they were coming home.
'She is very beautiful certainly, very beautiful,' Miss Thorne answered; 'but I do not know that any one considers her lovely. She is a woman all men would like to look at; but few I imagine would be glad to take her to their hearths, even were she unmarried and not afflicted as she is.'
There was some comfort in this. Eleanor made the most of it till she got back to the house. She was then left alone in the drawing-room, and just as it was getting dark Mr Arabin came in.
It was a beautiful afternoon in the beginning of October, and Eleanor was sitting in the window to get the advantage of the last daylight for her novel. There was a fire in the comfortable room, but the weather was not cold enough to make it attractive; and as she could see the sun set from where she sat, she was not very attentive to her book.
Mr Arabin when he entered stood awhile with his back to the fire in his usual way, merely uttering a few commonplace remarks about the beauty of the weather, while he plucked up courage for the more interesting converse. It cannot probably be said that he had resolved then and there to make an offer to Eleanor. Men we believe seldom make such resolve. Mr Slope and Mr Stanhope had done so, it is true; but gentlemen generally propose without any absolutely defined determination as to their doing so. Such was now the case with Mr Arabin.
'It is a lovely sunset,' said Eleanor, answering him on the dreadfully trite subject which he had chosen.
Mr Arabin could not see the sunset from the hearth-rug, as he had to go close to her.
'Very lovely,' said he, standing modestly so far away from her s to avoid touching the flounces of her dress. Then it appeared that he had nothing further to say; so after gazing for a moment in silence at the brightness of the setting sun, he returned to the fire.
Eleanor found that it was quite impossible for herself to commence a conversation. In the first place she could find nothing to say; words, which were generally plenty enough with her, would not come to her relief. And, moreover, do what she could, she could hardly prevent herself from crying.
'Do you like Ullathorne?' said Mr Arabin, speaking from the safely distant position which he had assumed on the hearth-rug.
'Yes, indeed, very much!'
'I don't mean Mr and Miss Thorne. I know you like them; but the style of the house. There is something about old-fashioned mansions, built as this is, and old-fashioned gardens, that to me is especially delightful.'
'I like everything old-fashioned,' said Eleanor; 'old-fashioned things are so much the honestest.'
'I don't know about that,' said Mr Arabin, gently laughing. 'That is an opinion on which very much may be said on either side. It is strange how widely the world is divided on a subject which so nearly concerns us all, and which is so close beneath our eyes. Some think that we are quickly progressing towards perfection, while others imagine that virtue is disappearing from the earth.'
'And you, Mr Arabin, what do you think?' said Eleanor. She felt somewhat surprised at the tone which this conversation was taking, and yet she was quite relieved at his saying something which enabled herself to speak without showing any emotion.
'What do I think, Mrs Bold?' and then he rumbled his money with his hand in his trousers pockets, and looked and spoke very little like a thriving lover. 'It is the bane of my life that on important subjects I acquire no fixed opinion. I think, and think, and go on thinking; and yet my thoughts are running over in different directions. I hardly know whether or no we do lead more confidently than our fathers did on those high hopes to which we profess to aspire.'
'I think the world grows more worldly every day,' said Eleanor.
'That is because you see more of it than when you were younger. But we should hardly judge by what we see,--we see so very very little.' There was then a pause for a while, during which Mr Arabin continued to turn over his shillings and half-crowns. 'If we believe in Scripture, we can hardly think that mankind in general will now be allowed to retrograde.'
Eleanor, whose mind was certainly engaged otherwise than on the general state of mankind, made no answer to this. She felt thoroughly dissatisfied with herself. She could not force her thoughts away from the topic on which the signora had spoken to her in so strange a way, and yet she knew that she could not converse with Mr Arabin in an unrestrained natural tone till she did so. She was most anxious not to show to him any special emotion, and yet she felt that if he looked at her he would at once see that she was not at ease.
But he did not look at her. Instead of doing so, he left the fire-place and began walking up and down the room. Eleanor took up her book resolutely; but she could not read, for there was a tear in her eye, and do what she would it fell on her cheek. When Mr Arabin's back was turned to her she wiped it away; but another was soon coming down her face in its place. They would come; not a deluge of tears that would have betrayed her at once, but one by one, single monitors. Mr Arabin did not observe her closely, and they passed unseen.
Mr Arabin, thus passing up and down the room, took four of five turns before he spoke another word, and Eleanor sat equally silent with her face bent over her book. She was afraid that her tears would get the better of her, and was preparing for an escape from the room, when Mr Arabin in his walk stood opposite to her. He did not come close up, but stood exactly on the spot to which his course brought him, and then, with his hands under his coat tails, thus made a confession.
'Mrs Bold,' said he, 'I owe you retribution for a great offence of which I have been guilty towards you.' Eleanor's heart beat so that she could not trust herself to say that he had never been guilty of any offence. So Mr Arabin then went on.
'I have thought much of it since, and I am now aware that I was wholly unwarranted in putting to you a question which I once asked you. It was indelicate on my part, and perhaps unmanly. No intimacy which may exist between myself and your connection, Dr Grantly, could justify it. Nor could the acquaintance which existed between ourselves.' The word acquaintance struck cold on Eleanor's heart. Was this to her doom after all? 'I therefore think it right to beg your pardon in a humble spirit, and I now do so.'
What was Eleanor to say to this? She could not say much, because she was crying, and yet she must say something. She was most anxious to say that something graciously, kindly, and yet not in such a manner as to betray herself. She had never felt herself so much at a loss for words.
'Indeed I took no offence, Mr Arabin.'
'Oh, but you did! And had you not done so, you would not have been yourself. You were as right to be offended, as I was wrong to so offend you. I have not forgiven myself, but I hope to hear that you forgive me.'
She was now past speaking calmly, though she still continued to hide her tears, and Mr Arabin, after pausing a moment in vain for her reply, was walking off towards the door. She felt that she could not allow him to go unanswered without grievously sinning against all charity; so, rising from her seat, she gently touched his arm and said: 'Oh, Mr Arabin, do not go till I speak to you! I do forgive you. You know that I forgive you.'
He took the hand that had so gently touched his arm, and then gazed into her face as if he would peruse there, as though written in a book, the whole future destiny of his life; and as he did so, there was a sober and seriousness in his own countenance, which Eleanor found herself unable to sustain. She could only look down upon the carpet, let her tears trickle as they would, and leave her hand within his.
It was but for a minute that they stood so, but the duration of that minute was sufficient to make it ever memorable to both. Eleanor was sure now that she was loved. No words, be their eloquence what it might, could be more impressive than that eager, melancholy gaze.
Why did he look into her eyes? Why did he not speak to her? Could it be that he looked for her to make the first sign?
And he, though he knew little of women, even he knew that he was loved. He had only to ask and it would be all his own, that inexpressible loveliness, those ever speaking but yet now mute eyes, that feminine brightness and eager loving spirit which had so attracted him since first he had encountered it at St Ewold's. It might, must all be his own now. On no other supposition was it possible that she should allow her hand to remain thus clasped within his own. He had only to ask. Ah! but that was the difficulty. Did a minute suffice for all this? Nay, perhaps it might be more than a minute.
'Mrs Bold--' at last he said, and then stopped himself.
If he could not speak, how was she to do so? He had called her by her name, the same name that any merest stranger would have used! She withdrew her hand from his, and moved as though to return to her seat. 'Eleanor!' he then said, in his softest tone, as though the courage were still afraid of giving offence, by the freedom which he took. She looked slowly, gently, almost piteously up into his face. There was at any rate no anger there to deter him.
'Eleanor!' he again exclaimed; and in a moment he had her clasped to his bosom. How this was done, whether the doing was with him, or her, whether she had flown thither conquered by the tenderness of his voice, or he with a violence not likely to give offence had drawn her to his breast, neither of them knew; nor can I declare. There was now that sympathy between them which hardly admitted of individual motion. They were one and the same,--one flesh,--one spirit,--one life.
'Eleanor, my own Eleanor, my own, my wife!' She ventured to look at him through her tears, and he, bowing his face down over hers, pressed his lips upon her brow; his virgin lips, which since a beard first grew upon his chin, had never yet tasted the luxury of a woman's cheek.
She had been told that her yea must be yea, or her nay, nay; but she was called on for neither the one nor the other. She told Miss Thorne that she was engaged to Mr Arabin, but no such words had passed between them, no promises had been asked or given.
'Oh, let me go,' said she; 'let me go now. I am too happy to remain,--let me go, that I may be alone.' He did not try to hinder her; he did not repeat his kiss; he did not press another on her lips. He might have done so, had he been so minded. She was now all his own. He took his arm from round her waist, his arm that was trembling with a new delight, and let her go. She fled like a roe to her own chamber, and then, having turned the bolt, she enjoyed the full luxury of her love. She idolised, almost worshipped this man who had so meekly begged her pardon. And he was now her own. Oh, how she wept and cried and laughed, as the hopes and fears and miseries of the last few weeks passed in remembrance through her mind.
Mr Slope! That any one should have dared to think that she who had been chosen by him could possibly have mated herself with Mr Slope! That they should have dared to tell him, also, and subject her bright happiness to such a needless risk! And then she smiled with joy as she thought of all the comforts that she could give him; not that he cared for comforts, but that it would be so delicious for her to give.
She got up and rang for her maid that she might tell her little boy of his new father; and in her own way she did tell him. She desired her maid to leave her, in order that she might be alone with her child; and there, while he lay sprawling on the bed, she poured forth the praises, so unmeaning to him, of the man she had selected to guard his infancy.
She could not be happy, however, till she had made Mr Arabin take the child to himself, and thus, as it were, adopt him as his own. The moment the idea struck her she took the baby in her arms, and, opening her door, ran quickly down to the drawing-room. She at once found, by the step still pacing on the floor, that he was there; and a glance within the room told her that he was alone. She hesitated a moment, and then hurried in with her precious charge.
Mr Arabin met her in the middle of the room. 'There,' said she, breathless with her haste; 'there, take him--take him and love him.'
Mr Arabin took the little fellow from her, and kissing him again and again, prayed God to bless him. 'He shall be all as my own-- all as my own,' said he. Eleanor, as she stooped to take back her child, kissed the hand that held him, and then rushed back with her treasure to her chamber.
It was then that Mr Harding's younger daughter was won for the second time. At dinner neither she nor Mr Arabin were very bright, but their silence occasioned no remark. In the drawing-room, as we have before said, she told Miss Thorne what had occurred. The next morning she returned to Barchester, and Mr Arabin went over with his budget of news to the archdeacon. As Dr Grantly was not there, he could only satisfy himself by telling Mrs Grantly how that he intended himself the honour of becoming her brother-in-law. In the ecstasy of her joy at hearing such tidings, Mrs Grantly vouchsafed him a warmer welcome than any he had yet received from Eleanor.
'Good heavens!' she exclaimed--it was the general exclamation of the rectory. 'Poor Eleanor! Dear Eleanor. What monstrous injustice has been done her! --Well, it shall all be made up now.' And then she thought of the signora. 'What lies people tell,' she said to herself.
But people in this matter had told no lies at all.
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{
"id": "2432"
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49
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THE BEELZEBUB COLT
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When Miss Thorne left the dining-room, Eleanor had formed no intention of revealing to her what had occurred; but when she was seated beside her hostess on the sofa the secret dropped from her almost unawares. Eleanor was but a bad hypocrite, and she found herself quite unable to continue talking about Mr Arabin, as though he was a stranger, while her heart was full of him. When Miss Thorne, pursuing her own scheme with discreet zeal, asked the young widow whether, in her opinion, it would not be a good thing for Mr Arabin to get married, she had nothing for it but to confess the truth. 'I suppose it would,' said Eleanor, rather sheepishly. Whereupon Miss Thorne amplified on the idea. 'Oh, Miss Thorne,' said Eleanor, 'he is going to be married. I am engaged to him.'
Now Miss Thorne knew very well that there had been no such engagement when she had been walking with Mrs Bold in the morning. She had also heard enough to be tolerably sure that there had been no preliminaries to such an engagement. She was, therefore, as we have before described, taken a little by surprise. But, nevertheless, she embraced her guest, and cordially congratulated her.
Eleanor had no opportunity of speaking another word to Mr Arabin that evening, except such words as all the world might hear; and these, as may be supposed, were few enough. Miss Thorne did her best to leave them in privacy; but Mr Thorne, who knew nothing of what had occurred, and another guest, a friend of his, entirely interfered with her good intentions. So poor Eleanor had to go to bed without one sign of affection. Her state, nevertheless, was not to be pitied.
The next morning she was up early. It was probable, she thought, that by going down a little before the usual hour of breakfast, she might find Mr Arabin alone in the dining-room. Might it not be that she would calculate that an interview would thus be possible? Thus thinking, Eleanor was dressed a full hour before the time fixed at the Ullathorne household for morning prayers. She did not at once go down. She was afraid to seem to be too anxious to meet her lover; though, heaven knows, her anxiety was intense enough. She therefore sat herself down at her window, and repeatedly looking at her watch, nursed her child till she thought she might venture forth.
When she found herself at the dining-room door, she stood a moment, hesitating to turn the handle; but when she heard Mr Thorne's voice inside she hesitated no longer. Her object was defeated, and she might now go in as soon as she liked without the slightest imputation on her delicacy. Mr Thorne and Mr Arabin were standing on the hearth-rug, discussing the merits of the Beelzebub colt; or rather, Mr Thorne was discussing, and Mr Arabin was listening. That interesting animal had rubbed the stump of his tail against the wall of his stable, and occasioned much uneasiness to the Ullathorne master of the horse. Had Eleanor but waited another minute, Mr Thorne would have been in the stable.
Mr Thorne, when he saw his lady guest, repressed his anxiety. The Beelzebub colt must do without him. And so the three stood, saying little or nothing to each other, till at last the master of the house, finding that he could no longer bear the present state of suspense respecting his favourite young steed, made an elaborate apology to Mrs Bold, and escaped. As he shut the door behind him, Eleanor almost wished that he had remained. It was not that she was afraid of Mr Arabin, but she hardly yet knew how to address him.
He, however, soon relieved her from her embarrassment. He came up to her, and taking bother her hands in his, he said, 'So, Eleanor, you and I are to be man and wife. Is it so?'
She looked up into his face, and her lips formed themselves into a single syllable. She uttered no sound, but he could read the affirmative plainly in her face.
'It is a great trust,' said he, 'a very great trust.'
'It is--it is,' said Eleanor, not exactly taking what he had said in the sense that he had meant. 'It is a very great trust, and I will do my utmost to deserve it.'
'And I also will do my utmost to deserve it,' said Mr Arabin very solemnly. And then, winding his arm round her waist, he stood there gazing at the fire, and she with her head leaning in his shoulder, stood by him, well satisfied with her position. They neither of them spoke, or found any want of speaking. All that was needful for them to say had been said. The yea, yea, had been spoken by Eleanor in her own way--and that way had been perfectly satisfactory to Mr Arabin.
And now it remained to them each to enjoy the assurance of the other's love. And how great that luxury is! How far it surpasses any other pleasure which God has allowed to his creatures! And to a woman's heart how doubly delightful!
When the ivy has found its tower, when the delicate creeper has found its strong wall, we know how the parasite plants grow and prosper. They were not created to stretch forth their branches alone, and endure without protection the summer's sun and the winter's storm. Alone they but spread themselves on the ground, and cower unseen in the dingy shade. But when they have found their firm supporters, how wonderful is their beauty; how all pervading and victorious!
What is the turret without its ivy, or the high garden wall without the jasmine which gives it its beauty and fragrance? The hedge without the honeysuckle is but a hedge.
There is s feeling still half existing, but now half conquered by the force of human nature, that a woman should be ashamed of her love till the husband's right to her compels her to acknowledge it. We would fain preach a different doctrine. A woman should glory in her love; but on that account let her take the more care that it be such as to justify her glory.
Eleanor did glory in hers, and she felt, and had cause to feel, that it deserved to be held as glorious. She could have stood there for hours with his arm around her, had fate and Mr Thorne permitted it. Each moment she crept nearer to his bosom, and felt more and more certain that there was her home. What now to her was the archdeacon's arrogance, her sister's coldness, or her dear father's weakness? What need she care for the duplicity of such friends as Charlotte Stanhope? She had found the strong shield that should guard her from all wrongs, the trusty pilot that should henceforward guide her through the shoals and rocks. She would give up the heavy burden of her independence, and once more assume the position of a woman, and the duties of a trusting and loving wife.
And he, too, stood there fully satisfied with his place. They were both looking intently on the fire, as though they could read there their future fate, till at last Eleanor turned her face towards his. 'How sad you are,' she said, smiling; and indeed his face was, if not sad, at least serious. 'How sad you are, love!'
'Sad,' said he, looking down at her; 'no, certainly not sad.' Her sweet loving eyes were turned towards him, and she smiled softly as he answered her. The temptation was too strong even for the demure propriety of Mr Arabin, and, bending over her, he pressed his lips to hers.
Immediately after this, Mr Thorne appeared, and they were both delighted to hear that the tail of the Beelzebub colt was not materially injured.
It had been Mr Harding's intention to hurry over to Ullathorne as soon as possible after his return to Barchester, in order to secure the support of his daughter in his meditated revolt against the archdeacon as touching the deanery; but he was spared the additional journey by hearing that Mrs Bold had returned unexpectedly home. As soon as he had read her note he started off, and found her waiting for him in her own house.
How much each of them had to tell the other, and how certain each was that the story which he or she had to tell would astonish the other!
'My dear, I am so anxious to see you,' said Mr Harding, kissing his daughter.
'Oh, papa, I have so much to tell you!' said the daughter, returning his embrace.
'My dear, they have offered me the deanery!' said Mr Harding, anticipating by the suddenness of the revelation the tidings which Eleanor had to give him.
'Oh, papa,' said she, forgetting her own love and happiness in her joy at the surprising news; 'oh, papa, can it be possible? Dear, papa, how thoroughly, thoroughly happy that makes me!'
'But, my dear, I think it best to refuse it.'
'Oh, papa!'
'I am sure you will agree with me, Eleanor, when I explain it to you. You know, my dear how old I am. If I live, I--' 'But, papa, I must tell you about myself.'
'Well, my dear.'
'I do wonder how you will take it.'
'Take what?'
'If you don't rejoice at it, if it doesn't make you happy, if you don't encourage me, I shall break my heart.'
'If that be the case, Nelly, I certainly will encourage you.'
'But I fear you won't. I do so fear you won't. And yet you can't but think I am the most fortunate woman living on God's earth.'
'Are you, dearest? Then I certainly will rejoice with you. Come, Nelly, come to me, and tell me what it is.'
'I am going--' He led her to the sofa, and seating himself beside her, with both her hands in his. 'You are going to be married, Nelly. Is not that it?'
'Yes,' she said, faintly. 'That is if you will approve;' and then she blushed as she remembered the promise which she had so lately volunteered to him, and which she had so utterly forgotten in making her engagement with Mr Arabin.
Mr Harding thought for a moment who the man could be whom he was to be called upon to welcome as his son-in-law. A week since he would have had no doubt whom to name. In that case he would have been prepared to give his sanction, although he would have done so with a heavy heart. Now he knew that at any rate it would not be Mr Slope, though he was perfectly at a loss to guess who could possibly have filled his place. For a moment he thought that the man might be Bertie Stanhope, and his very soul sank within him.
'Well, Nelly?'
'Oh, papa, promise me that, for my sake, you will love him.'
'Come, Nelly, come; tell me who it is.'
'But you will love him, papa?'
'Dearest, I must love any one that you love.' Then she turned he face to his, and whispered into his ear the name of Mr Arabin.
No man that she could have named could have more surprised or more delighted him. Had he looked round the world for a son-in-law to his taste, he could have selected no one whom he would have preferred to Mr Arabin. He was a clergyman; he held a living in the neighbourhood; he was of a set to which all Mr Harding's own partialities most closely adhered; he was the great friend of Dr Grantly; and he was, moreover, a man of whom Mr Harding knew nothing but what he approved. Nevertheless his surprise was so great as to prevent the immediate expression of his joy. He had never thought of Mr Arabin in connection with his daughter; he had never imagined that they had any feeling in common. He had feared that his daughter had been made hostile to clergymen of Mr Arabin's stamp by her intolerance of the archdeacon's pretensions. Had he been put to wish, he might have wished for Mr Arabin for a son-in-law; but had he been put to guess, the name would never have occurred to him.
'Mr Arabin!' he exclaimed; 'impossible!'
'Oh, papa, for heaven's sake don't say anything against him! If you do love me, don't say anything against him. Oh, papa, it's done, and mustn't be undone--oh, papa!'
Fickle Eleanor! Where was the promise that she would make no choice for herself without her father's approval? She had chosen, and now demanded his acquiescence. 'Oh, papa, isn't he good? isn't he noble? isn't he religious, high-minded, everything that a good man possibly can be?' and she clung to her father, beseeching him for his consent.
'My Nelly, my child, my own daughter! He is; he is noble and good and high-minded; he is all that a woman can love and admire. He shall be my son, my own son. He shall be as close to my heart as you are. My Nelly, my child, my happy, happy child!'
We need not pursue the interview any further. By degrees they returned to the subject of the new promotion. Eleanor tried to prove to him, as the Grantlys had done, that his age could be no bar to his being a very excellent dean; but those arguments had now even less weight than before. He said little or nothing, but sat meditative. Every now and then he would kiss his daughter, and say, 'yes,' or 'no,' or 'very true,' or 'well, my dear, I can't quite agree with you there,' but he could not be got to enter sharply into the question of 'to be or not to be' dean of Barchester. Of her and her happiness, of Mr Arabin and his virtues, he would talk as much as Eleanor desired; and, to tell the truth, that was not a little; but about the deanery he would now say nothing further. He had got a new idea into his head--Why should not Mr Arabin be the new dean?
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{
"id": "2432"
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50
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THE ARCHDEACON IS SATISFIED WITH THE STATE OF AFFAIRS
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The archdeacon, in his journey into Barchester, had been assured by Mr Harding that all their prognostications about Mr Slope and Eleanor were groundless. Mr Harding, however, had found it very difficult to shake his son-in-law's faith in his own acuteness. The matter had, to Dr Grantly, been so plainly corroborated by such patent evidence, borne out by such endless circumstances, that he at first refused to take as true the positive statement which Mr Harding made to him of Eleanor's own disavowal of the impeachment. But at last he yielded in a qualified way. He brought himself to admit that he would at the present regard his past convictions as a mistake; but in doing this he so guarded himself, that if, at any future time, Eleanor should come forth to the world as Mrs Slope, he might still be able to say: 'There, I told you so. Remember what you said and what I said; and remember also for coming years, that I was right in this matter--as in all others.'
He carried, however, his concession so far as to bring himself to undertake to call at Eleanor's house, and he did call accordingly, while the father and the daughter were yet in the middle of their conference. Mr Harding had had so much to hear and to say that he had forgotten to advertise Eleanor of the honour that awaited her, and she heard her brother-in-law's voice in the hall, while she quite unprepared to see him.
'There's the archdeacon,' she said, springing up.
'Yes, my dear. He told me to tell you that he would come to see you; but, to tell the truth, I had forgotten all about it.'
Eleanor fled away, regardless of all her father's entreaties. She could not now, in the first hours of her joy, bring herself to bear all the archdeacon's retractions, apologies, and congratulations. He would have so much to say, and would be so tedious in saying it; consequently, the archdeacon, when he was shown into the drawing-room, found on one there but Mr Harding.'
'You must excuse Eleanor,' said Mr Harding.
'Is anything the matter?' asked the doctor, who at once anticipated that the whole truth about Mr Slope had at last come out.
'Well, something is the matter. I wonder whether you will be much surprised?'
The archdeacon saw by his father-in-law's manner that after all he had nothing to tell him about Mr Slope. 'No,' said he, 'certainly not--nothing will ever surprise me again.' Very many men nowadays, besides the archdeacon, adopt or affect to adopt the nil admirari doctrine; but nevertheless, to judge from their appearance, they are just as subject to sudden emotions as their grandfathers and grandmothers were before them.
'What do you think Mr Arabin has done?'
'Mr Arabin! It's nothing about that daughter of Stanhope's, I hope?'
'No, not that woman,' said Mr Harding, enjoying his joke in his sleeve.
'Not that woman! Is he going to do anything about any woman? Why can't you speak out if yo have anything to say? There is nothing I hate so much as these sort of mysteries.'
'There shall be no mystery with you, archdeacon; though, of course, it must go no further at present.'
'Well.'
'Except Susan. You must promise me you'll tell no one else?'
'Nonsense!' exclaimed the archdeacon, who was becoming angry in his suspense. 'You can't have any secret about Mr Arabin.'
'Only this--that he and Eleanor are engaged.'
It was quite clear to see by the archdeacon's face, that he did not believe a word of it. 'Mr Arabin! It's impossible!'
'Eleanor, at any rate, has just told me so.'
'It's impossible,' repeated the archdeacon.
'Well, I can't say I think it is impossible. It certainly took me by surprise; but that does not make it impossible.'
'She must be mistaken.'
Mr Harding assured him that there was no mistake; that he would find, on returning home, that Mr Arabin had been at Plumstead with the express object of making to same declaration, that even Miss Thorne knew all about it; and that, in fact, the thing was as clearly settled as any such arrangement between a lady and a gentleman could be.
'Good heavens!' said the archdeacon, walking up and down Eleanor's drawing-room. 'Good heavens! Good heavens!'
Now, these exclamations certainly betokened faith. Mr Harding properly gathered from it that, at last, Dr Grantly did believe the fact. The first utterances clearly evinced a certain amount of distaste at the information he had received; the second, simply indicated surprise; and the tone of the third, Mr Harding fancied that he could catch a certain gleam of satisfaction.
The archdeacon had truly expressed the workings of his mind. He could not but be disgusted to find how utterly astray he had been in all his anticipations. Had he only been lucky enough to have suggested the marriage himself when he first brought Mr Arabin into the country, his character for judgment and wisdom would have received an addition which would have classed him at any rate next to Solomon. And why had he not done so? Might he not have foreseen that Mr Arabin would want a wife in the parsonage? He had foreseen that Eleanor would want a husband; but should he not also have perceived that Mr Arabin was a man much more likely to attract her than Mr Slope? The archdeacon found that he had been at fault, and of course could not immediately get over his discomfiture.
Then his surprise was intense. How sly the pair of young turtle doves had been with him. How egregiously they had hoaxed him. He had preached at Eleanor against her fancied attachment to Mr Slope, at the very time she was in love with his own protege, Mr Arabin; and had absolutely taken that same Mr Arabin into his confidence with reference to the dread of Mr Slope's alliance. It was very natural that the archdeacons should feel surprise.
But there was also great ground for satisfaction. Looking at the match by itself, it was the very thing to help the doctor out of his difficulties. In the first place, the assurance that he should never have Mr Slope for his brother-in-law was in itself a great comfort. Then Mr Arabin was, of all men, one with whom it would best suit him to be utterly connected. But the crowning comfort was the blow that this marriage would give to Mr Slope. He had now certainly lost his wife; rumour was beginning to whisper that he might possibly lose his position in the palace; and if Mr Harding would only be true, the great danger of all would be surmounted. In such case it might be expected that Mr Slope would own himself vanquished, and take himself altogether away from Barchester. And so the archdeacon would again be able to breath the pure air.
'Well, well,' said he. 'Good heavens! Good heavens!' and the tone of the fifth exclamation made Mr Harding fully aware that content was reigning in the archdeacon's bosom.
And then slowly, gradually, and craftily, Mr Harding propounded his own new scheme. Why should not Mr Arabin be the new dean?
Slowly, gradually, thoughtfully, Dr Grantly fell into his father-in-law's views. Much as he liked Mr Arabin, sincere as he was in his admiration for that gentleman's ecclesiastical abilities, he would not have sanctioned a measure which would have robbed his father-in-law of his fairly-earned promotion, were it at all practicable to induce his father-in-law to accept the promotion which he had earned. But the archdeacon had, on a former occasion, received proof of the obstinacy with which Mr Harding could adhere to his own views in opposition to the advice of all his friends. He knew tolerably well that nothing would induce the meek, mild man before him to take the high place offered to him, if he thought it wrong to do so. Knowing this, he also said to himself more than once; 'Why should not Mr Arabin be dean of Barchester?' it was at last arranged between them that they would together start to London by the earliest train on the following morning, making a little detour to Oxford on their journey. Dr Gwynne's counsels, they imagined, might perhaps be of assistance to them.
These matters settled, the archdeacon hurried off, that he might return to Plumstead and prepare for his journey. The day was extremely fine, and he came into the city in an open gig. As he was driving up the High Street he encountered Mr Slope at a crossing. Had he not pulled up rather sharply, he would have run over him. The two had never spoken to each other since they had met on a memorable occasion in the bishop's study. They did not speak now; but they looked at each other full in the face, and Mr Slope's countenance was as impudent, as triumphant, as defiant as ever. Had Dr Grantly not known to the contrary, he would have imagined that his enemy had won the deanship, the wife, and all the rich honours, for which he had been striving. As it was he had lost everything that he had in the world, and had just received his conge from the bishop.
In leaving the town the archdeacon drove by the well-remembered entrance of Hiram's hospital. There, at the gate, was a large, untidy, farmer's wagon, laden with untidy-looking furniture; and there, inspecting the arrival, was good Mrs Quiverful--not dressed in her Sunday best--not very clean in her apparel--not graceful as to her bonnet and shawl; or, indeed, with many feminine charms as to her whole appearance. She was busy at domestic work in her new house, and had just ventured out, expecting to see no one on the arrival of the family chattels. The archdeacon was down upon her before she knew where she was.
Her acquaintance with Dr Grantly or his family were very slight indeed. The archdeacon, as a matter of course, knew every clergyman in the archdeaconry; it may almost be said the diocese, and had some acquaintance, more or less intimate, with their wives and families. With Mr Quiverful he had been concerned on various matters of business; but of Mrs Q. he had seen very little. Now, however, he was in too gracious a mood to pass her by unnoticed. The Quiverfuls, one and all, had looked for the bitterest hostility from Dr Grantly; they knew his anxiety for Mr Harding should return to his old home at the hospital, and they did not know that a new home had been offered to him at the deanery. Mrs Quiverful was therefore not a little surprised and not a little rejoiced also, at the tone at which she was addressed.
'How do you do, Mrs Quiverful? --how do you do?' said he, stretching his left hand out of the gig, as he spoke to her. 'I am very glad to see you employed in so pleasant and useful a manner; very glad indeed.'
Mrs Quiverful thanked him, and shook hands with him, and looked into his face suspiciously. She was not sure whether the congratulations and kindness were or were not ironical.
'Pray tell Mr Quiverful from me,' he continued, 'that I am rejoiced at his appointment. It is a comfortable place, Mrs Quiverful, and a comfortable house, and I am very glad to see you in it. Good-bye, good-bye.' And he drove on, leaving the lady well-pleased and astonished at his good nature. On the whole things were going well with the archdeacon, and he could afford to be charitable to Mrs Quiverful. He looked forth from his gig smilingly on all the world, and forgave every one in Barchester their sins, excepting only Mrs Proudie and Mr Slope. Had he seen the bishop, he would have felt inclined to pat even him kindly on the head.
He determined to go home by St Ewold's. This would take him some three miles out of his way; but he felt that he could not leave Plumstead comfortably without saying one word of good fellowship to Mr Arabin. When he reached the parsonage the vicar was still out; but, from what he had heard, he did not doubt but that he would meet him on the road between their two houses. He was right in this, for about halfway home, at a narrow turn, he came upon Mr Arabin, who was on horseback.
'Well, well, well, well,' said the archdeacon loudly, joyously, and with supreme good humour; 'well, well, well, well; so, after all, we have no further cause to fear Mr Slope.'
'I hear from Mrs Grantly that they have offered the deanery to Mr Harding,' said the other.
'Mr Slope has lost more than the deanery, I find,' and then the archdeacon laughed jocosely. 'Come, come, Arabin, you have kept your secret well enough. I know all about it now.'
'I have had no secret, archdeacon,'said the other with a quiet smile. 'None at all--not for a day. It was only yesterday that I knew my own good fortune, and to-day I went over to Plumstead to ask your approval. From what Mrs Grantly has said to me, I am led to hope that I shall have it.'
'With all my heart, with all my heart,' said the archdeacon cordially, holding his friend by the hand. 'It's just as I would have it. She is an excellent young woman; she will not come to you empty-handed; and I think she will make you a good wife. If she does her duty by you as her sister does by me, you'll be a happy man; that's all I can say.' And as he finished speaking, a tear might have been observed in each of the doctor's eyes.'
Mr Arabin warmly returned the archdeacon's grasp, but he said little. His heart was too full for speaking, and he could not express the gratitude which he felt. Dr Grantly understood him as well as though he had spoken for an hour.
'And mind, Arabin,' said he, 'no one but myself shall tie the knot. We'll get Eleanor out to Plumstead, and it shall come off there. I'll make Susan stir herself, and we'll do it in style. I must be off to London to-morrow on special business. Harding goes with me. But I'll be back before your bride has got her wedding-dress ready.' And so they parted.
On his journey home the archdeacon occupied his mind with preparations for the marriage festivities. He made a great resolve that he would atone to Eleanor for all the injury he had done her by the munificence of his future treatment. He would show her what was the difference in his eyes between a Slope and an Arabin. On one other thing also he decided with a firm mind: if the affair of the dean should not be settled in Mr Arabin's favour, nothing should prevent him putting a new front and bow-window to the dining-room at St Ewold's parsonage.
'So we're sold after all, Sue,' said he to his wife, accosting her with a kiss as soon as he entered his house. He did not call his wife Sue above twice or thrice in a year, and these occasions were great high days.
'Eleanor has had more sense then we gave her credit for,' said Mrs Grantly.
And there was great content in Plumstead rectory that evening; and Mrs Grantly promised her husband that she would now open her heart, and take Mr Arabin into it. Hitherto she had declined to do so.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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51
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MR SLOPE BIDS FAREWELL TO THE PALACE AND ITS INHABITANTS
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We must now take leave of Mr Slope, and of the bishop, and of Mrs Proudie. These leave-takings in novels are as disagreeable as they are in real life; not so sad, indeed, for they want the reality of sadness; but quite as perplexing, and generally less satisfactory. What novelist, what Fielding, what Scott, what George Sand, or Sue, or Duncan, can impart an interest to the last chapter of his fictitious history? Promises of two children and superhuman happiness are of no avail, nor assurance of extreme respectability carried to an age far exceeding that usually allotted to mortals. The sorrows of our heroes and heroines, they are you delight, oh public! their sorrows, or their sins, or their absurdities; not their virtues, good sense, and consequent rewards. When we begin to tint our final pages with couleur de rose, as in accordance with fixed rule we must do, we altogether extinguish our own powers of pleasing. When we become dull we offend your intellect; and we must become dull or we should offend your taste. A late writer, wishing to sustain his interest to the last page, hung his hear at the end of the third volume. The consequence was, that no one should read his novel. And who can apportion out and dovetail his incidents, dialogues, characters, and descriptive morsels, so as to fit them all exactly into 439 pages, without either compressing them unnaturally, or extending them artificially at the end of his labour? Do I not myself know that I am at this moment in want of a dozen pages, and that I am sick with cudgelling my brains to find them? And then when everything is done, the kindest-hearted critic of them all invariably twit us with the incompetency and lameness of our conclusion. We have either become idle and neglected it, or tedious and over-laboured it. It is insipid or unnatural, over-strained or imbecile. It means nothing, or attempts too much. The last scene of all, as all last scenes we fear must be: 'Is second childishness, and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.'
I can only say that if some critic, who thoroughly knows his work, and has laboured on it till experience has made him perfect, will write the last fifty pages of a novel in the way they should be written. I, for one, will in future do my best to copy the example. Guided by my own lights only, I despair of success.
For the last week or ten days, Mr Slope had seen nothing of Mrs Proudie, and very little of the bishop. He still lived in the palace, and still went through his usual routine work; but the confidential doings of the diocese had passed into other hands. He had seen this clearly, and marked it well; but it had not much disturbed him. He had indulged in other hopes till the bishop's affairs had become dull to him, and he was moreover aware that, as regarded the diocese, Mrs Proudie had checkmated him. It has been explained, in the beginning of these pages, how three or four were contending together as to who, in fact, should be bishop of Barchester. Each of them had now admitted to himself (or boasted to herself) that Mrs Proudie was victorious in the struggle. They had gone through a competitive examination of considerable severity, and she had come forth the winner, facile princeps. Mr Slope had, for a moment, run her hard, but it was only for a moment. It had become, as it were, acknowledged that Hiram's hospital should be the testing point between them, and now Mr Quiverful was already in the hospital, the proof of Mrs Proudie's skill and courage.
All this did not break Mr Slope's spirit, because he had other hopes. But, alas, at last there came to him a note from his friend Sir Nicholas, informing him that the deanship was disposed of. Let us give Mr Slope his due. He did not lie prostrate, under this blow, or give himself to vain lamentations; he did not henceforward despair of life, and call upon gods above and gods below to carry him off. He sat himself down in his chair, counted out what monies he had in hand, for present purposes, and what others were coming to him, bethought himself as to the best sphere for his future exertions, and at once wrote off a letter to a rich sugar- refiner's wife in Baker Street, who, as he well knew, was much given to the entertainment and encouragement of serious young evangelical clergymen. He was again, he said, 'upon the world, having found the air of a cathedral town, and the very nature of cathedral services, uncongenial to his spirit'; and then he sat awhile, making firm resolves as to his manner of parting from the bishop, and also as to his future conduct.
'At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue, To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.'
Having received a formal command to wait upon the bishop, he rose and proceeded to obey it. He rang the bell and desired the servant to inform his master that if it suited his lordship, he, Mr Slope, was ready to wait upon him. The servant, who well understood that Mr Slope was no longer in the ascendant, brought back a message, saying that, 'his lordship desired that Mr Slope would attend him immediately in his study.' Mr Slope waited about ten minutes more to prove his independence, and then went into the bishop's room. There, as had expected, he found Mrs Proudie, together with her husband.
'Hum, ha--Mr Slope, please take a chair,' said the gentleman bishop.
'Pray be seated, Mr Slope,' said the lady bishop.
'Thank ye, thank ye,'said Mr Slope, and walking round to the fire, he threw himself into one of the arm-chairs that graced the hearth-rug.
'Mr Slope,' said the bishop, 'it has become necessary that I should speak to you definitively on a matter that has for some time been pressing itself on my attention.'
'May I ask whether the subject is in any way connected with myself?' said Mr Slope.
'It is so--certainly,--yes, it certainly is connected with yourself, Mr Slope.'
'Then, my lord, if I may be allowed to express a wish, I would prefer that no discussion on the subject should take place between us in the presence of a third party.'
'Don't alarm yourself, Mr Slope,' said Mrs Proudie, 'no discussion is at all necessary. The bishop merely intends to express his own wishes.'
'I merely intend, Mr Slope, to express my own wishes--no discussion will be at all necessary,' said the bishop, reiterating his wife's words.
'That is more, my lord, than we any of us can be sure of,' said Mr Slope; 'I cannot, however, force Mrs Proudie to leave the room; nor can I refuse to remain here, if it be your lordship's wish that I should do so.'
'It is certainly his lordship's wish,'said Mrs Proudie.
'Mr Slope,' began the bishop, in a solemn, serious voice, 'it grieves me to have to find fault. It grieves me much to find fault with a clergyman; but especially so with a clergyman in your position.'
'Why, what have I done amiss, my lord?' demanded Mr Slope, loudly.
'What have you done amiss, Mr Slope?' said Mrs Proudie, standing erect before the culprit, and raising that terrible forefinger. 'Do you dare to ask the bishop what you have done amiss? does not your conscience--' 'Mrs Proudie, pray let it be understood, once for all, that I will have no words with you.'
'Ah, sire, but you will have words,' said she; 'you must have words. Why have you had so may words with that Signora Neroni? Why have you disgraced yourself, you a clergyman, by constantly consorting with such a woman as that--with a married woman--with one altogether unfit for a clergyman's society?'
'At any rate, I was introduced to her in your drawing-room,' returned Mr Slope.
'And shamefully you behave there,' said Mrs Proudie, 'most shamefully. I was wrong to allow you to remain in the house a day after what I then saw. I should have insisted on your instant dismissal.'
'I have yet to learn, Mrs Proudie, that you have the power to insist either on my going from hence or on my staying here.'
'What!' said the lady; 'I am not to have the privilege of saying who shall and who shall not frequent my own drawing-room! I am not to save my servants and dependents from having their morals corrupted by improper conduct! I am not to save my own daughters from impurity! I will let you see, Mr Slope, whether I have the power or whether I have not. You will have the goodness to understand that you no longer fill any situation about the bishop; and as your room will be immediately wanted in the palace for another chaplain, I must ask you to provide yourself with apartments as soon as may be convenient to you.'
'My lord,' said Mr Slope, appealing to the bishop, and so turning his back completely on the lady, 'will you permit me to ask that I may have from your own lips and decision that you may have come to on this matter?'
'Certainly, Mr Slope, certainly,' said the bishop; 'that is but reasonable. Well, my decision is that you had better look for some other preferment. For the situation which you have lately held I do not think you are well suited.'
'And what, my lord, has been my fault?'
'That Signora Neroni is one fault,' said Mrs Proudie; 'and a very abominable fault she is; very abominable, and very disgraceful. Fie, Mr Slope, fie! You an evangelical clergyman indeed!'
'My lord, I desire to know for what fault I am turned out of your lordship's house.'
'You hear what Mrs Proudie says,' said the bishop.
'When I publish the history of this transaction, my lord, as I decidedly shall do in my own vindication, I presume you will not wish me to state that you have discarded me at your wife's bidding --because she has objected to my being acquainted with another lady, the daughter of one of the prebendaries of the chapter?'
'You may publish as you please, sir,' said Mrs Proudie. 'But you will not be insane enough to publish any of your doings in Barchester. Do you think I have not heard of your kneelings at that creature's feet--that is if she has any feet--and of your constant slobbering over her hand? I advise you to beware, Mr Slope, of what you do and say. Clergymen have been unfrocked for less than what you have been guilty of.'
'My lord, if this goes on I shall be obliged to indict this woman-- Mrs Proudie I mean--for defamation of character.'
'I think, Mr Slope, you had better now retire,' said the bishop. 'I will enclose to you a cheque for any balance that may be due to you; and, under the present circumstances, it will of course be better for all parties that you should leave the palace at the earliest possible moment.'
'If, however, you wish to remain in this neighbourhood,' said Mrs Proudie, 'and will solemnly pledge yourself never again to see that woman, and will promise also to be more circumspect in your conduct, the bishop will mention your name to Mr Quiverful, who now wants a curate at Puddingdale. The house is, I imagine, quite sufficient for your requirements: and there will moreover by a stipend of fifty pounds a year.'
'May God forgive you, madam, for the manner in which you have treated me,' said Mr Slope, looking at her with a very heavenly look; 'and remember this, madam, that you yourself may still have a fall;' and he looked at her with a very worldly look. 'As to the bishop, I pity him!' And so saying, Mr Slope left the room. Thus ended the intimacy of the Bishop of Barchester with his confidential chaplain.
Mrs Proudie was right in this; namely, that Mr Slope was not insane enough to publish to the world any of his doings in Barchester. He did not trouble his friend Mr Towers with any written statement of the iniquity of Mrs Proudie, or the imbecility of her husband. He was aware that it would be wise in him to drop for the future all allusions to his doings in the cathedral city. Soon after the interview just recorded, he left Barchester, shaking the dust off his feet as he entered the railway carriage; and he gave no longing lingering look after the cathedral towers, as the train hurried him quickly out of their sight.
It is well known that the family of the Slopes never starve; they always fall on their feet like cats, and let them fall where they will, they live on the fat of the land. Our Mr Slope did so. On his return to town he found that the sugar-refiner had died, and that the widow was inconsolable; or, in other words, in want of consolation. Mr Slope consoled her, and soon found himself settled with much comfort in the house in Baker Street. He possessed himself, also before long, of a church in the vicinity of the New Road, and become known to fame as one of the most eloquent preachers and pious clergymen in that part of the metropolis. There let us leave him.
Of the bishop and his wife very little further need be said. From that time forth nothing material occurred to interrupt the even course of their domestic harmony. Very speedily, a further vacancy on the bench of bishops gave Dr Proudie the seat in the House of Lords, which he at first so anxiously longed for. But by this time, he had become a wiser man. He did certainly take his seat, and occasionally registered a vote in favour of Government view on ecclesiastical matters.
But he had thoroughly learnt that his proper sphere of action lay in close contiguity with Mrs Proudie's wardrobe. He never again aspired to disobey, or seemed even to wish for autocratic diocesan authority. If ever he thought of freedom, he did so, as men think of the millennium, as of a good time which may be coming, but which nobody expects to come in their day. Mrs Proudie might be said still to bloom, and was, at any rate, strong; and the bishop had no reason to apprehend that he would be speedily visited with the sorrows of a widower's life.
He is still bishop of Barchester. He has so graced that throne, that the Government has been adverse to translate him, even to higher duties. There may he remain, under safe pupilage, till the new-fangled manners of the age have discovered him to be superannuated, and bestowed on him a pension. As for Mrs Proudie, our prayers for her are that she may live for ever.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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52
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THE NEW DEAN TAKES POSSESSION OF THE DEANERY AND THE NEW WARDEN OF
THE HOSPITAL
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Mr Harding and the archdeacon together made their way to Oxford, and there, by dint of cunning argument, they induced the Master of Lazarus also to ask himself this momentous question: 'Why should not Mr Arabin be Dean of Barchester?' He of course, for a while tried his hand at persuading Mr Harding that he was foolish, over-scrupulous, self-willed, and weak-minded; but he tried in vain. If Mr Harding would not give way to Dr Grantly, it was not likely that he would give way to Dr Gwynne; more especially now that so admirable a scheme as that of inducting Mr Arabin into the deanery had been set on foot. When the master found that his eloquence was vain, and heard also that Mr Arabin was about to become Mr Harding's son-in-law, he confessed that he also would, under such circumstances, be glad to see his old friend and protege, the fellow of his college, placed in the comfortable position that was going a-begging.
'It might be the means, you know, Master, of keeping Mr Slope out,' said the archdeacon with grave caution.
'He has no more chance of it,' said the master, 'that our college chaplain. I know about it than that.'
Mrs Grantly had been right in her surmise. It was the Master of Lazarus who had been instrumental in representing in high places the claims of Mr Harding had from the Government; and he now consented to use his best endeavours towards getting the offer transferred to Mr Arabin. The three of them went on to London together, and there they remained a week, to the great disgust of Mrs Grantly, and most probably also of Mrs Gwynne. The minister was out of town in one direction, and his private secretary in another. The clerks who remained could do nothing in such a matter as this, and all was difficulty and confusion. The two doctors seemed to have plenty to do; they bustled here and they bustled there, and complained at their club in the evenings that they had been driven off their legs; but Mr Harding had no occupation. Once or twice he suggested that he might perhaps return to Barchester. His request, however, was peremptorily refused, and had nothing for it but to while away his time in Westminster Abbey.
At length an answer from the great man came. The Master of Lazarus had made his proposition through the Bishop of Belgravia. Now the bishop, tough but newly gifted with his diocesan honours, was a man of much weight in the clerico-political world. He was, if not as pious, at any rate as wise as St Paul, and had been with so much effect all things to all men, that though he was great among the dons of Oxford, he had been selected for the most favourite seat on the bench by a Whig Prime Minister. To him Dr Gwynne had made known his wishes and his arguments, and the bishop had made them known to the Marquis of Kensington Gore. The marquis, who was Lord High Steward of the Pantry Board, and who by most men was supposed to hold the highest office out of the cabinet, trafficked much in affairs of this kind. He not only suggested the arrangement to the minister over a cup of coffee, standing on a drawing-room rug in Windsor Castle, but he also favourably mentioned Mr Arabin's name in the ear of a distinguished person.
And so the matter was arranged. The answer of the great man came, and Mr Arabin was made Dean of Barchester. The three clergymen who had come up to town on this important mission dined together with great glee on the day on which the news reached them. In a silent manner, they toasted Mr Arabin with full bumpers of claret. The satisfaction of all of them was supreme. The Master of Lazarus had been successful in his attempt, and success is dear to us all. The archdeacon had trampled upon Mr Slope, and had lifted to high honours the young clergyman whom he had induced to quit the retirement and comfort of the university. So at least the archdeacon thought; though, to speak sooth, not he, but circumstances had trampled on Mr Slope. But the satisfaction of Mr Harding was, of all perhaps, the most complete. He laid aside his usual melancholy manner, and brought forth little quiet jokes from the utmost mirth of his heart; he poked fun at the archdeacon about Mr Slope's marriage, and quizzed him for his improper love for Mrs Proudie. On the following day they all returned to Barchester.
It was arranged that Mr Arabin should know nothing of what had been done till he received the minister's letter from the hands of his embryo father-in-law. In order that no time be lost, a message had been sent to him by the preceding night's post, begging him to be at the deanery at the hour that the train from London arrived. There was nothing in this which surprised Mr Arabin. It had somehow got about through all bah that Mr Harding was the new dean, and all Barchester was prepared to welcome him with pealing bells and full hearts. Mr Slope had certainly had a party; there had certainly been those in Barchester who were prepared to congratulate him on his promotion with assumed sincerity, but even his own party were not broken-hearted by his failure. The inhabitants of the city, even the high-souled ecstatic young ladies of thirty-five, had begun to comprehend that their welfare and the welfare of the place, was connected in some mysterious manner with the daily chants of the bi-weekly anthems. The expenditure of the palace had not added greatly to the popularity of the bishop's side of the question; and, on the whole, there was a strong reaction. When it became known to all the world that Mr Harding was to be the new dean, all the world rejoiced heartily.
Mr Arabin, as we have said, was not surprised at the summons which called him to the deanery. He had not as yet seen Mr Harding since Eleanor had accepted him, nor had he seen him since he had learnt of his future father-in-law's preferment. There was nothing more natural, more necessary, than that they should meet each other at the earliest possible moment.
Mr Arabin was waiting at the deanery parlour when Mr Harding and Dr Grantly were driven up from the station.
There was some excitement in the bosoms of them all, as they met and shook hands; but far too much to enable either of them to begin his story and tell it in a proper equable style of narrative. Mr Harding was some minutes quite dumbfounded, and Mr Arabin could only talk in short, spasmodic sentences about his love and good fortune. He slipped in, as best he could, some sort of congratulation about the deanship, and then went on with his hopes and fears--hopes that he might be received as a son, and fears that he hardly deserved such good fortune. Then he went back to the dean; it was the most thoroughly satisfactory appointment, he said, of which he had ever heard.
'But! But! But--' said Mr Harding; and then failing to get any further, he looked imploringly at the archdeacon.
'The truth is, Arabin,' said the doctor, 'that, after all you are not destined to be the son-in-law to a dean. Nor am I either: more's the pity.'
Mr Arabin looked to him for explanation. 'Is not Mr Harding to be the new dean?'
'It appears not,' said the archdeacon. Mr Arabin's face fell a little, and he looked from one to the other. It was plainly to be seen from them both that there was no cause for unhappiness in the matter, at least not of an unhappiness to them; but there was as yet no clarification of the mystery.
'Think how old I am,' said Mr Harding imploringly.
'Fiddlestick!' said the archdeacon.
'That's all very well, but it won't make a young man of me,' said Mr Harding.
'And who is to be the dean?' asked Mr Arabin.
'Yes, that is the question,' said the archdeacon. 'Come, Mr Precentor, since you obstinately refuse to be anything else, let us know who is to be the man. He has got the nomination in his pocket.'
With eyes brim full of tears, Mr Harding pulled out the letter and handed it to his future son-in-law. He tried to make a little speech, but failed altogether. Having given up the document, he turned round to the wall, feigning to blow his nose, and then sat himself down on the old dean's dingy horse-hair sofa. And here we find it necessary to bring our account of the interview to an end.
Nor can we pretend to describe the rapture with which Mr Harding was received by his daughter. She wept with grief and with joy; with grief that her father should, in his old age, still be without that rank and worldly position, which, according to her ideas, he had so well earned; and with joy that he, her darling father, should have bestowed on that other dear one the good things of which he himself would not open his hand to take possession. And her, Mr Harding again showed his weakness. In the melee of the exposal of their loves and reciprocal affection, he found himself unable to resist the entreaties of all parties that his lodgings in the High Street should be given up. Eleanor would not live in the deanery, she said, unless her father lived there also. Mr Arabin would not be dean, unless Mr Harding would be co-dean with him. The archdeacon declared that his father-in-law should not have his own way in everything, and Mrs Grantly carried him off to Plumstead, that he might remain there till Mr and Mrs Arabin were in a state to receive him at their own mansion.
Pressed by such arguments as these, what could a weak man do but yield?
But there was yet another task which it behoved Mr Harding to do before he could allow himself to be at rest. Little has been said in these pages of the state of those remaining old men who had lived under his sway at the hospital. But not on this account must it be presumed that he had forgotten them, or that in their state of anarchy and in their want of government he had omitted to visit them. He visited them constantly, and had latterly given them to understand that they would soon be required to subscribe their adherence to a new master. There were now but five of them, one of them not having been but quite lately carried to his rest--but five of the full number, which had hitherto been twelve, and which was now to be raised to twenty-four, including women. Of these old Bunce, who for many years, had been the favourite of the late warden, was one; and Abel Handy, who had been the humble means from driving that warden from his home, was another.
Mr Harding now resolved that he himself would introduce the new warden to the hospital. He felt that many circumstances might conspire to make the men receive Mr Quiverful with aversion and disrespect; he felt also that Mr Quiverful might himself feel some qualms of conscience if he entered the hospital with an idea that he did so in hostility to his predecessor. Mr Harding therefore determined to walk in, arm in arm, with Mr Quiverful, and to ask from these men their respectful obedience to their new master.
On returning to Barchester, he found that Mr Quiverful had not yet slept in the hospital house, or entered on his new duties. He accordingly made known to that gentleman his wishes, and his proposition was not rejected.
It was a bright clear morning, though in November, that Mr Harding and Mr Quiverful, arm in arm, walked through the hospital gate. It was one trait in our old friend's character that he did nothing with parade. He omitted, even in the more important doings of his life, that sort of parade by which most of us deem it necessary to grace our important doings. We have housewarmings, christenings, and gala days; we keep, if not our own birthdays, those of our children; we are apt to fuss ourselves, if called upon to change our residences, and have, almost all of us, our little state occasions. Mr Harding, had no state occasions. When he left his old house, he went forth from it with the same quiet composure as though he were merely taking his daily walk; and now that he re-entered it with another warden under his wing, he did so with the same quiet step and calm demeanour. He was a little less upright than he had been five years, nay, it was nearly six years ago; he walked perhaps a little slower; his footfall was perhaps a thought less firm; otherwise one might have same that he was merely returning with a friend under his arm.
This friendliness was everything to Mr Quiverful. To him, even in his poverty, the thought that he was supplanting a brother clergyman so kind and courteous as Mr Harding, had been very bitter. Under his circumstances it had been impossible for him to refuse the proffered boon; he could not reject the bread that was offered to his children, or refuse to ease the heavy burden that had so long oppressed that poor wife of his; nevertheless, it had been very grievous to him to think that in going to the hospital he might encounter the ill will of his brethren in the diocese. All this Mr Harding had fully comprehended. It was for such feelings as these, for the nice comprehension of such motives, that his heart and intellect were peculiarly fitted. In most matters of worldly import the archdeacon set down his father-in-law as little better than a fool. And perhaps he was right. But in some other matters, equally important if they be rightly judged, Mr Harding, had he been so minded, might with as much propriety have set down his son-in-law for a fool. Few men, however, are constituted as was Mr Harding. He had that nice appreciation of the feelings of others which belongs of right exclusively to women.
Arm in arm they walked into the inner quadrangle of the building, and there the five old men met them. Mr Harding shook hands with them all, and then Mr Quiverful did the same. With Bunce Mr Harding shook hands twice, and Mr Quiverful was about to repeat the ceremony but the old man gave him no encouragement.
'I am very glad to know that at last you have a new warden,' said Mr Harding in a very cheery voice.
'We be very old for any change,' said one of them; 'but we do suppose it be all for the best.'
'Certainly--certainly, it is for the best,' said Mr Harding. 'You will again have a clergyman of your own church under the same roof with you, and a very excellent clergyman you will have. It is a great satisfaction to me to know that so good a man is coming to take care of you, and that it is no stranger, but a friend of my own, who will allow me from time to time to come in and see you.'
'We be thankful to your reverence,' said another of them.
'I need not tell you, my good friends,' said Mr Quiverful, 'how extremely grateful I am to Mr Harding for his kindness to me,--I must say his uncalled for, his unexpected kindness.'
'He be always very kind,' said a third.
'What I can do to fill the void which he left here, I will do. For your sake and my own I will do so, and especially for his sake. But to you who have known him, I can never be the same well-loved friend and father that he has been.'
'No, no, sir,' said old Bunce, who hitherto had held his peace; 'no one can be that. Not if the new bishop sent a hangel to us from heaven. We doesn't doubt you'll do your best, sir, but you'll not be like the old master; not to us old ones.'
'Fie, Bunce, fie! how dare you talk in that way!' said Mr Harding; but as he scolded the old man he still held him by his arm, and pressed it with warm affection.
There was no getting any enthusiasm in the matter. How could five old men tottering away to their final resting-place be enthusiastic on the reception of a stranger? What could Mr Quiverful be to them, or they to Mr Quiverful? Had Mr Harding indeed come back to them, some last flicker of joyous light might have shone forth on their aged cheeks; but it was in vain to bid them rejoice because Mr Quiverful was about to move his fourteen children from Puddingdale into the hospital house. In reality they did no doubt receive advantage, spiritual as well as corporal; but this they could neither anticipate nor acknowledge.
It was a dull affair enough, this introduction of Mr Quiverful; but still it had its effect. The good which Mr Harding intended did not fall to the ground. All the Barchester world, including the five old bedesmen, treated Mr Quiverful with the more respect, because Mr Harding had thus walked in arm in arm with him, on his first entrance to his duties.
And here in their new abode we will leave Mr and Mrs Quiverful and their fourteen children. May they enjoy the good things which Providence has at length given to them!
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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53
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CONCLUSION
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The end of a novel, like the end of a children's dinner-party, must be made up of sweetmeats and sugar-plums. There is now nothing else to be told but the gala doings of Mr Arabin's marriage, nothing more to be described than the wedding dresses, no further dialogue to be recorded than that which took place between the archdeacon who married them, and Mr Arabin and Eleanor who were married. 'Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?' and 'Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together according to God's ordinance?' Mr Arabin and Eleanor each answered, 'I will'. We have no doubt that they will keep their promises; the more especially as the Signora Neroni had left Barchester before the ceremony was performed.
Mrs Bold had been somewhat more than two years a widow before she was married to her second husband, and little Johnnie was then able with due assistance to walk on his own legs into the drawing-room to receive the salutations of the assembled guests. Mr Harding gave away the bride, the archdeacon performed the service, and the two Miss Grantlys, who were joined in their labours by other young ladies of the neighbourhood, performed the duties of bridesmaids with equal diligence and grace. Mrs Grantly superintended the breakfast and bouquets and Mary Bold distributed the cards and cake. The archdeacon's three sons had also come home for the occasion. The eldest was great with learning, being regarded by all who knew him as a certain future double first. The second, however, bore the palm on this occasion, being resplendent in his new uniform. The third was just entering the university, and was probably the proudest of the three.
But the most remarkable feature in the whole occasion was the excessive liberality of the archdeacon. He literally made presents to everybody. As Mr Arabin had already moved out of the parsonage of St Ewold's, that scheme of elongating the dining-room was of course abandoned; but he would have refurnished the whole deanery had he been allowed. He sent down a magnificent piano by Erard, gave Mr Arabin a cob which any dean in the land might have been proud to bestride, and made a special present to Eleanor of a new pony chair that had gained a prize in the Exhibition. Nor did he even stay his hand here; he bought a set of cameos for his wife, and a sapphire bracelet for Miss Bold; showered pearls and workboxes on is daughters, and to each of his sons he presented a cheque for 20 pounds. On Mr Harding he bestowed a magnificent violoncello with all the new-fashioned arrangements and expensive additions, which, on account of these novelties, that gentleman could never use with satisfaction to his audience or pleasure to himself.
Those who knew the archdeacon well, perfectly understood the cause of his extravagance. 'Twas thus that he sang his song of triumph over Mr Slope. This was his paean, his hymn of thanksgiving, his loud oration. He had girded himself with his sword, and gone forth to the war; now he was returning from the field laden with the spoils of the foe. The cob, the cameos, the violoncello and the pianoforte, were all as it were trophies reft from the tent of his now conquered enemy.
The Arabins after their marriage went abroad for a couple of months, according the custom in such matters now duly established, and then commenced their deanery life under good auspices. And nothing can be more pleasant than the present arrangement of ecclesiastical affairs in Barchester. The titular bishop never interfered, and Mrs Proudie not often. Her sphere is more extended, more noble, and more suited to her ambition than that of a cathedral city. As long as she can do what she pleases with the diocese, she is willing to leave the dean and chapter to themselves. Mr Slope tried his hand at subverting the old-established customs of the close, and from his failure she has learnt experience. The burly chancellor and the meagre little prebendary are not teased by any application respecting Sabbath-day schools, the dean is left to his own dominions, and the intercourse between Mrs Proudie and Mrs Arabin is confined to a yearly dinner by each to the other. At these dinners Dr Grantly will not take a part; but he never fails to ask for and receive a full account of all that Mrs Proudie does or says.
His ecclesiastical authority has been greatly shorn since the palmy days in which he reigned supreme as mayor of the palace to his father, but nevertheless such authority as is now left to him he can enjoy without interference. He can walk down High Street of Barchester without feeling that those who see him are comparing his claims with those of Mr Slope. The intercourse between Plumstead and the deanery is of the most constant and familiar description. Since Eleanor has been married to a clergyman, and especially to a dignitary of the church, Mrs Grantly has found many more points of sympathy with her sister; and on a coming occasion, which is much looked forward to by all parties, she intends to spend a month or two at the deanery. She never thought of spending a month in Barchester when little Johnny Bold was born!
The two sisters do not quite agree on matters of church doctrine, though their differences are of the most amicable description. Mr Arabin's church is two degrees higher than that of Mrs Grantly. This may seem strange to those who will remember that Eleanor was once accused of partiality to Mr Slope; but it is no less the fact. She likes her husband's silken vest, she likes his adherence to the rubric, she specially likes the eloquent philosophy of his sermons, and she likes the red letters in her own prayer-book. It must not be presumed that she has a taste for candles, or that she is at all astray about the real presence; but she has an inkling that way. She sent a handsome subscription towards certain very heavy legal expenses which have lately been incurred in Bath, her name of course not appearing; she assumes a smile of gentle ridicule when the Archbishop of Canterbury is named, and she has put up a memorial window in the cathedral.
Mrs Grantly, who belongs to the high and dry church, the high church as it was some fifty years since, before tracts were written and young clergymen took upon themselves the highly meritorious duty of cleaning churches, rather laughs at her sister. She shrugs her shoulders, and tells Miss Thorne that she supposes Eleanor will have an oratory in the deanery before she has done. But she is not on that account a whit displeased. A few high church vagaries do not, she thinks, sit amiss on the shoulders of a young dean's wife. It shows at any rate that her heart is in the subject; and it shows moreover that she is removed, wide as the poles asunder, from the cesspool of abomination in which it was once suspected that she would wallow and grovel. Anathema maranatha! Let anything be held as blessed, so that that be well cursed. Welcome kneelings and bowings, welcome matins and complines, welcome bell, book, and candle, so that Mr Slope's dirty surplices and ceremonial Sabbaths be held in due execration!
If it be essentially and absolutely necessary to choose between the two, we are inclined to agree with Mrs Grantly that the bell, book, and candle are the lesser evil of the two. Let it however be understood that no such necessity is admitted in these pages.
Dr Arabin (we suppose he must have become a doctor when he became a dean) is more moderate and less outspoken on doctrinal points than his wife, as indeed in his station it behoves him to be. He is a studious, thoughtful, hard-working man. He lives constantly at the deanery and preaches nearly every Sunday. His time is spent in sifting and editing old ecclesiastical literature and in producing the same articles new. At Oxford he is generally regarded as the most promising clerical ornament of the age. He and his wife live together in perfect mutual confidence. There is but one secret in her bosom which he has not shared. He has never yet learned how Mr Slope had his ears boxed.
The Stanhopes soon found that Mr Slope's power need no longer operate to keep them from the delight of their Italian villa. Before Eleanor's marriage they had all migrated back to the shores of Como. They had not been resettled long before the signora received from Mrs Arabin a very pretty though very short epistle, in which she was informed of the fate of the writer. This letter was answered by another, bright, charming, and witty, as the signora's always were; and so ended the friendship between Eleanor and the Stanhopes.
One word of Mr Harding, and we have done.
He is still Precentor of Barchester, and still pastor of the little church of St Cuthbert's. In spite of what he has so often said himself, he is not even yet an old man. He does such duties as fall to his lot well and conscientiously, and is thankful that he has never been tempted to assume others for which he might be less fitted.
The Author now leaves him in the hands of his readers; not as a hero, not as a man to be admired and talked of, not as a man who should be toasted at public dinners and spoken of with conventional absurdity as a perfect divine, but as a good man without guile, believing humbly in the religion which he strives to teach, and guided by the precepts which he has striven to learn THE END
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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1
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THE ORPHAN'S TRIAL.
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"We met ere yet the world had come To wither up the springs of youth, Amid the holy joys of home, And in the first warm blush of youth. We parted as they never part, Whose tears are doomed to be forgot; Oh, by what agony of heart Forget me not! --forget me not!"
--_Anonymous. _ At nine o'clock the next morning Traverse went to the library to keep his tryst with Colonel Le Noir.
Seated in the doctor's leathern chair, with his head thrown back, his nose erect and his white and jeweled hand caressing his mustached chin, the colonel awaited the young man's communication.
With a slight bow Traverse took a chair and drew it up to the table, seated himself and, after a little hesitation, commenced, and in a modest and self-respectful manner announced that he was charged with the last verbal instructions from the doctor to the executor of his will.
Colonel Le Noir left off caressing his chin for an instant, and, with a wave of his dainty hand, silently intimated that the young man should proceed.
Traverse then began and delivered the dying directions of the late doctor, to the effect that his daughter Clara Day should not be removed from the paternal mansion, but that she should be suffered to remain there, retaining as a matronly companion her old friend Mrs. Marah Rocke.
"Umm! umm! very ingenious, upon my word!" commented the colonel, still caressing his chin.
"I have now delivered my whole message, sir, and have only to add that I hope, for Miss Day's sake, there will be no difficulty thrown in the way of the execution of her father's last wishes, which are also, sir, very decidedly her own," said Traverse.
"Umm! doubtless they are--and also yours and your worthy mother's."
"Sir, Miss Day's will in this matter is certainly mine. Apart from the consideration of her pleasure, my wishes need not be consulted. As soon as I have seen Miss Day made comfortable I leave for the far West," said Traverse, with much dignity.
"Umm! and leave mama here to guard the golden prize until your return, eh?" sneered the colonel.
"Sir, I do not--wish to understand you," said Traverse with a flushed brow.
"Possibly not, my excellent young friend," said the colonel, ironically; then, rising from his chair and elevating his voice, he cried, "but I, sir, understand you and your mother and your pretty scheme perfectly! Very ingenious invention, these 'last verbal instructions.' Very pretty plan to entrap an heiress; but it shall not avail you, adventurers that you are! This afternoon Sauter, the confidential attorney of my late brother-in-law, will be here with the will, which shall be read in the presence of the assembled household. If these last verbal directions are also to be found duplicated in the will, very good, they shall be obeyed; if not, they shall be discredited."
During this speech Traverse stood with kindling eyes and blazing cheeks, scarcely able to master his indignation; yet, to his credit be it spoken, he did "rule his own spirit" and replied with dignity and calmness: "Colonel Le Noir, my testimony in regard to the last wishes of Doctor Day can, if necessary, be supported by other evidence--though I do not believe that any man who did not himself act in habitual disregard of truth would wantonly question the veracity of another."
"Sir! this to me!" exclaimed Le Noir, growing white with rage and making a step toward the young man.
"Yes, Colonel Le Noir, that to you! And this in addition; You have presumed to charge my mother, in connection with myself, with being an adventuress; with forming dishonorable 'schemes,' and in so charging her, Colonel Le Noir, you utter a falsehood!"
"Sirrah!" cried Le Noir, striding toward Traverse and raising his hand over his head, with a fearful oath, "retract your words or----" Traverse calmly drew himself up, folded his arms and replied coolly: "I am no brawler, Colonel Le Noir; the pistol and the bowie-knife are as strange to my hands as abusive epithets and profane language are to my lips; nevertheless, instead of retracting my words, I repeat and reiterate them. If you charge my mother with conspiracy you utter a falsehood. As her son I am in duty bound to say as much."
"Villain!" gasped Le Noir, shaking his fist and choking with rage; "villain! you shall repent this in every vein of your body!"
Then, seizing his hat, he strode from the room.
"Boaster!" said Traverse to himself, as he also left the library by another door.
Clara was waiting for him in the little parlor below.
"Well, well, dear Traverse," she said, as he entered. "You have had the explanation with my guardian, and--he makes no objection to carrying out the last directions of my father and our own wishes--he is willing to leave me here?"
"My dear girl, Colonel Le Noir defers all decision until the reading of the will, which is to take place this afternoon," said Traverse, unwilling to add to her distress by recounting the disgraceful scene that had just taken place in the library.
"Oh! these delays! these delays! Heaven give me patience! Yet I do not know why I should be so uneasy. It is only a form; of course he will regard my father's wishes."
"I do not see well how he can avoid doing so, especially as Doctor Williams is another witness to them, and I shall request the doctor's attendance here this afternoon. Dear Clara, keep up your spirits! A few hours now and all will be well," said Traverse, as he drew on his gloves and took his hat to go on his morning round of calls.
An early dinner was ordered, for the purpose of giving ample time in the afternoon for the reading of the will.
Owing to the kind forbearance of each member of this little family, their meeting with their guest at the table was not so awkward as it might have been rendered. Mrs. Rocke had concealed the insults that had been offered her; Traverse had said nothing of the affronts put upon him. So that each, having only their own private injuries to resent, felt free in forbearing. Nothing but this sort of prudence on the part of individuals rendered their meeting around one board possible.
While they were still at the table the attorney, Mr. Sauter, with Doctors Williams and Dawson, arrived, and was shown into the library.
And very soon after the dessert was put upon the table the family left it and, accompanied by Colonel Le Noir, adjourned to the library. After the usual salutations they arranged themselves along each side of an extension table, at the head of which the attorney placed himself.
In the midst of a profound silence the will was opened and read. It was dated three years before.
The bulk of his estate, after the paying a few legacies, was left to his esteemed brother-in-law, Gabriel Le Noir, in trust for his only daughter, Clara Day, until the latter should attain the age of twenty-one, at which period she was to come into possession of the property. Then followed the distribution of the legacies. Among the rest the sum of a thousand dollars was left to his young friend Traverse Rocke, and another thousand to his esteemed neighbor Marah Rocke. Gabriel Le Noir was appointed sole executor of the will, trustee of the property and guardian of the heiress.
At the conclusion of the reading Mr. Sauter folded the document and laid it upon the table.
Colonel Le Noir arose and said: "The will of the late Doctor Day has been read in your presence. I presume you all heard it, and that there can be no mistake as to its purport. All that remains now is to act upon it. I shall claim the usual privilege of twelve months before administering upon the estate or paying the legacies. In the mean time, I shall assume the charge of my ward's person, and convey her to my own residence, known as the Hidden House. Mrs. Rocke," he said, turning toward the latter, "your presence and that of your young charge is no longer required here. Be so good as to prepare Miss Day's traveling trunks, as we set out from this place to-morrow morning."
Mrs. Rocke started, looked wistfully in the face of the speaker and, seeing that he was in determined earnest, turned her appealing glances toward Traverse and Doctor Williams.
As for Clara, her face, previously blanched with grief, was now flushed with indignation. In her sudden distress and perplexity she knew not at once what to do--whether to utter a protest or continue silent; whether to leave the room or remain. Her embarrassment was perceived by Traverse, who, stooping, whispered to her: "Be calm, love; all shall be well. Doctor Williams is about to speak."
And at that moment, indeed, Doctor Williams arose and said: "I have, Colonel Le Noir to endorse a dying message from Doctor Day entrusted to my young friend here to be delivered to you, to the effect that it was his last desire and request that his daughter, Miss Clara Day, should be permitted to reside during the term of her minority in this her patrimonial home, under the care of her present matronly friend, Mrs. Marah Rocke, Doctor Rocke and myself are here to bear testimony to these, the last wishes of the departed, which wishes, I believe, also express the desires of his heiress."
"Oh, yes, yes!" said Clara, earnestly. "I do very much desire to remain in my own home, among my old familiar friends. My dear father only consulted my comfort and happiness when he left these instructions."
"There can be, therefore, no reason why Miss Day should be disturbed in her present home," said Traverse.
Colonel Le Noir smiled grimly, saying: "I am sorry, Doctor Williams, to differ with you or to distress Miss Day. But if, as she says, her lamented father consulted her pleasure in those last instructions, he certainly consulted nothing else--not the proprieties of conventionalism, the opinion of the world, nor the future welfare of his daughter. Therefore, as a man of Doctor Day's high position and character in his sane moments never could have made such a singular arrangement, I am forced to the conclusion that he could not, at the time of giving those instructions, have been in his right mind. Consequently, I cannot venture to act upon any 'verbal instructions,' however well attested, but shall be guided in every respect by the will, executed while yet the testator was in sound body and mind."
"Doctor Rocke and myself are both physicians competent to certify that, at the time of leaving these directions, our respected friend was perfectly sound in mind at least," said Doctor Williams.
"That, sir, I repeat, I contest. And, acting upon the authority of the will, I shall proceed to take charge of my ward as well as of her estate. And as I think this house, under all the circumstances, a very improper place for her to remain, I shall convey her without delay to my own home. Mrs. Rocke, I believe I requested you to see to the packing of Miss Day's trunks."
"Oh, heaven! shall this wrong be permitted?" ejaculated Marah.
"Mrs. Rocke, I will not go unless absolutely forced to do so by a decree of the court. I shall get Doctor Williams to make an appeal for me to the Orphans' Court," said Clara, by way of encouraging her friend.
"My dear Miss Day, that, I hope, will not be required. Colonel Le Noir acts under a misapprehension of the circumstances. We must enter into more explanations with him. In the mean time, my dear young lady, it is better that you should obey him for the present, at least so far as retiring from the room," said Doctor Williams.
Clara immediately rose and, requesting Mrs. Rocke to accompany her, withdrew from the library.
Doctor Williams then said: "I advised the retirement of the young lady, having a communication to make the hearing of which in a mixed company might have cost her an innocent blush. But first I would ask you, Colonel Le Noir, what are those circumstances to which you allude which render Miss Day's residence here, in her patrimonial mansion, with her old and faithful friends, so improper?" inquired Doctor Williams, courteously.
"The growing intimacy, sir, between herself and a very objectionable party--this young man Rocke!" replied Colonel Le Noir.
"Ah! and is that all?"
"It is enough, sir," said Colonel Le Noir, loftily.
"Then suppose I should inform you, sir, that this young man, Doctor Rocke, was brought up and educated at Doctor Day's cost and under his own immediate eye?"
"Then, sir, you would only inform me that an eccentric gentleman of fortune had done--what eccentric gentlemen of fortune will sometimes do--educated a pauper."
At this opprobrious epithet Traverse, with a flushed face, started to his feet.
"Sit down, my boy, sit down; leave me to deal with this man," said Doctor Williams, forcing Traverse back into his seat. Then, turning to Colonel Le Noir, he said: "But suppose, sir, that such was the estimation in which Doctor Day held the moral and intellectual worth of his young protégé that he actually gave him his daughter?"
"I cannot suppose an impossibility, Doctor Williams," replied Colonel Le Noir, haughtily.
"Then, sir, I have the pleasure of startling you a little by a prodigy that you denominate an impossibility! Clara Day and Traverse Rocke were betrothed with full knowledge and cordial approbation of the young lady's father."
"Impossible! preposterous! I shall countenance no such ridiculous absurdity!" said Colonel Le Noir, growing red in the face.
"Miss Day, Doctor Rocke, Mrs. Rocke, and myself are witnesses to that fact."
"The young lady and the young man are parties immediately concerned--they cannot be received as witnesses in their own case; Mrs. Rocke is too much in their interest for her evidence to be taken; you, sir, I consider the dupe of these cunning conspirators--mother and son," replied Colonel Le Noir, firmly.
"Tut!" said Doctor Williams, almost out of patience. "I do not depend upon the words of Miss Day and her friends, although I hold their veracity to be above question; I had Doctor Day's dying words to the same effect. And he mentioned the existing betrothal as the very reason why Clara should remain here in the care of her future mother-in-law."
"Then, sir, that the doctor should have spoken and acted thus, is only another and a stronger reason for believing him to have been deranged in his last moments! You need give yourself no farther trouble! I shall act upon the authority of this instrument which I hold in my hand," replied Colonel Le Noir, haughtily.
"Then, as the depository of the dying man's last wishes and as the next friend of his injured daughter, I shall make an appeal to the Orphans' Court," said Doctor Williams, coldly.
"You can do as you please about that; but in the mean time, acting upon the authority of the will, I shall to-morrow morning set out with my ward for my own home."
"There may be time to arrest that journey," said Doctor Williams, arising and taking his hat to go.
In the passage he met Mrs. Rocke.
"Dear Doctor Williams," said Mrs. Rocke, earnestly, "pray come up to poor Clara's room and speak to her, if you can possibly say anything to comfort her; she is weeping herself into a fit of illness at the bare thought of being, so soon after her dreadful bereavement, torn away from her home and friends."
"Tut! tut! no use in weeping! all will yet be right."
"You have persuaded that man to permit her to remain here, then?" said Marah, gladly.
"Persuaded him! no, nor even undertaken to do so! I never saw him before to-day, yet I would venture to say, from what I have now seen of him, that he never was persuaded by any agent except his own passions and interests, to any act whatever. No, I have endeavored to show him that we have law as well as justice on our side, and even now I am afraid I shall have to take the case before the Orphans' Court before I can convince him. He purposes removing Clara to-morrow morning. I will endeavor to see the Judge of the Orphans' Court to-night, take out a habeas corpus, ordering Le Noir to bring his ward into court, and serve it on him as he passes through Staunton on his way home."
"But is there no way of preventing him from taking Clara away from the house to-morrow morning."
"No good way. No, madam, it is best that all things should be done decently and in order. I advise you, as I shall also advise my young friends, Traverse and Clara, not to injure their own cause by unwise impatience or opposition. We should go before the Orphans' Court with the very best aspect."
"Come, then, and talk to Clara. She has the most painful antipathy to the man who claims the custody of her person, as well as the most distressing reluctance to leaving her dear home and friends; and all this, in addition to her recent heavy affliction, almost overwhelms the poor child," said Mrs. Rocke, weeping.
"I will go at once and do what I can to soothe her," said Doctor Williams, following Mrs. Rocke, who led him up to Clara's room.
They found her prostrate upon her bed, crushed with grief.
"Come, come, my dear girl, this is too bad! It is not like the usual noble fortitude of our Clara," said the old man, kindly taking her hand.
"Oh, Doctor, forgive--forgive me! but my courage must have been very small, for I fear it is all gone. But then, indeed, everything comes on me at once. My dear, dear father's death; then the approaching departure and expected long absence of Traverse! All that was grievous enough to bear; and now to be torn away from the home of my childhood, and from the friend that has always been a mother to me, and by a man, from whom every true, good instinct of my nature teaches me to shrink. I, who have always had full liberty in the house of my dear father, to be forced away against my will by this man, as if I were his slave!" exclaimed Clara, bursting into fresh tears of indignation and grief.
"Clara, my dear, dear girl, this impatience and rebellion is so unlike your gentle nature that I can scarcely recognize you for the mild and dignified daughter of my old friend. Clara, if the saints in heaven could grieve at anything, I should think your dear father would be grieved to see you thus!" said the old man in gentle rebuke that immediately took effect upon the meek and conscientious maiden.
"Oh! I feel--I feel that I am doing very wrong, but I cannot help it. I scarcely know myself in this agony of mingled grief, indignation and terror--yes, terror--for every instinct of my nature teaches me to distrust and fear that man, in whom my father must have been greatly deceived before he could have entrusted him with the guardianship of his only child."
"I think that quite likely," said the old man; "yet, my dear, even in respect to your dear father's memory, you must try to bear this trial patiently."
"Oh, yes, I know I must. Dear father, if you can look down and see me now, forgive your poor Clara, her anger and her impatience. She will try to be worthy of the rearing you have given her and to bear even this great trial with the spirit worthy of your daughter!" said Clara within her own heart; then, speaking up, she said: "You shall have no more reason to reprove me, Doctor Williams."
"That is my brave girl! That is my dear Clara Day! And now, when your guardian directs you to prepare yourself for your journey, obey him--go with him without making any objection. I purpose to arrest your journey at Staunton with a habeas corpus that he dare not resist, and which shall compel him to bring you into the Orphans' Court. There our side shall be heard, and the decision will rest with the judge."
"And all will be well! Oh, say that, sir! to give me the courage to act with becoming docility," pleaded Clara.
"I have not a doubt in this world that it will all be right, for, however Colonel Le Noir may choose to disregard the last wishes of your father, as attested by myself and young Rocke, I have not the least idea that the judge will pass them over. On the contrary, I feel persuaded that he will confirm them by sending you back here to your beloved home."
"Oh, may heaven grant it!" said Clara. "You do, indeed, give me new life."
"Yes, yes, be cheerful, my dear; trust in Providence and expect nothing short of the best! And now I dare not tarry longer with you, for I must see the Judge at his house this night. Good-by, my dear; keep up a good heart!" said the old man cheerfully, pressing her hand and taking his leave.
Mrs. Rocke accompanied him to the hall door.
"My dear madam, keep up your spirits also for the sake of your young charge! Make her go to bed early! To-morrow, when she thinks she is about to be torn from you forever, remind her in her ear that I shall meet the carriage at Staunton with a power that shall turn the horses' heads."
And so saying, the worthy old gentleman departed.
As Marah Rocke looked after him, she also saw with alarm that Colonel Le Noir had mounted his horse and galloped off in the direction of Staunton, as if impelled by the most urgent haste.
She returned to the bedside of Clara, and left her no more that night. As the colonel did not return to supper, they, the family party, had their tea in Clara's room.
Late at night Mrs. Rocke heard Colonel Le Noir come into the house and enter his chamber.
Poor Clara slept no more that night; anxiety, despite of all her efforts, kept her wide awake. Yet, though anxious and wakeful, yet by prayer and endeavor she had brought her mind into a patient and submissive mood, so that when a servant knocked at her door in the morning with a message from Colonel Le Noir that she should be ready to set forth immediately after breakfast, she replied that she should obey him, and without delay she arose and commenced her toilet.
All the family met for the last time around the board. The party was constrained. The meal was a gloomy one. On rising from the table Colonel Le Noir informed his ward that his traveling carriage was waiting, and that her baggage was already on, and requested her to put on her bonnet and mantle, and take leave of her servants.
Clara turned to obey--Traverse went to her side and whispered: "Take courage, dear love. My horse is saddled. I shall ride in attendance upon the carriage whether that man likes it or not; nor lose sight of you for one moment until we meet Williams with his habeas corpus."
"Nor even then, dear Traverse, nor even then! You will attend me to the court and be ready to take me back to this dear, dear home!" murmured Clara in reply.
"Yes, yes, dear girl! There, be cheerful," whispered the young man, as he pressed her hand and released it.
Colonel Le Noir had been a silent but frowning spectator of this little scene, and now that Clara was leaving the room, attended by Mrs. Rocke, he called the latter back, saying: "You will be so kind as to stop here a moment, Mrs. Rocke and you also, young man."
The mother and son paused to hear what he should have to say.
"I believe it is the custom here in discharging domestics to give a month's warning, or in lieu of that, to pay a month's wages in advance. There, woman, is the money. You will oblige me by leaving the house to-day, together with your son and all your other trumpery, as the premises are put in charge of an agent, who will be here this afternoon, clothed with authority to eject all loiterers and intruders."
While the colonel spoke Marah Rocke gazed at him in a panic from which she seemed unable to rouse herself, until Traverse gravely took her hand, saying: "My dear mother, let me conduct you from the presence of this man, who does not know how to behave himself toward women. Leave me to talk with him, and do you, dear mother, go to Miss Day, who I know is waiting for you."
Marah Rocke mechanically complied and allowed Traverse to lead her from the room.
When he returned he went up to Colonel Le Noir, and, standing before him and looking him full and sternly in the face, said, as sternly: "Colonel Le Noir, my mother will remain here and abide the decision of the Orphans' Court; until that has been pronounced, she does not stir at your or any man's bidding!"
"Villain, out of my way!" sneered Le Noir, endeavoring to pass him.
Traverse prevented him, saying: "Sir, in consideration of your age, which should be venerable, your position which should prove you honorable, and of this sacred house of mourning in which you stand, I have endeavored to meet all the insults you have offered me with forbearance. But, sir, I am here to defend my mother's rights and to protect her from insult! And I tell you plainly that you have affronted her for the very last time! One more word or look of insult leveled at Marah Rocke and neither your age, position nor this sacred roof shall protect you from personal chastisement at the hands of her son!"
Le Noir, who had listened in angry scorn, with many an ejaculation of contempt, now at the conclusion which so galled his pride, broke out furiously, with: "Sir, you are a bully! If you were a gentleman I would call you out!"
"And I should not come if you did, sir! Dueling is unchristian, barbarous and abominable in the sight of God and all good men. For the rest you may call me anything you please; but do not again insult my mother, for if you do I shall hold it a Christian duty to teach you better manners," said Traverse, coolly taking his hat and walking from the room. He mounted his horse and stood ready to attend Clara to Staunton.
Colonel Le Noir ground his teeth in impotent rage, muttering: "Take care, young man! I shall live to be revenged upon you yet for these affronts!" and his dastard heart burned with the fiercer malignity that he had not dared to meet the eagle eye, or encounter the strong arm of the upright and stalwart young man. Gnashing his teeth with ill-suppressed fury, he strode into the hall just as Mrs. Rocke and Clara, in her traveling dress, descended the stairs.
Clara threw her arms around Mrs. Rocke's neck, and, weeping, said: "Good-by, dear, best friend--good-by! Heaven grant it may not be for long! Oh, pray for me, that I may be sent back to you!"
"May the Lord have you in His holy keeping, my child! I shall pray until I hear from you!" said Marah, kissing and releasing her.
Colonel Le Noir then took her by the hand, led her out, and put her into the carriage.
Just before entering Clara had turned to take a last look at her old home--all, friends and servants, noticed the sorrowful, anxious, almost despairing look of her pale face, which seemed to ask: "Ah, shall I ever, ever return to you, dear old home, and dear, familiar friends?"
In another instant she had disappeared within the carriage, which immediately rolled off.
As the carriage was heavily laden, and the road was in a very bad condition, it was a full hour before they reached the town of Staunton. As the carriage drew up for a few moments before the door of the principal hotel, and Colonel Le Noir was in the act of stepping out, a sheriff's officer, accompanied by Dr. Williams, approached, and served upon the colonel a writ of habeas corpus, commanding him to bring his ward, Clara Day, into court.
Colonel Le Noir laughed scornfully, saying: "And do any of you imagine this will serve your purposes? Ha, ha! The most that it can do will be to delay my journey for a few hours until the decision of the judge, which will only serve to confirm my authority beyond all future possibility of questioning."
"We will see to that," said Doctor Williams.
"Drive to the Court House!" ordered Colonel Le Noir.
And the carriage, attended by Traverse Rocke, Doctor Williams and the Sheriff's officer, each on horseback, drove thither.
And now, reader, I will not trouble you with a detailed account of this trial. Clara, clothed in deep mourning, and looking pale and terrified, was led into the court room on the arm of her guardian. She was followed closely by her friends, Traverse Rocke and Doctor Williams, each of whom whispered encouraging words to the orphan.
As the court had no pressing business on its hands, the case was immediately taken up, the will was read and attested by the attorney who had drawn it up and the witnesses who had signed it. Then the evidence of Doctor Williams and Doctor Rocke was taken concerning the last verbal instructions of the deceased. The case occupied about three hours, at the end of which the judge gave a decision in favor of Colonel Le Noir.
This judgment carried consternation to the heart of Clara and of all her friends.
Clara herself sank fainting in the arms of her old friend, the venerable Doctor Williams.
Traverse, in bitterness of spirit, approached and bent over her.
Colonel Le Noir spoke to the judge.
"I deeply thank your honor for the prompt hearing and equally prompt decision of this case, and I will beg your honor to order the Sheriff and his officers to see your judgment carried into effect, as I foresee violent opposition, and wish to prevent trouble."
"Certainly. Mr. Sheriff, you will see that Colonel Le Noir is put in possession of his ward, and protected in that right until he shall have placed her in security," said the judge.
Clara, on hearing these words, lifted her head from the old man's bosom, nerved her gentle heart, and in a clear, sweet, steady voice said: "It is needless precaution, your honor; my friends are no law-breakers, and since the court has given me into the custody of my guardian, I do not dispute its judgment. I yield myself up to Colonel Le Noir."
"You do well, young lady," said the judge.
"I am pleased, Miss Day, to see that you understand and perform your duty; believe me, I shall do all that I can to make you happy," said Colonel Le Noir.
Clara replied by a gentle nod, and then, with a slight blush mantling her pure cheeks she advanced a step and placed herself immediately in front of the judge, saying: "But there is a word that I would speak to your honor."
"Say on, young lady," said the judge.
And as she stood there in her deep mourning dress, with her fair hair unbound and floating softly around her pale, sweet face, every eye in that court was spellbound by her almost unearthly beauty. Before proceeding with what she was about to say, she turned upon Traverse a look that brought him immediately to her side.
"Your honor," she began, in a low, sweet, clear tone, "I owe it to Doctor Rocke here present, who has been sadly misrepresented to you, to say (what, under less serious circumstances, my girl's heart would shrink from avowing so publicly) that I am his betrothed wife--sacredly betrothed to him by almost the last act of my dear father's life. I hold this engagement to be so holy that no earthly tribunal can break or disturb it. And while I bend to your honor's decision, and yield myself to the custody of my legal guardian for the period of my minority, I here declare to all who may be interested, that I hold my hand and heart irrevocably pledged to Doctor Rocke, and that, as his betrothed wife, I shall consider myself bound to correspond with him regularly, and to receive him as often as he shall seek my society, until my majority, when I and all that I possess will become his own. And these words I force myself to speak, your honor, both in justice to my dear lost father and his friend, Traverse Rocke, and also to myself, that hereafter no one may venture to accuse me of clandestine proceedings, or distort my actions into improprieties, or in any manner call in question the conduct of my father's daughter." And, with another gentle bow, Clara retired to the side of her old friend.
"You are likely to have a troublesome charge in your ward," said the sheriff apart to the colonel, who shrugged his shoulders by way of reply.
The heart of Traverse was torn by many conflicting passions, emotions and impulses; there was indignation at the decision of the court; grief for the loss of Clara, and dread for her future!
One instant he felt a temptation to denounce the guardian as a villain and to charge the judge with being a corrupt politician, whose decisions were swayed by party interests!
The next moment he felt an impulse to catch Clara up in his arms, fight his way through the crowd and carry her off! But all these wild emotions, passions and impulses he succeeded in controlling.
Too well he knew that to rage, do violence, or commit extravagance as he might, the law would take its course all the same.
While his heart was torn in this manner, Colonel Le Noire was urging the departure of his ward. And Clara came to her lover's side and said, gravely and sweetly: "The law, you see, has decided against us, dear Traverse. Let us bend gracefully to a decree that we cannot annul! It cannot, at least, alter our sacred relations; nor can anything on earth shake our steadfast faith in each other; let us take comfort in that, and in the thought that the years will surely roll round at length and bring the time that shall reunite us."
"Oh, my angel-girl! My angel-girl! Your patient heroism puts me to the blush, for my heart is crushed in my bosom and my firmness quite gone!" said Traverse, in a broken voice.
"You will gain firmness, dear Traverse. 'Patient!' I patient! You should have heard me last night! I was so impatient that Doctor Williams had to lecture me. But it would be strange if one did not learn something by suffering. I have been trying all night and day to school my heart to submission, and I hope I have succeeded, Traverse. Bless me and bid me good-by."
"The Lord forever bless and keep you, my own dear angel, Clara!" burst from the lips of Traverse. "The Lord abundantly bless you!"
"And you," said Clara.
"Good-by! --good-by!"
"Good-by!"
And thus they parted.
Clara was hurried away and put into the carriage by her guardian.
Ah, no one but the Lord knew how much it had cost that poor girl to maintain her fortitude during that trying scene. She had controlled herself for the sake of her friends. But now, when she found herself in the carriage, her long strained nerves gave way--she sank exhausted and prostrated into the corner of her seat, in the utter collapse of woe!
But leaving the travelers to pursue their journey, we must go back to Traverse.
Almost broken-hearted, Traverse returned to Willow Heights to convey the sad tidings of his disappointment to his mother's ear.
Marah Rocke was so overwhelmed with grief at the news that she was for several hours incapable of action.
The arrival of the house agent was the first event that recalled her to her senses.
She aroused herself to action, and, assisted by Traverse, set to work to pack up her own and his wardrobe and other personal effects.
And the next morning Marah Rocke was re-established in her cottage.
And the next week, having equally divided their little capital, the mother and son parted--Traverse, by her express desire, keeping to his original plan, set out for the far West.
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{
"id": "24337"
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2
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OLD HURRICANE STORMS.
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"At this sir knight flamed up with ire! His great chest heaved! his eyes flashed fire. The crimson that suffused his face To deepest purple now gave place."
Who can describe the frenzy of Old Hurricane upon discovering the fraud that had been practised upon him by Black Donald?
It was told him the next morning in his tent, at his breakfast table, in the presence of his assembled family, by the Rev. Mr. Goodwin.
Upon first hearing it, he was incapable of anything but blank staring, until it seemed as though his eyes must start from their sockets!
Then his passion, "not loud but deep," found utterance only in emphatic thumps of his walking stick upon the ground!
Then, as the huge emotion worked upward, it broke out in grunts, groans and inarticulate exclamations!
Finally it burst forth as follows: "Ugh! ugh! ugh! Fool! dolt! blockhead! Brute that I've been! I wish somebody would punch my wooden head! I didn't think the demon himself could have deceived me so! Ugh! Nobody but the demon could have done it! and he is the demon! The very demon himself! He does not disguise--he transforms himself! Ugh! ugh! ugh! that I should have been such a donkey!"
"Sir, compose yourself! We are all liable to suffer deception," said Mr. Goodwin.
"Sir," broke forth Old Hurricane, in fury, "that wretch has eaten at my table! Has drunk wine with me!! Has slept in my bed!!! Ugh! ugh!! ugh!!!"
"Believing him to be what he seemed, sir, you extended to him the rights of hospitality; you have nothing to blame yourself with!"
"Demmy, sir, I did more than that! I've coddled him up with negusses! I've pampered him up with possets and put him to sleep in my own bed! Yes, sir--and more! Look there at Mrs. Condiment, sir! The way in which she worshiped that villain was a sight to behold!" said Old Hurricane, jumping up and stamping around the tent in fury.
"Oh, Mr. Goodwin, sir, how could I help it when I thought he was such a precious saint?" whimpered the old lady.
"Yes, sir! when 'his reverence' would be tired with delivering a long-winded mid-day discourse, Mrs. Condiment, sir, would take him into her own tent--make him lie down on her own sacred cot, and set my niece to bathing his head with cologne and her maid to fanning him, while she herself prepared an iced sherry cobbler for his reverence! Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Condiment, mum!" said Old Hurricane, suddenly stopping before the poor old woman, in angry scorn.
"Indeed, I'm sure if I'd known it was Black Donald, I'd no more have suffered him inside of my tent than I would Satan!"
"Demmy, mum, you had Satan there as well! Who but Satan could have tempted you all to disregard me, your lawful lord and master, as you every one of you did for that wretch's sake! Hang it, parson, I wasn't the master of my own house, nor head of my own family! Precious Father Gray was! Black Donald was! Oh, you shall hear!" cried Old Hurricane, in a frenzy.
"Pray, sir, be patient and do not blame the women for being no wiser than you were yourself," said Mr. Goodwin.
"Tah! tah! tah! One act of folly is a contingency to which any man may for once in his life be liable; but folly is the women's normal condition! You shall hear! You shall hear! Hang it, sir, everybody had to give way to Father Gray! Everything was for Father Gray! Precious Father Gray! Excellent Father Gray! Saintly Father Gray! It was Father Gray here and Father Gray there, and Father Gray everywhere and always! He ate with us all day and slept with us all night! The coolest cot in the dryest nook of the tent at night--the shadiest seat at the table by day--were always for his reverence! The nicest tit-bits of the choicest dishes--the middle slices of the fish, the breast of the young ducks, and the wings of the chickens, the mealiest potatoes, the juiciest tomatoes, the tenderest roasting ear, the most delicate custard, and freshest fruit always for his reverence! I had to put up with the necks of poultry, and the tails of fishes, watery potatoes, specked apples and scorched custards--and if I dared to touch anything better before his precious reverence had eaten and was filled, Mrs. Condiment--there--would look as sour as if she had bitten an unripe lemon--and Cap would tread on my gouty toe! Mrs. Condiment, mum, I don't know how you can look me in the face!" said Old Hurricane, savagely. A very unnecessary reproach, since poor Mrs. Condiment had not ventured to look any one in the face since the discovery of the fraud of which she, as well as others, had been an innocent victim.
"Come, come, my dear major, there is no harm done to you or your family; therefore, take patience!" said Mr. Goodwin.
"Demmy, sir, I beg you pardon, parson, I won't take patience! You don't know! Hang it, man, at last they got me to give up one-half of my own blessed bed to his precious reverence--the best half which the fellow always took right out of the middle, leaving me to sleep on both sides of him, if I could! Think of it--me, Ira Warfield--sleeping between the sheets--night after night--with Black Donald! Ugh! ugh! ugh! Oh, for some lethean draught that I might drink and forget! Sir, I won't be patient! Patience would be a sin! Mrs. Condiment, mum, I desire that you will send in your account and supply yourself with a new situation! You and I cannot agree any longer. You'll be putting me to bed with Beelzebub next!" exclaimed Old Hurricane, besides himself with indignation.
Mrs. Condiment sighed and wiped her eyes under her spectacles.
The worthy minister, now seriously alarmed, came to him and said: "My dear, dear major, do not be unjust--consider. She is an old faithful domestic, who has been in your service forty years--whom you could not live without! I say it under advisement--whom you could not live without!"
"Hang it, sir, nor live with! Think of her helping to free the prisoners! Actually taking Black Donald--precious Father Gray! --into their cell and leaving them together to hatch their--beg you pardon--horrid plots!"
"But, sir, instead of punishing the innocent victim of his deception, let us be merciful and thank the Lord, that since those men were delivered from prison, they were freed without bloodshed; for remember that neither the warden nor any of his men, nor any one else has been personally injured."
"Hang it, sir, I wish they had cut all our throats to teach us more discretion!" broke forth Old Hurricane.
"I am afraid that the lesson so taught would have come too late to be useful!" smiled the pastor.
"Well, it hasn't come too late now! Mrs. Condiment, mum, mind what I tell you! As soon as we return to Hurricane Hall, send in your accounts and seek a new home! I am not going to suffer myself to be set at naught any longer!" exclaimed Old Hurricane, bringing down his cane with an emphatic thump.
The sorely troubled minister was again about to interfere, when, as the worm if trodden upon, will turn, Mrs. Condiment herself spoke up, saying: "Lor, Major Warfield, sir, there were others deceived besides me, and as for myself, I never can think of the risk I've run without growing cold all over!"
"Serves you right, mum, for your officiousness, and obsequiousness and toadying to--precious Mr. Gray! --serves you doubly right for famishing me at my own table!"
"Uncle!" said Capitola, "'Honor bright! Fair play is a jewel!' If you and I, who have seen Black Donald before, failed to recognize that stalwart athlete in a seemingly old and sickly man, how could you expect Mrs. Condiment to do so, who never saw him but once in her life, and then was so much frightened that she instantly fainted?"
"Pah! pah! pah! Cap, hush! You, all of you, disgust me, except Black Donald! I begin to respect him! Confound if I don't take in all the offers I have made for his apprehension, and at the very next convention of our party I'll nominate him to represent us in the National Congress; for, of all the fools that ever I have met in my life, the people of this county are the greatest! And fools should at least be represented by one clever man--and Black Donald is the very fellow! He is decidedly the ablest man in this congressional district."
"Except yourself, dear uncle!" said Capitola.
"Except nobody, Miss Impudence! --least of all me! The experience of the last week has convinced me that I ought to have a cap and bells awarded me by public acclamation!" said Old Hurricane, stamping about in fury.
The good minister finding that he could make no sort of impression upon the irate old man, soon took his leave, telling Mrs. Condiment that if he could be of any service to her in her trouble she must be sure to let him know.
At this Capitola and Mrs. Condiment exchanged looks, and the old lady, thanking him for his kindness, said that if it should become necessary, she should gratefully avail herself of it.
That day the camp meeting broke up.
Major Warfield struck tents and with his family and baggage returned to Hurricane Hall.
On their arrival, each member of the party went about his or her own particular business.
Capitola hurried to her own room to take off her bonnet and shawl. Pitapat, before attending her young mistress, lingered below to astonish the housemaids with accounts of "Brack Donel, dress up like an ole parson, an' 'ceiving everybody, even ole Marse!"
Mrs. Condiment went to her store room to inspect the condition of her newly put up preserves and pickles, lest any of them should have "worked" during her absence.
And Old Hurricane, attended by Wool, walked down to his kennels and his stables to look after the well-being of his favorite hounds and horses. It was while going through this interesting investigation that Major Warfield was informed--principally by overhearing the gossip of the grooms with Wool--of the appearance of a new inmate of the Hidden House--a young girl, who, according to their description, must have been the very pearl of beauty.
Old Hurricane pricked up his ears! Anything relating to the "Hidden House" possessed immense interest for him.
"Who is she, John?" he inquired of the groom. " 'Deed I dunno, sir, only they say she's a bootiful young creature, fair as any lily, and dressed in deep mourning."
"Humph! humph! humph! another victim! Ten thousand chances to one, another victim! who told you this, John?"
"Why, Marse, you see Tom Griffith, the Rev. Mr. Goodwin's man, he's very thick long of Davy Hughs, Colonel Le Noir's coachman. And Davy he told Tom how one day last month his marse ordered the carriage, and went two or three days' journey up the country beyant Staunton, there he stayed a week and then came home, fetching along with him in the carriage this lovely young lady, who was dressed in the deepest mourning, and wept all the way. They 'spects how she's an orphan, and has lost all her friends, by the way she takes on."
"Another victim! My life on it--another victim! Poor child! She had better be dead than in the power of that atrocious villain and consummate hypocrite!" said Old Hurricane, passing on to the examination of his favorite horses, one of which, the swiftest in the stud, he found galled on the shoulders. Whereupon he flew into a towering passion, abusing his unfortunate groom by every opprobrious epithet blind fury could suggest, ordering him, as he valued whole bones, to vacate the stable instantly, and never dare to set foot on his premises again as he valued his life, an order which the man meekly accepted and immediately disobeyed, muttered to himself: "Humph! If we took ole marse at his word, there'd never be man or 'oman left on the 'state," knowing full well that his tempestuous old master would probably forget all about it, as soon as he got comfortably seated at the supper table of Hurricane Hall, toward which the old man now trotted off.
Not a word did Major Warfield say at supper in regard to the new inmate of the Hidden House, for he had particular reasons for keeping Cap in ignorance of a neighbor, lest she should insist upon exchanging visits and being "sociable."
But it was destined that Capitola should not remain a day in ignorance of the interesting fact.
That night, when she retired to her chamber, Pitapat lingered behind, but presently appeared at her young mistress's room door with a large waiter on her head, laden with meat, pastry, jelly and fruit, which she brought in and placed upon the work stand.
"Why, what on the face of earth do you mean by bringing all that load of victuals into my room to-night? Do you think I am an ostrich or a cormorant, or that I am going to entertain a party of friends?" asked Capitola, in astonishment, turning from the wash stand, where she stood bathing her face. " 'Deed I dunno, Miss, whedder you'se an ostrizant or not, but I knows I don't 'tend for to be 'bused any more 'bout wittels, arter findin' out how cross empty people can be! Dar dey is! You can eat um or leab um alone, Miss Caterpillar!" said little Pitapat, firmly.
Capitola laughed. "Patty" she said, "you are worthy to be called my waiting maid!"
"And Lors knows, Miss Caterpillar, if it was de wittels you was a-frettin' arter, you ought to a-told me before! Lors knows dere's wittels enough!"
"Yes, I'm much obliged to you, Patty, but now I am not hungry, and I do not like the smell of food in my bedroom, so take the waiter out and set it on the passage table until morning."
Patty obeyed, and came back smiling and saying: "Miss Caterpillar, has you hern de news?"
"What news, Pat?"
"How us has got a new neighbor--a bootiful young gal--as bootiful as a picter in a gilt-edged Christmas book--wid a snowy skin, and sky-blue eyes and glistenin' goldy hair, like the princess you was a readin' me about, all in deep mournin' and a weepin' and a weepin' all alone down there in that wicked, lonesome, onlawful ole haunted place, the Hidden House, along of old Colonel Le Noir and old Dorkey Knight, and the ghost as draws people's curtains of a night, just for all de worl' like dat same princess in de ogre's castle!"
"What on earth is all this rigmarole about? Are you dreaming or romancing?"
"I'm a-telling on you de bressed trufe! Dere's a young lady a-livin at de Hidden House!"
"Eh? Is that really true, Patty?"
"True as preaching, miss."
"Then, I am very glad of it! I shall certainly ride over and call on the stranger," said Capitola, gaily.
"Oh, Miss Cap! Oh, miss, don't you do no sich thing! Ole Marse kill me! I heerd him t'reaten all de men and maids how if dey telled you anything 'bout de new neighbor, how he'd skin dem alive!"
"Won't he skin you?" asked Cap.
"No, miss, not 'less you 'form ag'in me, 'case he didn't tell me not to tell you, 'case you see he didn't think how I knowed! But, leastways, I know from what I heard, ole marse wouldn't have you to know nothin' about it, no, not for de whole worl'."
"He does not want me to call at the Hidden House! That's it! Now why doesn't he wish me to call there? I shall have to go in order to find out, and so I will," thought Cap.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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3
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CAP'S VISIT TO THE HIDDEN HOUSE.
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And such a night "she" took the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed; Loud, deep and long the thunder bellowed; That night a child might understand The de'il had business on his hand.
--Burns.
A week passed before Capitola carried her resolution of calling upon the inmate of the Hidden House into effect. It was in fact a hot, dry, oppressive season, the last few days of August, when all people, even the restless Capitola, preferred the coolness and repose of indoors. But that she should stay at home more than a week was a moral and physical impossibility. So on Thursday afternoon, when Major Warfield set out on horseback to visit his mill, Capitola ordered her horse saddled and brought up that she might take an afternoon's ride.
"Now please, my dear child, don't go far," said Mrs. Condiment, "for besides that your uncle does not approve of your riding alone, you must hurry back to avoid the storm."
"Storm, Mrs. Condiment, why bless your dear old heart, there has not been a storm these four weeks!" said Capitola, almost indignant that such an absurd objection to a long ride should be raised.
"The more reason, my child, that we should have a very severe one when it does come, and I think it will be upon us before sunset; so I advise you to hurry home."
"Why, Mrs. Condiment, there's not a cloud in the sky."
"So much the worse, my dear! The blackest cloud that ever gathered is not so ominous of mischief as this dull, coppery sky and still atmosphere! And if forty years' observation of weather signs goes for anything, I tell you that we are going to have the awfulest storm that ever gathered in the heavens! Why, look out of that window--the very birds and beasts know it, and instinctively seek shelter--look at that flock of crows flying home! See how the dumb beasts come trooping toward their sheds! Capitola, you had better give up going altogether, my dear!"
"There! I thought all this talk tended to keeping me within doors, but I can't stay, Mrs. Condiment! Good Mrs. Condiment, I can't!"
"But, my dear, if you should be caught out in the storm!"
"Why, I don't know but I should like it! What harm could it do? I'm not soluble in water--rain won't melt me away! I think upon the whole I rather prefer being caught in the storm," said Cap, perversely.
"Well, well, there is no need of that! You may ride as far as the river's bank and back again in time to escape, if you choose!" said Mrs. Condiment, who saw that her troublesome charge was bent upon the frolic.
And Cap, seeing her horse approach, led by one of the grooms, ran up-stairs, donned her riding habit, hat and gloves, ran down again, sprang into her saddle and was off, galloping away toward the river before Mrs. Condiment could add another word of warning.
She had been gone about an hour, when the sky suddenly darkened, the wind rose and the thunder rolled in prelude to the storm.
Major Warfield came skurrying home from the mill, grasping his bridle with one hand and holding his hat on with the other.
Meeting poor old Ezy in the shrubbery, he stormed out upon him with: "What are you lounging there for, you old idiot! You old sky-gazing lunatic! Don't you see that we are going to have an awful blow! Begone with you and see that the cattle are all under shelter! Off, I say, or," he rode toward Bill Ezy, but the old man, exclaiming: "Yes, sir--yes, sir! In coorse, sir!" ducked his head and ran off in good time.
Major Warfield quickened his horse's steps and rode to the house, dismounted and threw the reins to the stable boy, exclaiming: "My beast is dripping with perspiration--rub him down well, you knave, or I'll impale you!"
Striding into the hall, he threw down his riding whip, pulled off his gloves and called: "Wool! Wool, you scoundrel, close every door and window in the house! Call all the servants together in the dining-room; we're going to have one of the worst tempests that ever raised!"
Wool flew to do his bidding.
"Mrs. Condiment, mum," said the old man, striding into the sitting-room, "Mrs. Condiment, mum, tell Miss Black to come down from her room until the storm is over; the upper chambers of this old house are not safe in a tempest. Well, mum, why don't you go, or send Pitapat?"
"Major Warfield, sir, I'm very sorry, but Miss Black has not come in yet," said Mrs. Condiment, who for the last half hour had suffered extreme anxiety upon account of Capitola.
"Not come in yet! Demmy, mum! Do you tell me she has gone out?" cried Old Hurricane, in a voice of thunder, gathering his brows into a dark frown, and striking his cane angrily upon the floor.
"Yes, sir, I am sorry to say she rode out about an hour ago and has not returned," said Mrs. Condiment, summoning all her firmness to meet Old Hurricane's 'roused wrath."
"Ma'am! You venture to stand there before my face and tell me composedly that you permitted Miss Black to go off alone in the face of such a storm as this?" roared Old Hurricane.
"Sir, I could not help it!" said the old lady.
"Demmy, mum! You should have helped it! A woman of your age to stand there and tell me that she could not prevent a young creature like Capitola from going out alone in the storm!"
"Major Warfield, could you have done it?"
"Me? Demmy, I should think so; but that is not the question! You----" He was interrupted by a blinding flash of lightning, followed immediately by an awful peal of thunder and a sudden fall of rain.
Old Hurricane sprang up as though he had been shot off his chair and trotted up and down the floor exclaiming: "And she--she out in all this storm! Mrs. Condiment, mum, you deserve to be ducked! Yes, mum, you do! Wool! Wool! you diabolical villain!"
"Yes, marse, yes, sir, here I is!" exclaimed that officer, in trepidation, as he appeared in the doorway. "De windows and doors, sir, is all fastened close and de maids are all in the dining-room as you ordered, and----" "Hang the maids and the doors and windows, too! Who the demon cares about them? How dared you, you knave, permit your young mistress to ride, unattended, in the face of such a storm, too! Why didn't you go with her, sir?" " 'Deed, marse----" "Don't ''deed marse' me you atrocious villain! Saddle a horse quickly, inquire which road your mistress took and follow and attend her home safely--after which I intend to break every bone in your skin, sirrah! So----" Again he was interrupted by a dazzling flash of lightning, accompanied by a deafening roll of thunder, and followed by a flood of rain.
Wool stood appalled at the prospect of turning out in such a storm upon such a fruitless errand.
"Oh, you may stare and roll up your eyes, but I mean it, you varlet! So be off with you! Go! I don't care if you should be drowned in the rain, or blown off the horse, or struck by lightning. I hope you may be, you knave, and I shall be rid of one villain! Off, you varlet, or----" Old Hurricane lifted a bronze statuette to hurl at Wool's delinquent head, but that functionary dodged and ran out in time to escape a blow that might have put a period to his mortal career.
But let no one suppose that honest Wool took the road that night! He simply ran down-stairs and hid himself comfortably in the lowest regions of the house, there to tarry until the storms, social and atmospheric, should be over.
Meanwhile the night deepened, the storm raged without and Old Hurricane raged within!
The lightning flashed, blaze upon blaze, with blinding glare! The thunder broke, crash upon crash, with deafening roar! The wind gathering all its force cannonaded the old walls as though it would batter down the house! The rain fell in floods! In the midst of all the Demon's Run, swollen to a torrent, was heard like the voice of a "roaring lion, seeking whom he might devour!"
Old Hurricane strode up and down the floor, groaning, swearing, threatening, and at every fresh blast of the storm without, breaking forth into fury!
Mrs. Condiment sat crouched in a corner, praying fervently every time the lightning blazed into the room, longing to go and join the men and maids in the next apartment, yet fearful to stir from her seat lest she should attract Old Hurricane's attention, and draw down upon herself the more terrible thunder and lightning of his wrath. But to escape Old Hurricane's violence was not in the power of mortal man or woman. Soon her very stillness exasperated him and he broke forth upon her with: "Mrs. Condiment, mum, I don't know how you can bear to sit there so quietly and listen to this storm, knowing that the poor child is exposed to it?"
"Major Warfield, would it do any good for me to jump up and trot up and down the floor and go on as you do, even supposing I had the strength?" inquired the meek old lady, thoroughly provoked at his injustice!
"I'd like to see you show a little more feeling! You are a perfect barbarian! Oh, Cap! my darling, where are you now? Heavens! what a blast was that! Enough to shake the house about our ears! I wish it would! blamed if I don't!"
"Oh, Major! Major! don't say such awful things, nor make such awful wishes!" said the appalled old lady--"you don't know what you might bring down upon us!"
"No, nor care! If the old house should tumble in, it would bury under its ruins a precious lot of good-for-nothing people, unfit to live! Heavens! what a flash of lightning! Oh, Cap, Cap, my darling, where are you in this storm? Mrs. Condiment, mum! if any harm comes to Capitola this night, I'll have you indicted for manslaughter!"
"Major Warfield, if it is all on Miss Black's account that you are raving and raging so, I think it is quite vain of you! for any young woman caught out in a storm would know enough to get into shelter; especially would Miss Black, who is a young lady of great courage and presence of mind, as we know. She has surely gone into some house, to remain until the storm is over," said Mrs. Condiment, soothingly.
This speech, so well intended, exasperated Old Hurricane more than all the rest; stopping and striking his cane upon the floor, he roared forth: "Hang it, mum! hold your foolish old tongue! You know nothing about it! Capitola is exposed to more serious dangers than the elements! Perils of all sorts surround her! She should never, rain or shine, go out alone! Oh, the little villain! the little wretch! the little demon! if ever I get her safe in this house again, won't I lock her up and keep her on bread and water until she learns to behave herself!"
Here again a blinding flash of lightning, a deafening peal of thunder, a terrific blast of wind and flood of rain suddenly arrested his speech.
"Oh, my Cap! my dear Cap! I needn't threaten you! I shall never have the chance to be cruel to you again--never! You'll perish in this terrible storm and then--and then my tough old heart will break! It will--it will, Cap! But demmy, before it does, I'll break the necks of every man and woman, in this house, old and young! Hear it, heaven and earth, for I'll do it!"
All things must have an end. So, as the hours passed on, the storm having spent all its fury, gradually grumbled itself into silence.
Old Hurricane also raged himself into a state of exhaustion so complete that when the midnight hour struck he could only drop into a chair and murmur: "Twelve o'clock and no news of her yet!"
And then unwillingly he went to bed, attended by Mrs. Condiment and Pitapat instead of Wool, who was supposed to be out in search of Capitola, but who was, in fact, fast asleep on the floor of a dry cellar.
Meanwhile, where did this midnight hour find Capitola?
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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4
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THE HIDDEN HOLLOW.
|
On every side the aspect was the same, All ruined, desolate, forlorn and savage, No hand or foot within the precinct came To rectify or ravage! Here Echo never mocked the human tongue; Some weighty crime that Heaven could not pardon. A secret curse on that old Building hung And its deserted garden!
--_Hood's Haunted House. _ Cap was a bit of a Don Quixote! The stirring incidents of the last few months had spoiled her; the monotony of the last few weeks had bored her; and now she had just rode out in quest of adventures.
The Old Hidden House, with its mysterious traditions, its gloomy surroundings and its haunted reputation, had always possessed a powerful attraction for one of Cap's adventurous spirit. To seek and gaze upon the somber house, of which, and of whose inmates, such terrible stories had been told or hinted, had always been a secret desire and purpose of Capitola.
And now the presence there of a beautiful girl near her own age was the one last item that tipped the balance, making the temptation to ride thither outweigh every other consideration of duty, prudence and safety. And having once started on the adventure, Cap felt the attraction drawing her toward the frightful hollow of the Hidden House growing stronger with every step taken thitherward.
She reached the banks of the "Demon's Run," and took the left-hand road down the stream until she reached the left point of the Horse-Shoe Mountain, and then going up around the point, she kept close under the back of the range until she had got immediately in the rear of the round bend of the "Horse Shoe," behind Hurricane Hall.
"Well," said Cap, as she drew rein here, and looked up at the lofty ascent of gray rocks that concealed Hurricane Hall, "to have had to come such a circuit around the outside of the 'Horse Shoe,' to find myself just at the back of our old house, and no farther from home than this! There's as many doubles and twists in these mountains as there are in a lawyer's discourse! There, Gyp, you needn't turn back again and pull at the bridle, to tell me that there is a storm coming up and that you want to go home! I have no more respect for your opinion than I have for Mrs. Condiment's. Besides, you carry a damsel-errant in quest of adventures, Gyp, and so you must on, Gyp--you must on!" said Capitola, forcibly pulling her horse's head around, and then taking a survey of the downward path.
It was a scene fascinating from its very excess of gloom and terror!
It was a valley so deep and dark as to merit the name of the hollow, or hole, but for its great extent and its thick growth of forest, through which spectral-looking rocks gleamed, and moaning waters could be heard but not seen.
"Now, somewhere in that thick forest in the bottom of that vale, stands the house--well called the Hidden House, since not a chimney of it can be seen even from this commanding height! But I suppose this path that leads down into the valley may conduct me to the building! Come along, Gyp! You needn't turn up your head and pull at the bit! You've got to go! I am bound this night to see the outside of the Hidden House, and the window of the haunted chamber at the very least!" said Cap, throwing her eyes up defiantly toward the darkening sky, and putting whip to her unwilling horse.
As the path wound down into the valley the woods were found deeper, thicker and darker. It occupied all Cap's faculties to push her way through the overhanging and interlacing branches of the trees.
"Good gracious," she said, as she used her left arm rather vigorously to push aside the obstructions to her path, "one would think this were the enchanted forest containing the castle of the sleeping beauty, and I was the knight destined to deliver her! I'm sure it wouldn't have been more difficult."
Still deeper fell the path, thicker grew the forest and darker the way.
"Gyp, I'm under the impression that we shall have to turn back yet!" said Cap, dolefully stopping in the midst of a thicket so dense that it completely blockaded her farther progress in the same direction. Just as she came to this very disagreeable conclusion she spied an opening on her left, from which a bridle-path struck out. With an exclamation of joy she immediately turned her horse's head and struck into it. This path was very rocky, but in some degree clearer than the other, and she went on quickly, singing to herself, until gradually her voice began to be lost in the sound of many rushing waters.
"It must be the Devil's Punch Bowl! I am approaching!" she said to herself, as she went on.
She was right. The roaring of the waters grew deafening and the path became so rugged with jagged and irregularly piled rocks, that Cap could scarcely keep her horse upon his feet in climbing over them. And suddenly, when she least looked for it, the great natural curiosity--the Devil's Punch Bowl--burst upon her view!
It was an awful abyss, scooped out as it were from the very bowels of the earth, with its steep sides rent open in dreadful chasms, and far down in its fearful depths a boiling whirlpool of black waters.
Urging her reluctant steed through a thicket of stunted thorns and over a chaos of shattered rocks, Capitola approached as near as she safely could to the brink of this awful pit. So absorbed was she in gazing upon this terrible phenomenon of natural scenery that she had not noticed, in the thicket on her right, a low hut that, with its brown-green moldering colors, fell so naturally in with the hue of the surrounding scenery as easily to escape observation. She did not even observe that the sky was entirely overcast, and the thunder was muttering in the distance. She was aroused from her profound reverie by a voice near her asking: "Who are you, that dares to come without a guide to the Devil's Punch Bowl?"
Capitola looked around and came nearer screaming than she ever had been in her life, upon seeing the apparition that stood before her. Was it man, woman, beast or demon? She could not tell! It was a very tall, spare form, with a black cloth petticoat tied around the waist, a blue coat buttoned over the breast, and a black felt hat tied down with a red handkerchief, shading the darkest old face she had ever seen in her life.
"Who are you, I say, who comes to the Devil's Punch Bowl without leave or license?" repeated the frightful creature, shifting her cane from one hand to the other.
"I? I am Capitola Black, from Hurricane Hall; but who, in the name of all the fates and furies, are you?" inquired Capitola, who, in getting over the shock, had recovered her courage.
"I am Harriet the Seeress of Hidden Hollow!" replied the apparition, in a melodramatic manner that would not have discredited the queen of tragedy herself. "You have heard of me?"
"Yes, but I always heard you called Old Hat, the Witch," said Cap.
"The world is profane--give me your hand!" said the beldame, reaching out her own to take that of Capitola.
"Stop! Is your hand clean? It looks very black!"
"Cleaner than yours will be when it is stained with blood, young maiden!"
"Tut! If you insist on telling my fortune, tell me a pleasant one, and I will pay you double," laughed Capitola.
"The fates are not to be mocked. Your destiny will be that which the stars decree. To prove to you that I know this, I tell you that you are not what you have been!"
"You've hit it this time, old lady, for I was a baby once and now I am a young girl!" said Cap, laughing.
"You will not continue to be that which you are now!" pursued the hag, still attentively reading the lines of her subject's hand.
"Right again; for if I live long enough I shall be an old woman."
"You bear a name that you will not bear long!"
"I think that quite a safe prophecy, as I haven't the most distant idea of being an old maid!"
"This little hand of yours--this dainty woman's hand--will be--red with blood!"
"Now, do you know, I don't doubt that either? I believe it altogether probable that I shall have to cook my husband's dinner and kill the chickens for his soup!"
"Girl, beware! You deride the holy stars--and already they are adverse to you!" said the hag, with a threatening glare.
"Ha, ha, ha! I love the beautiful stars but did not fear them! I fear only Him who made the stars!"
"Poor butterfly, listen and beware! You are destined to imbrue that little hand in the life current of one who loves you the most of all on earth! You are destined to rise by the destruction of one who would shed his heart's best blood for you!" said the beldame, in an awful voice.
Capitola's eyes flashed! She advanced her horse a step or two nearer the witch and raised her riding whip, saying: "I protest! If you were only a man I should lay this lash over your wicked shoulders until my arms ached! How dare you? Faith, I don't wonder that in the honest old times such pests as you were cooled in the ducking pond! Good gracious, that must have made a hissing and spluttering in the water, though!"
"Blasphemer, pay me and begone!"
"Pay you? I tell you I would if you were only a man; but it would be sinful to pay a wretched old witch in the only way you deserve to be paid!" said Cap, flourishing her riding whip before a creature tall enough and strong enough to have doubled up her slight form together and hurled it into the abyss.
"Gold! gold!" said the hag curtly, holding out black and talon-like fingers, which she worked convulsively.
"Gold! gold, indeed! for such a wicked fortune! Not a penny!" said Cap.
"Ho! you're stingy; you do not like to part with the yellow demon that has bought the souls of all your house!"
"Don't I? You shall see! There! If you want gold, go fish it from the depth of the whirlpool," said Cap, taking her purse and casting it over the precipice.
This exasperated the crone to frenzy.
"Away! Begone!" she cried, shaking her long arm at the girl. "Away! Begone! The fate pursues you! The badge of blood is stamped upon your palm!" " 'Fee--faw--fum'" said Cap.
"Scorner! Beware! The curse of the crimson hand is upon you!"
--"'I smell the blood of an Englishman'"--continued Cap.
"Derider of the fates, you are foredoomed to crime!"
--"'Be he alive or be he dead, I'll have his brains to butter my bread!'" concluded Cap.
"Be silent!" shrieked the beldame.
"I won't!" said Cap. "Because you see, if we are in for the horrible, I can beat you hollow at that! " 'Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless! Thy blood is cold! Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with?'"
"Begone! You're doomed! doomed! doomed!" shrieked the witch, retreating into her hut.
Cap laughed and stroked the neck of her horse, saying: "Gyp, my son, that was old Nick's wife, who was with us just this instant, and now, indeed, Gyp, if we are to see the Hidden House this afternoon, we must get on!"
And so saying she followed the path that wound half-way around the Punch Bowl and then along the side of a little mountain torrent called the Spout, which, rising in an opposite mountain, leaped from rock to rock, with many a sinuous turn, as it wound through the thicket that immediately surrounded the Hidden House until it finally jetted through a subterranean channel into the Devil's Punch Bowl.
Capitola was now, unconsciously, upon the very spot, where, seventeen years before, the old nurse had been forcibly stopped and compelled to attend the unknown lady.
As Capitola pursued the path that wound lower and lower into the dark valley the gloom of the thicket deepened. Her thoughts ran on all the horrible traditions connected with the Hidden House and Hollow--the murder and robbery of the poor peddler--the mysterious assassination of Eugene Le Noir; the sudden disappearance of his youthful widow; the strange sights and sounds reported to be heard and seen about the mansion; the spectral light at the upper gable window; the white form seen flitting through the chamber; the pale lady that in the dead of night drew the curtains of a guest that once had slept there; and above all Capitola thought of the beautiful, strange girl, who was now an inmate of that sinful and accursed house! And while these thoughts absorbed her mind, suddenly, in a turning of the path, she came full upon the gloomy building.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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5
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THE HIDDEN HOUSE.
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The very stains and fractures on the wall Assuming features solemn and terrific, Hinted some tragedy of that old hall Locked up in hieroglyphic! Prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread; But to one gloomy window pointing mostly, The while some secret inspiration said, That chamber is the ghostly!
--Hood.
The Hidden House was a large, irregular edifice of dark red sandstone with its walls covered closely with the clinging ivy, that had been clipped away only from a few of the doors and windows, and its roof over-shadowed by the top branches of gigantic oaks and elms that clustered around and nearly concealed the building.
It might have been a long-forsaken house, for any sign of human habitation that was to be seen about it. All was silent, solitary and gloomy.
As Capitola drew up her horse to gaze upon its somber walls she wondered which was the window at which the spectral light and ghostly face had been seen. She soon believed that she had found it.
At the highest point of the building, immediately under the sharp angle of the roof, in the gable and nearest to view, was a solitary window. The ivy that clung tightly to the stone, covering every portion of the wall at this end, was clipped away from that high placed, dark and lonely window by which Capitola's eyes were strangely fascinated.
While thus she gazed in wonder, interest and curiosity, though without the least degree of superstitious dread, a vision flashed upon her sight that sent the blood from her ruddy cheek to her brave heart, and shook the foundations of her unbelief!
For while she gazed, suddenly that dark window was illumed by a strange, unearthly light that streamed forth into the gloomy evening air, and touched with blue flame the quivering leaves of every tree in its brilliant line! In the midst of this lighted window appeared a white female face wild with woe! And then the face suddenly vanished and the light was swallowed up in darkness!
Capitola remained transfixed!
"Great heaven!" she thought, "can these things really be! Have the ghostly traditions of this world truth in them at last? When I heard this story of the haunted window I thought some one had surely imagined or invented it! Now I have seen for myself; but if I were to tell what I have seen not one in a hundred would believe me!"
While these startling thoughts disturbed her usual well-balanced mind, a vivid flash of lightning, accompanied by a tremendous peal of thunder and a heavy fall of rain, roused her into renewed activity.
"Gyp, my boy, the storm is upon us sure enough! We shall catch it all around, get well drowned, beaten and buffeted here and well abused when we get home! Meantime, Gyp, which is the worst, the full fury of the tempest or the mysterious terrors of the Haunted House!"
Another blinding flash of lightning, a stunning crash of thunder, a flood of rain and tornado of wind decided her.
"We'll take the Haunted House, Gyp, my friend! That spectral lady of the lighted window looked rather in sorrow than in anger, and who knows but the ghosts may be hospitable? So gee up, Dobbin!" said Capitola, and, urging her horse with one hand and holding on her cap with the other, she went on against wind and rain until she reached the front of the old house.
Not a creature was to be seen; every door and window was closely shut. Dismounting, Capitola led her horse under the shelter of a thickly leaved oak tree, secured him, and then holding up her saturated skirt with one hand and holding on her cap with the other, she went up some moldering stone steps to an old stone portico and, seizing the heavy iron knocker of a great black oak double door, she knocked loudly enough to awaken all the mountain echoes.
She waited a few minutes for an answer, but receiving none, she knocked again, more loudly than before. Still there was no reply. And growing impatient, she seized the knocker with both hands and exerting all her strength, made the welkin ring again!
This brought a response. The door was unlocked and angrily jerked open by a short, squarely formed, beetle-browed, stern-looking woman, clothed in a black stuff gown and having a stiff muslin cap upon her head.
"Who are you? What do you want here?" harshly demanded this woman, whom Capitola instinctively recognized as Dorkey Knight, the morose housekeeper of the Hidden House.
"Who am I? What do I want? Old Nick fly away with you! It's plain enough to be seen who I am and what I want. I am a young woman caught out in the storm and I want shelter!" said Cap, indignantly. And her words were endorsed by a terrific burst of the tempest in lightning, thunder, wind and rain!
"Come in then and when you ask favors learn to keep a civil tongue in your head!" said the woman sternly, taking the guest by the hand and pulling her in and shutting and locking the door.
"Favors! Plague on you for a bearess! I asked no favor! Every storm-beaten traveler has a right to shelter under the first roof that offers, and none but a curmudgeon would think of calling it a favor! And as for keeping a civil tongue in my head, I'll do it when you set me the example!" said Cap.
"Who are you?" again demanded the woman.
"Oh, I see you are no Arabian in your notions of hospitality! Those pagans entertain a guest without asking him a single question; and though he were their bitterest foe, they consider him while he rests beneath their tent sacred from intrusion."
"That's because they were pagans!" said Dorkey. "But as I am a Christian, I'd thank you to let me know who it is that I have received under this roof."
"My name," said our heroine, impatiently, "is Capitola Black! I live with my uncle, Major Warfield, at Hurricane Hall! And now, I should thank your ladyship to send some one to put away my horse, while you yourself accommodate me with dry clothes."
While our saucy little heroine spoke the whole aspect of the dark-browed woman changed.
"Capitola--Capitola," she muttered, gazing earnestly upon the face of the unwelcome guest.
"Yes, Capitola! That is my name! You never heard anything against it, did you?"
For all answer the woman seized her hand, and while the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled, and the wind and rain beat down, she drew her the whole length of the hall before a back window that overlooked the neglected garden, and, regardless of the electric fluid that incessantly blazed upon them, she held her there and scrutinized her features.
"Well, I like this! Upon my word, I do!" said Cap, composedly.
Without replying, the strange woman seized her right hand, forcibly opened it, gazed upon the palm and then, flinging it back with a shudder, exclaimed: "Capitola, what brought you under this roof? Away! Begone! Mount your horse and fly while there is yet time!"
"What! expose myself again to the storm? I won't, and that's flat!" said Cap.
"Girl! girl! there are worse dangers in the world than any to be feared from thunder, lightning, rain or wind!"
"Very well, then, when I meet them it will be time enough to deal with them! Meanwhile the stormy night and my soaked clothing are very palpable evils, and as I see no good end to be gained by my longer enduring them, I will just beg you to stop soothsaying--(as I have had enough of that from another old witch)--and be as good as to permit me to change my clothes!"
"It is madness! You shall not stay here!" cried the woman, in a harsh voice.
"And I tell you I will! You are not the head of the family, and I do not intend to be turned out by you!"
While she spoke a servant crossed the hall and the woman, whisking Capitola around until her back was turned and her face concealed, went to speak to the newcomer.
"When will your master be here?" Capitola heard her inquire.
"Not to-night; he saw the storm rising and did not wish to expose himself. He sent me on to say that he would not be here until morning. I was caught, as you see! I am dripping wet," replied the man.
"Go, change your clothes at once then, Davy."
"Who is that stranger?" asked the man, pointing to Capitola.
"Some young woman of the neighborhood, who has been caught out in the tempest. But you had better go and change your clothes than to stand here gossiping," said the woman, harshly.
"I say," said the man, "the young woman is a God-send to Miss Clara; nobody has been to see her yet; nobody ever visits this house unless they are driven to it. I don't wonder the colonel and our young master pass as much as ten months in the year away from home, spending all the summer at the watering places, and all the winter in New York or Washington!"
"Hold your tongue! What right have you to complain? You always attend them in their travels!"
"True, but you see for this last season they have both been staying here, old master to watch the heiress, young master to court her, and as I have no interest in that game, I find the time hangs heavy on my hands," complained the man.
"It will hang heavier if you take a long fit of illness by standing in wet clothes," muttered the woman.
"Why, so 'twill, missus! So here goes," assented the man, hurrying across the hall and passing out through the door opposite that by which he entered.
Dorcas returned to her guest.
Eying her closely for a while, she at length inquired: "Capitola, how long have you lived at Hurricane Hall?"
"So long," replied Cap, "that you must have heard of me! I, at least, have often heard of Mother Dorkey Knight."
"And heard no good of her!"
"Well, no--to be candid with you, I never did," said Cap.
"And much harm of her?" continued the woman, keeping her stern black eyes fixed upon those of her guest.
"Well, yes--since you ask me, I have heard pretty considerable harm!" answered Cap, nothing daunted.
"Where did you live before you came to Hurricane Hall?" asked Dorcas.
"Where I learned to fear God, to speak the truth and to shame the devil!" replied Cap.
--"And to force yourself into people's houses against their will!"
"There you are again! I tell you that when I learn from the head of this household that I am unwelcome, then I will retreat, and not until then! And now I demand to be presented to the master."
"To Colonel Le Noir?"
"Yes."
"I cannot curse you with 'the curse of a granted prayer!' Colonel Le Noir is away."
"Why do you talk so strangely?" inquired Capitola.
"It is my whim. Perhaps my head is light."
"I should think it was, excessively so! Well--as the master of the house is away, be good enough to present me to the mistress?"
"What mistress? There is no mistress here!" replied Dorcas, looking around in strange trepidation.
"I mean the young lady, Colonel Le Noir's ward. In lieu of any other lady, she, I suppose, may be considered the mistress of the house!"
"Humph! Well, young girl, as you are fully resolved to stand your ground. I suppose there is nothing to do but to put up with you!" said Dorcas.
"And put up my horse," added Cap.
"He shall be taken care of! But mind, you must depart early in the morning!" said Dorcas, sternly.
"Once more, and for the last, Mother Cerberus, I assure you I do not acknowledge your authority to dismiss me!" retorted Capitola. "So show me to the presence of your mistress!"
"Perverse, like all the rest! Follow me!" said the housekeeper, leading the way from the hall toward a back parlor.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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6
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THE INMATE OF THE HIDDEN HOUSE.
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There is a light around her brow, A holiness in those dark eyes, That show, though wandering earthward now, Her spirit's home is in the skies.
--Moore.
Pushing open the door, Dorcas Knight exclaimed: "Here is a young lady, Miss Black, from Hurricane Hall, come to see you, Miss Day."
And having made this announcement, the woman retired and shut the door behind her.
And Capitola found herself in a large, dark, gloomy, wainscoted room, whose tall, narrow windows afforded but little light, and whose immense fireplace and blackened furniture seemed to belong to a past century.
The only occupant of this somber apartment was a young girl, seated in pensive thought beside the central table. She was clothed in deep mourning, which only served to throw into fairer relief the beauty of her pearly skin, golden hair and violet eyes.
The vision of her mourning robes and melancholy beauty so deeply impressed Capitola that, almost for the first time in her life, she hesitated from a feeling of diffidence, and said gently: "Indeed, I fear that this is an unwarranted intrusion on my part, Miss Day."
"You are very welcome," replied the sweetest voice Capitola had ever heard, as the young girl arose and advanced to meet her. "But you have been exposed to the storm. Please come into my room and change your clothes," continued the young hostess, as she took Cap's hand and led her into an adjoining room.
The storm was still raging, but these apartments being in the central portion of the strong old house, were but little exposed to the sight or sound of its fury.
There was a lamp burning upon the mantelpiece, by the light of which the young girl furnished her visitor with dry clothing and assisted her to change, saying as she did so: "I think we are about the same size, and that my clothes will fit you; but I will not offer you mourning habiliments--you shall have this lilac silk."
"I am very sorry to see you in mourning," said Capitola, earnestly.
"It is for my father," replied Clara, very softly.
As they spoke the eyes of the two young girls met. They were both good physiognomists and intuitive judges of character. Consequently in the full meeting of their eyes they read, understood and appreciated each other.
The pure, grave, and gentle expression of Clara's countenance touched the heart of Capitola.
The bright, frank, honest face of Cap recommended her to Clara.
The very opposite traits of their equally truthful characters attracted them to each other.
Clara conducted her guest back into the wainscoted parlor, where a cheerful fire had been kindled to correct the dampness of the air. And here they sat down unmindful of the storm that came much subdued through the thickness of the walls. And, as young creatures, however tried and sorrowful, will do, they entered into a friendly chat. And before an hour had passed Capitola thought herself well repaid for her sufferings from the storm and the rebuff, in having formed the acquaintance of Clara Day.
She resolved, let Old Hurricane rage as he might, henceforth she would be a frequent visitor to the Hidden House.
And Clara, for her part, felt that in Capitola she had found a frank, spirited, faithful neighbor who might become an estimable friend.
While they were thus growing into each other's favor, the door opened and admitted a gentleman of tall and thin figure and white and emaciated face, shaded by a luxuriant growth of glossy black hair and beard. He could not have been more than twenty-six, but, prematurely broken by vice, he seemed forty years of age. He advanced bowing toward the young women.
As Capitola's eyes fell upon this newcomer it required all her presence of mind and powers of self-control to prevent her from staring or otherwise betraying herself--for in this stranger she recognized the very man who had stopped her upon her night ride. She did, however, succeed in banishing from her face every expression of consciousness. And when Miss Day courteously presented him to her guest, saying merely, "My cousin, Mr. Craven Le Noir, Miss Black," Capitola arose and curtsied as composedly as if she had never set eyes upon his face before.
He on his part evidently remembered her, and sent one stealthy, keen and scrutinizing glance into her face; but, finding that imperturbable, he bowed with stately politeness and seemed satisfied that she had not identified him as her assailant.
Craven Le Noir drew his chair to the fire, seated himself and entered into an easy conversation with Clara and her guest. Whenever he addressed Clara there was a deference and tenderness in his tone and glance that seemed very displeasing to the fair girl, who received all these delicate attentions with coldness and reserve. These things did not escape the notice of Capitola, who mentally concluded that Craven Le Noir was a lover of Clara Day, but a most unacceptable lover.
When supper was announced it was evidently hailed by Clara as a great relief. And after the meal was over she arose and excused herself to her cousin by saying that her guest, Miss Black, had been exposed to the storm and was doubtless very much fatigued and that she would show her to her chamber.
Then, taking a night lamp, she invited Capitola to come and conducted her to an old-fashioned upper chamber, where a cheerful fire was burning on the hearth. Here the young girls sat down before the fire and improved their acquaintance by an hour's conversation. After which Clara arose, and saying, "I sleep immediately below your room, Miss Black; if you should want anything rap on the floor and I shall hear you and get up," she wished her guest a good night's rest and retired from the room.
Cap was disinclined to sleep; a strange superstitious feeling which she could neither understand nor throw off had fallen upon her spirits.
She took the night lamp in her hand and got up to examine her chamber. It was a large, dark, oak-paneled room, with a dark carpet on the floor and dark-green curtains on the windows and the bedstead. Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait of a most beautiful black-haired and black-eyed girl of about fourteen years of age, but upon whose infantile brow fell the shadow of some fearful woe. There was something awful in the despair "on that face so young" that bound the gazer in an irresistible and most painful spell. And Capitola remained standing before it transfixed, until the striking of the hall clock aroused her from her enchantment. Wondering who the young creature could have been, what had been her history and, above all, what had been the nature of that fearful woe that darkened like a curse her angel brow, Capitola turned almost sorrowfully away and began to prepare for bed.
She undressed, put on the delicate nightclothes Clara had provided for her use, said her evening prayers, looked under the bed--a precaution taken ever since the night upon which she had discovered the burglars--and, finding all right, she blew out her candle and lay down. She could not sleep--many persons of nervous or mercurial temperaments cannot do so the first night in a strange bed. Cap was very mercurial, and the bed and room in which she lay were very strange; for the first time since she had had a home to call her own she was unexpectedly staying all night away from her friends, and without their having any knowledge of her whereabouts. She was conjecturing, half in fear and half in fun, how Old Hurricane was taking her escapade and what he would say to her in the morning. She was wondering to find herself in such an unforeseen position as that of a night guest in the mysterious Hidden House--wondering whether this was the guest chamber in which the ghost appeared to the officer and these were the very curtains that the pale lady drew at night. While her thoughts were thus running over the whole range of circumstances around her singular position, sleep overtook Capitola and speculation was lost in brighter visions.
How long she had slept and dreamed she did not know, when something gently awakened her. She opened her eyes calmly--to meet a vision that brave as she was, nearly froze the blood in her warm veins.
Her chamber was illumined with an intense blue flame that lighted up every portion of the apartment with a radiance bright as day, and in the midst of this effulgence moved a figure clothed in white--a beautiful, pale, spectral woman, whose large, motionless black eyes, deeply set in her death-like face, and whose long unbound black hair, fallen upon her white raiment, were the only marks of color about her marble form.
Paralyzed with wonder, Capitola watched this figure as it glided about the chamber. The apparition approached the dressing-table, seemed to take something thence, and then gliding toward the bed, to Capitola's inexpressible horror, drew back the curtains and bent down and gazed upon her! Capitola had no power to scream, to move or to avert her gaze from those awful eyes that met her own, until at length, as the spectral head bent lower, she felt the pressure of a pair of icy lips upon her brow and closed her eyes!
When she opened them again the vision had departed and the room was dark and quiet.
There was no more sleep for Capitola. She heard the clock strike four, and was pleased to find that it was so near day. Still the time seemed very long to her, who lay there wondering, conjecturing and speculating on the strange adventure of the night.
When the sun arose she left her restless bed, bathed her excited head and proceeded to dress herself. When she had finished her toilet, with the exception of putting on her trinkets, she suddenly missed a ring that she prized more than she did all her possessions put together--it was a plain gold band, bearing the inscription Capitola-Eugene, and which she had been enjoined by her old nurse never to part from but with life. She had, in her days of destitution suffered the extremes of cold and hunger; had been upon the very brink of death from starvation or freezing, but without ever dreaming of sacrificing her ring. And now for the first time it was missing. While she was still looking anxiously for the lost jewel the door opened and Dorcas Knight entered the room, bearing on her arm Capitola's riding dress, which had been well dried and ironed.
"Miss Capitola, here is your habit; you had better put it on at once, as I have ordered breakfast an hour sooner than usual, so that you may have an early start."
"Upon my word, you are very anxious to get rid of me, but not more so than I am to depart," said Capitola, still pursuing her search.
"Your friends, who do not know where you are, must be very uneasy about you. But what are you looking for?"
"A ring, a plain gold circle, with my name and that of another inscribed on it, and which I would not lose for the world. I hung it on a pin in this pin-cushion last night before I went to bed. I would swear I did, and now it is missing," answered Cap, still pursuing her search.
"If you lost it in this room it will certainly be found," said Dorcas Knight putting down the habit and helping in the search.
"I am not so sure of that. There was some one in my room last night."
"Some one in your room!" exclaimed Dorcas in dismay.
"Yes; a dark-haired woman, all dressed in white!"
Dorcas Knight gave two or three angry grunts and then harshly exclaimed: "Nonsense! woman, indeed! there is no such woman about the house! There are no females here except Miss Day, myself and you--not even a waiting-maid or cook."
"Well," said Cap, "if it was not a woman it was a ghost; for I was wide awake, and I saw it with my own eyes!"
"Fudge! you've heard that foolish story of the haunted room, and you have dreamed the whole thing!"
"I tell you I didn't! I saw it! Don't I know?"
"I say you dreamed it! There is no such living woman here; and as for a ghost, that is all folly. And I must beg, Miss Black, that you will not distress Miss Day by telling her this strange dream of yours. She has never heard the ridiculous story of the haunted room, and, as she lives here in solitude, I would not like her to hear of it."
"Oh, I will say nothing to disquiet Miss Day; but it was no dream. It was real, if there is any reality in this world."
There was no more said. They continued to look for the ring, but in vain. Dorcas Knight, however, assured her guest that it should be found and returned, and that--breakfast waited. Whereupon Capitola went down to the parlor, where she found Clara awaiting her presence to give her a kindly greeting.
"Mr. Le Noir never gets up until very late, and so we do not wait for him," said Dorcas Knight, as she took her seat at the head of the table and signed to the young girls to gather around it.
After breakfast Capitola, promising to come again soon, and inviting Clara to return her visit, took leave of her entertainers and set out for home.
"Thank heaven! I have got her off in time and safety!" muttered Dorcas Knight, in triumph.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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7
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CAP'S RETURN.
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Must I give way and room for your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? Go show your slaves how choleric you are! And make your bondsmen tremble! I'll not blench!
--Shakespeare.
It happened that about sunrise that morning Wool awoke in the cellar, and remembered that on the night previous his master had commanded him to sally forth in the storm and seek his young mistress, and had forbidden him, on pain of broken bones, to return without bringing her safe. Therefore, what did the honest soul do but steal out to the stables, saddle and mount a horse and ride back to the house just as Mrs. Condiment had come out into the poultry yard to get eggs for breakfast.
"Missus Compliment, ma'am, I'se been out all night in search of Miss Caterpillar, without finding of her. Is she come back, ma'am?"
"Lor', no, indeed, Wool! I'm very anxious, and the major is taking on dreadful! But I hope she is safe in some house. But, poor Wool, you must have had a dreadful time out all night in the storm looking for her!"
"Awful! Missus Compliment, ma'am, awful!" said Wool.
"Indeed, I know you had, poor creature, come in and get some warm breakfast," said the kind old lady.
"I daren't, Missus Compliment. Old marse forbid me to show my face to him until I fetch Miss Caterpillar home safe," said Wool, turning his horse's head as if to go. In doing so he saw Capitola galloping toward the house, and with an exclamation of joy pointed her out to the old lady and rode on to meet her.
"Oh, Miss Caterpillar, I'se so glad I've found you! I'se done been out looking for you all night long!" exclaimed Wool, as he met her.
Capitola pulled up her horse and surveyed the speaker with a comical expression, saying: "Been out all night looking for me! Well, I must say you seem in a fine state of preservation for a man who has been exposed to the storm all night. You have not a wet thread on you."
"Lor', miss, it rained till one o'clock, and then the wind riz and blowed till six and blowed me dry," said Wool, as he sprang off his horse and helped his young mistress to alight.
Then, instead of taking the beasts to the stable, he tied them to the tree and hurried into the house and upstairs to his master's room, to apprise him of the return of the lost sheep, Capitola.
Old Hurricane was lying awake, tossing, groaning and grumbling with anxiety.
On seeing Wool enter he deliberately raised up and seized a heavy iron candlestick and held it ready to hurl at the head of that worthy, whom he thus addressed: "Ah, you have come, you atrocious villain! You know the conditions. If you have dared to show your face without bringing your young mistress----" "Please, marse, I wur out looking for her all night."
"Have you brought her?" thundered Old Hurricane, rising up.
"Please, marse, yes, sir; I done found her and brought her home safe."
"Send her up to me," said Old Hurricane, sinking back with a sigh of infinite relief.
Wool flew to do his bidding.
In five minutes Capitola entered her uncle's chamber.
Now, Old Hurricane had spent a night of almost intolerable anxiety upon his favorite's account, bewailing her danger and praying for her safety; but no sooner did he see her enter his chamber safe and sound and smiling than indignation quite mastered him, and jumping out of his bed in his nightgown, he made a dash straight at Capitola.
Now, had Capitola run there is little doubt but that, in the blindness of his fury, he would have caught and beat her then and there. But Cap saw him coming, drew up her tiny form, folded her arms and looked him directly in the face.
This stopped him; but, like a mettlesome old horse suddenly pulled up in full career, he stamped and reared and plunged with fury, and foamed and spluttered and stuttered before he could get words out.
"What do you mean, you vixen, by standing there and popping your great eyes out at me? Are you going to bite, you tigress? What do you mean by facing me at all?" he roared, shaking his fist within an inch of Capitola's little pug nose.
"I am here because you sent for me, sir," was Cap's unanswerable rejoinder.
"Here because I sent for you! humph! humph! humph! and come dancing and smiling into my room as if you had not kept me awake all the live-long night--yes, driven me within an inch of brain fever! Not that I cared for you, you limb of Old Nick! not that I cared for you, except to wish with all my heart and soul that something or other had happened to you, you vagrant! Where did you spend the night, you lunatic?"
"At the old Hidden House, where I went to make a call on my new neighbor, Miss Day, and where I was caught in the storm."
"I wish to heaven you had been caught in a man-trap and had all your limbs broken, you--you--you--Oh!" ejaculated Old Hurricane, turning short and trotting up and down the room. Presently he stopped before Capitola and rapping his cane upon the floor, demanded: "Who did you see at that accursed place, you--you--infatuated maniac?"
"Miss Day, Mr. Le Noir, Mrs. Knight and a man servant, name unknown," coolly replied Cap.
"And the head demon, where was he?"
"Uncle, if by the 'head demon' you mean Old Nick, I think it quite likely, from present appearances, that he passed the night at Hurricane Hall."
"I mean--Colonel Le Noir!" exclaimed Old Hurricane, as if the name choked him.
"Oh! I understood that he had that day left home."
"Umph! Oh! Ah! That accounts for it; that accounts for it," muttered Old Hurricane to himself; then, seeing that Cap was wistfully regarding his face and attending to his muttered phrases, he broke out upon her with: "Get out of this--this--this----" He meant to say "get out of this house," but a sure instinct warned him that if he should speak thus Capitola, unlike the other members of his household, would take him at his word.
"Get out of this room, you vagabond!" he vociferated.
And Cap, with a curtsey and a kiss of her hand, danced away.
Old Hurricane stamped up and down the floor, gesticulating like a demoniac and vociferating: "She'll get herself burked, kidnapped, murdered or what not! I'm sure she will! I know it! I feel it! It's no use to order her not to go; she will be sure to disobey, and go ten times as often for the very reason that she was forbidden. What the demon shall I do? Wool! Wool! you brimstone villain, come here!" he roared, going to the bell-rope and pulling it until he broke it down.
Wool ran in with his hair bristling, his teeth chattering and his eyes starting.
"Come here to me, you varlet! Now, listen: You are to keep a sharp look-out after your young mistress. Whenever she rides abroad you are to mount a horse and ride after her, and keep your eyes open, for if you once lose sight of her, you knave, do you know what I shall do to you, eh?"
"N--no, marse," stammered Wool, pale with apprehension.
"I should cut your eyelids off to improve your vision! Look to it, sir, for I shall keep my word! And now come and help me to dress," concluded Old Hurricane.
Wool, with chattering teeth, shaking knees and trembling fingers, assisted his master in his morning toilet, meditating the while whether it were not better to avoid impending dangers by running away.
And, in fact, between his master and his mistress, Wool had a hot time of it. The weather, after the storm had cleared the atmosphere, was delightful, and Cap rode out that very day. Poor Wool kept his eyeballs metaphorically "skinned," for fear they should be treated literally so--held his eyes wide open, lest Old Hurricane should keep his word and make it impossible for him ever to shut them.
When Cap stole out, mounted her horse and rode away, in five minutes from the moment of starting she heard a horse's hoofs behind her, and presently saw Wool gallop to her side.
At first Cap bore this good-humoredly enough, only saying: "Go home, Wool, I don't want you; I had much rather ride alone."
To which the groom replied: "It is old marse's orders, miss, as I should wait on you."
Capitola's spirit rebelled against this; and, suddenly turning upon her attendant, she indignantly exclaimed: "Wool, I don't want you, sir; I insist upon being left alone, and I order you to go home, sir!"
Upon this Wool burst into tears and roared.
Much surprised, Capitola inquired of him what the matter was.
For some time Wool could only reply by sobbing, but when he was able to articulate he blubbered forth: "It's nuf to make anybody go put his head under a meat-ax, so it is!"
"What is the matter, Wool?" again inquired Capitola.
"How'd you like to have your eyelids cut off?" howled Wool, indignantly.
"What?" inquired Capitola.
"Yes; I axes how'd you like to have your eyelids cut off? Case that's what ole marse t'reatens to do long o' me, if I don't follow arter you and keep you in sight. And now you forbids of me to do it, and--and--and I'll go and put my neck right underneaf a meat-ax!"
Now, Capitola was really kind-hearted, and, well knowing the despotic temper of her guardian, she pitied Wool, and after a little hesitation she said: "Wool, so your old master says if you don't keep your eyes on me he'll cut your eyelids off?"
"Ye--ye--yes, miss," sobbed Wool.
"Did he say if you didn't listen to me he'd cut your ears off?"
"N--n--no, miss."
"Did he swear if you didn't talk to me he'd cut your tongue out?"
"N--n--no, miss."
"Well, now, stop howling and listen to me! Since, at the peril of your eyelids, you are obliged to keep me in sight, I give you leave to ride just within view of me, but no nearer, and you are never to let me see or hear you, if you can help it for I like to be alone."
"I'll do anything in this world for peace, Miss Caterpillar," said poor Wool.
And upon this basis the affair was finally settled. And no doubt Capitola owed much of her personal safety to the fact that Wool kept his eyes open.
While these scenes were going on at Hurricane Hall, momentous events were taking place elsewhere, which require another chapter for their development.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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8
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ANOTHER MYSTERY AT THE HIDDEN HOUSE.
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"Hark! what a shriek was that of fear intense, Of horror and amazement! What fearful struggle to the door and thence With mazy doubles to the grated casement!"
An hour after the departure of Capitola, Colonel Le Noir returned to the Hidden House and learned from his man David that upon the preceding evening a young girl of whose name he was ignorant had sought shelter from the storm and passed the night at the mansion.
Now, Colonel Le Noir was extremely jealous of receiving strangers under his roof, never, during his short stay at the Hidden House, going out into company, lest he should be obliged in return to entertain visitors. And when he learned that a strange girl had spent the night beneath his roof, he frowningly directed that Dorcas should be sent to him.
When his morose manager made her appearance he harshly demanded the name of the young woman she had dared to receive beneath his roof.
Now, whether there is any truth in the theory of magnetism or not, it is certain that Dorcas Knight--stern, harsh, resolute woman that she was toward all others--became as submissive as a child in the presence of Colonel Le Noir.
At his command she gave him all the information he required, not even withholding the fact of Capitola's strange story of having seen the apparition of the pale-faced lady in her chamber, together with the subsequent discovery of the loss of her ring.
Colonel Le Noir sternly reprimanded his domestic manager for her neglect of his orders and dismissed her from his presence.
The remainder of the day was passed by him in moody thought. That evening he summoned his son to a private conference in the parlor--an event that happily delivered poor Clara Day from their presence at her fireside.
That night Clara, dreading lest at the end of their interview they might return to her society, retired early to her chamber where she sat reading until a late hour, when she went to bed and found transient forgetfulness of trouble in sleep.
She did not know how long she had slept when she was suddenly and terribly awakened by a woman's shriek sounding from the room immediately overhead, in which, upon the night previous, Capitola had slept.
Starting up in bed, Clara listened.
The shriek was repeated--prolonged and piercing--and was accompanied by a muffled sound of struggling that shook the ceiling overhead.
Instinctively springing from her bed, Clara threw on her dressing-gown and flew to the door; but just as she turned the latch to open it she heard a bolt slipped on the outside and found herself a prisoner in her own chamber.
Appalled, she stood and listened.
Presently there came a sound of footsteps on the stairs and a heavy muffled noise as of some dead weight being dragged down the staircase and along the passage. Then she heard the hall door cautiously opened and shut. And, finally, she distinguished the sound of wheels rolling away from the house.
Unable longer to restrain herself, she rapped and beat upon her own door, crying aloud for deliverance.
Presently the bolt was withdrawn, the door jerked open and Dorcas Knight, with a face of horror, stood before her.
"What is the matter! Who was that screaming? In the name of mercy, what has happened?" cried Clara, shrinking in abhorrence from the ghastly woman.
"Hush! it is nothing! There were two tomcats screaming and fighting in the attic, and they fought all the way downstairs, rolling over and over each other. I've just turned them out," faltered the woman, shivering as with an ague fit.
"What--what was that--that went away in the carriage?" asked Clara shuddering.
"The colonel, gone to meet the early stage at Tip-Top, to take him to Washington. He would have taken leave of you last night, but when he came to your parlor you had left it."
"But--but--there is blood upon your hand, Dorcas Knight!" cried Clara, shaking with horror.
"I--I know; the cats scratched me as I put them out," stammered the stern woman, trembling almost as much as Clara herself.
These answers failed to satisfy the young girl, who shrank in terror and loathing from that woman's presence, and sought the privacy of her own chamber, murmuring: "What has happened? What has been done? Oh, heaven! oh, heaven! have mercy on us! some dreadful deed has been done in this house to-night!"
There was no more sleep for Clara. She heard the clock strike every hour from one to six in the morning, when she arose and dressed herself and went from her room, expecting to see upon the floor and walls and upon the faces of the household signs of some dreadful tragedy enacted upon the previous night.
But all things were as usual--the same dark, gloomy and neglected magnificence about the rooms and passages, the same reserved, sullen and silent aspect about the persons.
Dorcas Knight presided as usual at the head of the breakfast table, and Craven Le Noir at the foot. Clara sat in her accustomed seat at the side, midway between them.
Clara shuddered in taking her cup of coffee from the hand of Dorcas, and declined the wing of fowl that Craven Le Noir would have put upon her plate.
Not a word was said upon the subject of the mystery of the preceding night until Craven Le Noir, without venturing to meet the eyes of the young girl, said: "You look very pale, Clara."
"Miss Day was frightened by the cats last night," said Dorcas.
Clara answered never a word. The ridiculous story essayed to be palmed off upon her credulity in explanation of the night's mystery had not gained an instant's belief.
She knew that the cry that had startled her from sleep had burst in strong agony from human lips!
That the helpless weight she had heard dragged down the stairs and along the whole length of the passage was some dead or insensible human form!
That the blood she had seen upon the hand of Dorcas Knight was--oh, heaven! her mind shrank back appalled with horror at the thought which she dare not entertain! She could only shudder, pray and trust in God.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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9
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CAP FREES THE CAPTIVE.
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Hold, daughter! I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that is desperate, which we would prevent And if thou darest, I'll give thee remedy! Hold, then! go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris! Wednesday is to-morrow!
--Shakespeare.
As the autumn weather was now very pleasant, Capitola continued her rides, and, without standing on ceremony, repeated her visit to the Hidden House. She was, as usual, followed by Wool, who kept at a respectful distance, and who, during his mistress' visit, remained outside in attendance upon the horses.
Capitola luckily was in no danger of encountering Colonel Le Noir, who, since the night of the mysterious tragedy, had not returned home, but had gone to and settled in his winter quarters in Washington city.
But she again met Craven Le Noir, who, contrary to his usual custom of accompanying his father upon his annual migrations to the metropolis, had, upon this occasion, remained home in close attendance upon his cousin, the wealthy orphan.
Capitola found Clara the same sweet, gentle and patient girl, with this difference only, that her youthful brow was now overshadowed by a heavy trouble which could not wholly be explained by her state of orphanage or her sorrow for the dead--it was too full of anxiety, gloom and terror to have reference to the past alone.
Capitola saw all this and, trusting in her own powers, would have sought the confidence of the poor girl, with the view of soothing her sorrows and helping her out of her difficulties; but Miss Day, candid upon all other topics, was strangely reserved upon this subject, and Capitola, with all her eccentricity, was too delicate to seek to intrude upon the young mourner's sanctuary of grief.
But a crisis was fast approaching which rendered further concealment difficult and dangerous, and which threw Clara for protection upon the courage, presence of mind and address of Capitola.
Since Clara Day had parted with her betrothed and had taken up her residence beneath her guardian's roof, she had regularly written both to Traverse at St. Louis and to his mother at Staunton. But she had received no reply from either mother or son. And months had passed, filling the mind of Clara with anxiety upon their account.
She did not for one moment doubt their constancy. Alas! it required but little perspicacity on her part to perceive that the letters on either side must have been intercepted by the Le Noirs--father and son.
Her greatest anxiety was lest Mrs. Rocke and Traverse, failing to hear from her, should imagine that she had forgotten them. She longed to assure them that she had not; but how should she do this? It was perfectly useless to write and send the letter to the post-office by any servant at the Hidden House, for such a letter was sure to find its way--not into the mail bags, but into the pocket of Colonel Le Noir.
Finally, Clara resolved to entrust honest Cap with so much of her story as would engage her interest and co-operation, and then confide to her care a letter to be placed in the post-office. Clara had scarcely come to this resolution ere, as we said, an imminent crisis obliged her to seek the further aid of Capitola.
Craven Le Noir had never abated his unacceptable attentions to the orphan heiress. Day by day, on the contrary, to Clara's unspeakable distress, these attentions grew more pointed and alarming.
At first she had received them coldly and repulsed them gently; but as they grew more ardent and devoted she became colder and more reserved, until at length, by maintaining a freezing hauteur at variance with her usually sweet temper, she sought to repel the declaration that was ever ready to fall from his lips.
But, notwithstanding her evident abhorrence of his suit, Craven Le Noir persisted in his purpose.
And so one morning he entered the parlor and, finding Clara alone, he closed the door, seated himself beside her, took her hand and made a formal declaration of love and proposal of marriage, urging his suit with all the eloquence of which he was master.
Now, Clara Day, a Christian maiden, a recently bereaved orphan and an affianced bride, had too profound a regard for her duties toward God, her father's will and her betrothed husband's rights to treat this attempted invasion of her faith in any other than the most deliberate, serious and dignified manner.
"I am very sorry, Mr. Le Noir, that it has at length come to this. I thought I had conducted myself in such a manner as totally to discourage any such purpose as this which you have just honored me by disclosing. Now, however, that the subject may be set at rest forever, I feel bound to announce to you that my hand is already plighted," said Clara, gravely.
"But, my fairest and dearest love, your little hand cannot be plighted without the consent of your guardian, who would never countenance the impudent pretensions which I understand to be made by the low-born young man to whom I presume you allude. That engagement was a very foolish affair, my dear girl, and only to be palliated on the ground of your extreme childishness at the time of its being made. You must forget the whole matter, my sweetest love, and prepare yourself to listen to a suit more worthy of your social position," said Craven Le Noir, attempting to steal his arm around her waist.
Clara coldly repelled him, saying: "I am at a loss to understand, Mr. Le Noir, what act of levity on my part has given you the assurance to offer me this affront!"
"Do you call it an affront, fair cousin, that I lay my hand and heart and fortune at your feet?"
"I have called your act, sir, by its gentlest name. Under the circumstances I might well have called it an outrage!"
"And what may be those circumstances that convert an act of--adoration--into an outrage, my sweet cousin?"
"Sir, you know them well. I have not concealed from you or my guardian that I am the affianced bride of Doctor Rocke, nor that our troth was plighted with the full consent of my dear father," said Clara, gravely.
"Tut, tut, tut, my charming cousin, that was mere child's play--a school-girl's romantic whim. Do not dream that your guardian will ever permit you to throw yourself away upon that low-bred fellow."
"Mr. Le Noir, if you permit yourself to address me in this manner, I shall feel compelled to retire. I cannot remain here to have my honored father's will and memory, and the rights of my betrothed, insulted in my person!" said Clara, rising to leave the room.
"No--stay! forgive me, Clara! pardon me, gentlest girl, if, in my great love for you, I grow impatient of any other claim upon your heart, especially from such an unworthy quarter. Clara, you are a mere child, full of generous but romantic sentiments and dangerous impulses. You require extra vigilance and firm exercise of authority on the part of your guardian to save you from certain self-destruction. And some day, sweet girl, you will thank us for preserving you from the horrors of such a mésalliance," said Craven Le Noir, gently detaining her.
"I tell you, Mr. Le Noir, that your manner of speaking of my betrothal is equally insulting to myself, Doctor Rocke and my dear father, who never would have plighted our hands had he considered our prospective marriage a mésalliance."
"Nor do I suppose he ever did plight your hands--while in his right senses!"
"Oh, sir, this has been discussed before. I beg of you to let the subject drop forever, remembering that I hold myself sacredly betrothed to Traverse Rocke, and ready--when, at my legal majority, he shall claim me--to redeem my plighted faith by becoming his wife."
"Clara, this is madness! It must not be endured, nor shall not! I have hitherto sought to win your hand by showing you the great extent of my love; but be careful how you scorn that love or continue to taunt me with the mention of an unworthy rival. For, though I use gentle means, should I find them fail of their purpose, I shall know how to avail myself of harsher ones."
Clara disdained reply, except by permitting her clear eye to pass over him from head to foot with an expression of consuming scorn that scathed him to the quick.
"I tell you to be careful, Clara Day! I come to you armed with the authority of your legal guardian, my father, Colonel Le Noir, who will forestall your foolish purpose of throwing yourself and your fortune away upon a beggar, even though to do so he strain his authority and coerce you into taking a more suitable companion," said Craven Le Noir, rising impatiently and pacing the floor. But no sooner had he spoken these words than he saw how greatly he had injured his cause and repented them. Going to Clara and intercepting her as she was about to leave the room, he gently took her hand and, dropping his eyes to the floor with a look of humility and penitence, he said: "Clara, my sweet cousin, I know not how sufficiently to express my sorrow at having been hurried into harshness toward you--toward you whom I love more than my own soul, and whom it is the fondest wish of my heart to call wife. I can only excuse myself for this or any future extravagance of manner by my excessive love for you and the jealousy that maddens my brain at the bare mention of my rival. That is it, sweet girl. Can you forgive one whom love and jealousy have hurried into frenzy?"
"Mr. Le Noir, the Bible enjoins me to forgive injuries. I shall endeavor, when I can, to forgive you, though for the present my heart is still burning under the sense of wrongs done toward myself and those whom I love and esteem, and the only way in which you can make me forget what has just passed will be--never to repeat the offence." And with these words Clara bent her head and passed from the room.
Could she have seen the malignant scowl and gesture with which Craven Le Noir followed her departure, she would scarcely have trusted his expressions of penitence.
Lifting his arm above his head he fiercely shook his fist after her and exclaimed: "Go on, insolent girl, and imagine that you have humbled me; but the tune shall be changed by this day month, for before that time whatever power the law gives the husband over his wife and her property shall be mine over you and your possessions. Then we will see who shall be insolent; then we shall see whose proud blue eye shall day after day dare to look up and rebuke me. Oh! to get you in my power, my girl! Not that I love you, moon-faced creature, but I want your possessions, which is quite as strong an incentive."
Then he fell into thought. He had an ugly way of scowling and biting his nails when deeply brooding over any subject, and now he walked slowly up and down the floor with his head upon his breast, his brows drawn over his nose and his four fingers between his teeth, gnawing away like a wild beast, while he muttered: "She is not like the other one; she has more sense and strength; she will give us more trouble. We must continue to try fair means a little longer. It will be difficult, for I am not accustomed to control my passions, even for a purpose--yet, penitence and love are the only cards to be played to this insolent girl for the present. Afterwards! --" Here his soliloquy muttered itself into silence, his head sank deeper upon his breast, his brows gathered lower over his nose and he walked and gnawed his nails like a hungry wolf.
The immediate result of this cogitation was that he went into the library and wrote off a letter to his father, telling him all that had transpired between himself and Clara, and asking his further counsel.
He dispatched this letter and waited an answer.
During the week that ensued before he could hope to hear from Colonel Le Noir, he treated Clara with marked deference and respect.
And Clara, on her part, did not tax his forbearance by appearing in his presence oftener than she could possibly avoid.
At the end of the week the expected letter came. It was short and to the purpose. It ran thus: Washington, Dec. 14, 18-- MY DEAR CRAVEN--You are losing time. Do not hope to win the girl by the means you propose. She is too acute to be deceived, and too firm to be persuaded. We must not hesitate to use the only possible means by which we can coerce her into compliance. I shall follow this letter by the first stage coach, and before the beginning of the next month Clara Day shall be your wife. Your Affectionate Father, GABRIEL LE NOIR, C. LE NOIR, ESQ., Hidden House.
When Craven Le Noir read this letter his thin, white face and deep-set eyes lighted up with triumph. But Craven Le Noir huzzaed before he was out of the woods. He had not calculated upon Capitola.
The next day Colonel Le Noir came to the Hidden House. He arrived late in the afternoon.
After refreshing himself with a bath, a change of clothing and a light luncheon, he went to the library, where he passed the remainder of the evening in a confidential conference with his son. Their supper was ordered to be served up to them there; and for that evening Clara had the comfort of taking her tea alone.
The result of this conference was that the next morning, after breakfast, Colonel Le Noir sent for Miss Day to come to him in the library.
When Clara, nerving her gentle heart to resist a sinful tyranny, entered the library, Colonel Le Noir arose and courteously handed her to a chair, and then, seating himself beside her, said: "My dear Clara, the responsibilities of a guardian are always very onerous, and his duties not always very agreeable, especially when his ward is the sole heiress of a large property and the object of pursuit by fortune hunters and maneuverers, male and female. When such is the case, the duties and responsibilities of the guardian are augmented a hundredfold."
"Sir, this cannot be so in my case, since you are perfectly aware that my destiny is, humanly speaking, already decided," replied Clara, with gentle firmness.
"As--how, I pray you, my fair ward?"
"You cannot possibly be at a loss to understand, sir. You have been already advised that I am betrothed to Doctor Rocke, who will claim me as his wife upon the day that I shall complete my twenty-first year."
"Miss Clara Day! no more of that, I beseech you! It is folly, perversity, frenzy! But, thanks to the wisdom of legislators, the law very properly invests the guardian with great latitude of discretionary power of the person and property of his ward--to be used, of course, for that ward's best interest. And thus, my dear Clara, it is my duty, while holding this power over you, to exercise it for preventing the possibility of your ever--either now or at any future time, throwing yourself away upon a mere adventurer. To do this, I must provide you with a suitable husband. My son, Mr. Craven Le Noir, has long loved and wooed you. He is a young man of good reputation and fair prospects. I entirely approve his suit, and as your guardian I command you to receive him for your destined husband."
"Colonel Le Noir, this is no time 'for bated breath and whispered humbleness.' I am but a simple girl of seventeen, but I understand your purpose and that of your son just as well as though I were an old man of the world. You are the fortune hunters and maneuverers! It is the fortune of the wealthy heiress and friendless orphan that you are in pursuit of! But that fortune, like my hand and heart, is already promised to one I love; and, to speak very plainly to you, I would die ere I would disappoint him or wed your son," said Clara, with invincible firmness.
"Die, girl! There are worse things than death in the world!" said Colonel Le Noir, with a threatening glare.
"I know it! and one of the worst things in the world would be a union with a man I could neither esteem nor even endure!" exclaimed Clara.
Colonel Le Noir saw that there was no use in further disguise. Throwing off, then, the last restraints of good breeding, he said: "And there are still more terrible evils for a woman than to be the wife of one she 'can neither esteem nor endure!'"
Clara shook her head in proud scorn.
"There are evils to escape which such a woman would go down upon her bended knees to be made the wife of such a man."
Clara's gentle eyes flashed with indignation.
"Infamous!" she cried. "You slander all womanhood in my person!"
"The evils to which I allude are--comprised in--a life of dishonor!" hissed Le Noir through his set teeth.
"This to my father's daughter!" exclaimed Clara, growing white as death at the insult.
"Aye, my girl! It is time we understood each other. You are in my power, and I intend to coerce you to my will!"
These words, accompanied as they were by a look that left no doubt upon her mind that he would carry out his purpose to any extremity, so appalled the maiden's soul that she stood like one suddenly struck with catalepsy.
The unscrupulous wretch then approached her and said: "I am now going to the county seat to take out a marriage license for you and my son. I shall have the carriage at the door by six o'clock this evening, when I desire that you shall be ready to accompany us to church, where a clerical friend will be in attendance to perform the marriage ceremony. Clara Day, if you would save your honor, look to this!"
All this time Clara had neither moved nor spoken nor breathed. She had stood cold, white and still as if turned to stone.
"Let no vain hope of escape delude your mind. The doors will be kept locked; the servants are all warned not to suffer you to leave the house. Look to it, Clara, for the rising of another sun shall see my purpose accomplished!"
And with these words the atrocious wretch left the room. His departure took off the dreadful spell that had paralyzed Clara's life; her blood began to circulate again; breath came to her lungs and speech to her lips.
"Oh, Lord," she cried, "oh, Lord, who delivered the children from the fiery furnace, deliver thy poor handmaiden now from her terrible foes!"
While she thus prayed she saw upon the writing table before her a small penknife. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes brightened as she seized it.
"This! this!" she said, "this small instrument is sufficient to save me! Should the worst ensue, I know where to find the carotid artery, and even such a slight puncture as my timorous hand could make would set my spirit free! Oh, my father! oh, my father! you little thought when you taught your Clara the mysteries of anatomy to what a fearful use she would put your lessons! And would it be right? Oh, would it be right? One may desire death, but can anything justify suicide? Oh, Father in heaven, guide me! guide me!" cried Clara, falling upon her knees and sobbing forth this prayer of agony.
Soon approaching footsteps drew her attention. And she had only time to rise and put back her damp, disheveled hair from her tear-stained face before the door opened and Dorcas Knight appeared and said: "Here is this young woman come again."
"I declare, Miss Day," said Cap, laughing, "you have the most accomplished, polite and agreeable servants here that I ever met with! Think with what a courteous welcome this woman received me--'Here you are again!' she said. 'You'll come once too often for your own good, and that I tell you.' I answered that every time I came it appeared to be once too often for her liking. She rejoined, 'The colonel has come home, and he don't like company, so I advise you to make your call a short one.' I assured her that I should measure the length of my visit by the breadth of my will---- But good angels, Clara! what is the matter? You look worse than death!" exclaimed Capitola, noticing for the first time the pale, wild, despairing face of her companion.
Clara clasped her hands as if in prayer and raised her eyes with an appealing gaze into Capitola's face.
"Tell me, dear Clara, what is the matter? How can I help you? What shall I do for you?" said our heroine.
Before trusting herself to reply, Clara gazed wistfully into Capitola's eyes, as though she would have read her soul.
Cap did not blanch nor for an instant avert her own honest, gray orbs; she let Clara gaze straight down through those clear windows of the soul into the very soul itself, where she found only truth, honesty and courage.
The scrutiny seemed to be satisfactory for Clara soon took the hand of her visitor and said: "Capitola, I will tell you. It is a horrid, horrid story, but you shall know all. Come with me to my chamber."
Cap pressed the hand that was so confidingly placed in hers and accompanied Clara to her room, where, after the latter had taken the precaution to lock the door, the two girls sat down for a confidential talk.
Clara, like the author of Robin Hood's Barn, "began at the beginning" of her story, and told everything--her betrothal to Traverse Rocke; the sudden death of her father; the decision of the Orphans' Court; the departure of Traverse for the far West; her arrival at the Hidden House; the interruption of all her epistolary correspondence with her betrothed and his mother; the awful and mysterious occurrences of that dreadful night when she suspected some heinous crime had been committed; and finally of the long, unwelcome suit of Craven Le Noir and the present attempt to force him upon her as a husband.
Cap listened very calmly to this story, showing very little sympathy, for there was not a bit of sentimentality about our Cap.
"And now," whispered Clara, while the pallor of horror overspread her face, "by threatening me with a fate worse than death, they would drive me to marry Craven Le Noir!"
"Yes, I know I would!" said Cap, as if speaking to herself, but by her tone and manner clothing these simple words in the very keenest sarcasm.
"What would you do, Capitola?" asked Clara, raising her tearful eyes to the last speaker.
"Marry Mr. Craven Le Noir and thank him, too!" said Cap. Then, suddenly changing her tone, she exclaimed: "I wish--oh! how I wish it was only me in your place--that it was only me they were trying to marry against my will!"
"What would you do?" asked Clara, earnestly.
"What would I do? Oh! wouldn't I make them know the difference between their Sovereign Lady and Sam the Lackey? If I had been in your place and that dastard Le Noir had said to me what he said to you, I do believe I should have stricken him dead with the lightning of my eyes! But what shall you do, my poor Clara?"
"Alas! alas! see here! this is my last resort!" replied the unhappy girl, showing the little pen-knife.
"Put it away from you! put it away from you!" exclaimed Capitola earnestly, "suicide is never, never, never justifiable! God is the Lord of life and death! He is the only judge whether a mortal's sorrows are to be relieved by death, and when He does not Himself release you, He means that you shall live and endure! That proves that suicide is never right, let the Roman pagans have said and done what they pleased. So no more of that! There are enough other ways of escape for you!"
"Ah! what are they? You would give me life by teaching me how to escape!" said Clara, fervently.
"The first and most obvious means that suggests itself to my mind," said Cap, "is to--run away!"
"Ah! that is impossible. The servants are warned; the doors are all locked; I am watched!"
"Then the next plan is equally obvious. Consent to go with them to the church, and when you get there, denounce them and claim the protection of the clergyman!"
"Ah! dear girl, that is still more impracticable. The officiating clergyman is their friend, and even if I could consent to act a deceitful part, and should go to church as if to marry Craven and upon getting there denounce him, instead of receiving the protection of the clergyman I should be restored to the hands of my legal guardian and be brought back here to meet a fate worse than death," said Clara, in a tone of despair.
Capitola did not at once reply, but fell into deep thought, which lasted many minutes. Then, speaking more gravely than she had spoken before, she said: "There is but one plan of escape left, your only remaining chance, and that full of danger!"
"Oh, why should I fear danger? What evil can befall me so great as that which now threatens me?" said Clara.
"This plan requires on your part great courage, self-control and presence of mind."
"Teach me! teach me, dear Capitola. I will be an apt pupil!"
"I have thought it all out, and will tell you my plan. It is now eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and the carriage is to come for you at six this evening, I believe?"
"Yes! yes!"
"Then you have seven hours in which to save yourself! And this is my plan: First, Clara, you must change clothes with me, giving me your suit of mourning and putting on my riding habit, hat and veil! Then, leaving me here in your place, you are to pull the veil down closely over your face and walk right out of the house! No one will speak to you, for they never do to me. When you have reached the park, spring upon my horse and put whip to him for the village of Tip Top. My servant, Wool, will ride after you, but not speak to you or approach near enough to discover your identity--for he has been ordered by his master to keep me in sight, and he has been forbidden by his mistress to intrude upon her privacy. You will reach Tip Top by three o'clock, when the Staunton stage passes through. You may then reveal yourself to Wool, give my horse into his charge, get into the coach and start for Staunton. Upon reaching that place, put yourself under the protection of your friends, the two old physicians, and get them to prosecute your guardian for cruelty and flagrant abuse of authority. Be cool, firm and alert, and all will be well!"
Clara, who had listened to this little Napoleon in petticoats with breathless interest, now clasped her hands in a wild ecstasy of joy and exclaimed: "I will try it! Oh, Capitola, I will try it! Heaven bless you for the counsel!"
"Be quick, then; change your dress! provide yourself with a purse of money, and I will give you particular directions how to make a short cut for Tip Top. Ha, ha, ha! when they come for the bride she will be already rolling on the turnpike between Tip Top and Staunton!"
"But you! Oh, you, my generous deliverer?"
"I shall dress myself in your clothes and stay here in your place to keep you from being missed, so as to give you full time to make your escape."
"But--you will place yourself in the enraged lion's jaws! You will remain in the power of two men who know neither justice nor mercy! Who, in their love or their hate, fear neither God nor man! Oh, Capitola! how can I take an advantage of your generosity, and leave you here in such extreme peril? Capitola, I cannot do it!"
"Well, then, I believe, you must be anxious to marry Craven Le Noir!"
"Oh, Capitola!"
"Well, if you are not, hurry and get ready; there is no time to be lost!"
"But you! but you, my generous friend!"
"Never mind me. I shall be safe enough! I am not afraid of the Le Noirs. Bless their wigs; I should like to see them make me blanch. On the contrary, I desire above all things to be pitted against these two! How I shall enjoy their disappointment and rage! Oh, it will be a rare frolic!"
While Capitola was speaking she was also busily engaged doing. She went softly to the door and turned the key in the lock, to prevent any one from looking through the keyhole, murmuring as she did it: "I wasn't brought up among the detective policemen for nothing!"
Then she began to take off her riding-habit. Quickly she dressed Clara, superintending all the details of her disguise as carefully as though she were the costumer of a new debutante. When Clara was dressed she was so nearly of the same size and shape of Capitola that from behind no one would have suspected her identity.
"There, Clara! tuck your light hair out of the way; pull your cap over your eyes; gather your veil down close; draw up your figure; throw back your head; walk with a little springy sway and swagger, as if you didn't care a damson for anybody, and--there! I declare no one could tell you from me!" exclaimed Capitola in delight, as she completed the disguise and the instructions of Clara.
Then Capitola dressed herself in Clara's deep mourning robes. And then the two girls sat down to compose themselves for a few minutes, while Capitola gave new and particular directions for Clara's course and conduct, so as to insure as far as human foresight could do it, the safe termination of her perilous adventure. By the time they had ended their talk the hall clock struck twelve.
"There! it is full time you should be off! Be calm, be cool, be firm, and God bless you, Clara! Dear girl! if I were only a young man I would deliver you by the strength of my own arms, without subjecting you to inconvenience or danger!" said Cap, gallantly, as she led Clara to the chamber door and carefully gathered her thick veil in close folds over her face, so as entirely to conceal it.
"Oh, may the Lord in heaven bless and preserve and reward you, my brave, my noble, my heroic Capitola!" said Clara, fervently, with the tears rushing to her eyes.
"Bosh!" said Cap. "If you go doing the sentimental you won't look like me a bit, and that will spoil all. There! keep your veil close, for it's windy, you know; throw back your head and fling yourself along with a swagger, as if you didn't care, ahem! for anybody, and--there you are!" said Cap, pushing Clara out and shutting the door behind her.
Clara paused an instant to offer up one short, fervent prayer for her success and Capitola's safety, and then following her instructions, went on.
Nearly all girls are clever imitators, and Clara readily adopted Capitola's light, springy, swaying walk, and met old Dorcas Knight in the hall, without exciting the slightest suspicion of her identity.
"Humph!" said the woman; "so you are going! I advise you not to come back again!"
Clara threw up her head with a swagger, and went on.
"Very well, you may scorn my words, but if you know your own good you'll follow my advice!" said Dorcas Knight, harshly.
Clara flung up her head and passed out.
Before the door Wool was waiting with the horses. Keeping her face closely muffled, Clara went to Capitola's pony. Wool came and helped her into the saddle, saying: "Yer does right, Miss Cap, to keep your face kivered; it's awful windy, ain't it, though? I kin scarcely keep the har from blowing offen my head."
With an impatient jerk after the manner of Capitola, Clara signified that she did not wish to converse. Wool dropped obediently behind, mounted his horse and followed at a respectful distance until Clara turned her horse's head and took the bridle-path toward Tip Top. This move filled poor Wool with dismay. Riding toward her, he exclaimed: "'Deed, Miss Cap, yer mus' scuse me for speakin' now! Whar de muschief is yer a-goin' to?"
For all answer Clara, feigning the temper of Capitola, suddenly wheeled her horse, elevated her riding whip and galloped upon Wool in a threatening manner.
Wool dodged and backed his horse with all possible expedition, exclaiming in consternation: "Dar! dar! Miss Cap, I won't go for to ax you any more questions--no--not if yer rides straight to Old Nick or Black Donald!"
Whereupon, receiving this apology in good part, Clara again turned her horse's head and rode on her way.
Wool followed, bemoaning the destiny that kept him between the two fierce fires of his old master's despotism and his young mistress's caprice, and muttering: "I know old marse and dis young gal am goin' to be the death of me! I knows it jes' as well as nuffin at all! I 'clare to man, if it ain't nuf to make anybody go heave themselves right into a grist mill and be ground up at once."
Wool spoke no more until they got to Tip Top, when Clara still closely veiled, rode up to the stage office just as the coach, half filled with passengers, was about to start. Springing from her horse, she went up to Wool and said: "Here, man, take this horse back to Hurricane Hall! Tell Major Warfield that Miss Black remains at the Hidden House in imminent danger! Ask him to ride there and bring her home! Tell Miss Black when you see her that I reached Tip Top safe and in time to take the coach. Tell her I will never cease to be grateful! And now, here is a half eagle for your trouble! Good-by, and God bless you!" And she put the piece in his hand and took her place in the coach, which immediately started.
As for Wool! From the time that Clara had thrown aside her veil and began to speak to him he had stood staring and staring--his consternation growing and growing--until it had seemed to have turned him into stone--from which state of petrefaction he did not recover until he saw the stage coach roll rapidly away, carrying off--whom? --Capitola, Clara or the evil one? --Wool could not have told which! He presently astounded the people about the stage office by leaving his horses and taking to his heels after the stage coach, vociferating: "Murder! murder! help! help! stop thief! stop thief! stop the coach! stop the coach!"
"What is the matter, man?" said a constable, trying to head him.
But Wool incontinently ran over that officer, throwing him down and keeping on his headlong course, hat off, coat-tail streaming and legs and arms flying like the sails of a windmill, as he tried to overtake the coach, crying: "Help! murder! head the horses! Stop the coach! Old marse told me not to lose sight of her! Oh, for hebben's sake, good people, stop the coach!"
When he got to a gate, instead of taking time to open it, he rolled himself somersault-like right over it! When he met man or woman, instead of turning from his straight course, he knocked them over and passed on, garments flying and legs and arms circulating with the velocity of a wheel.
The people whom he had successively met and overthrown in his course, picking themselves up and getting into the village, reported that there was a furious madman broke loose, who attacked every one he met.
And soon every man and boy in the village who could mount a horse started in pursuit. Only race horses would have beaten the speed with which Wool ran, urged on by fear. It was nine miles on the turnpike road from Tip Top that the horsemen overtook and surrounded Wool, who, seeing himself hopelessly environed, fell down upon the ground and rolled and kicked, swearing that he would not be taken alive to have his eyelids cut off!
It was not until after a desperate resistance that he was finally taken, bound, put in a wagon and carried back to the village, where he was recognized as Major Warfield's man and a messenger was despatched for his master.
And not until he had been repeatedly assured that no harm should befall him did Wool gain composure enough to say, amid tears of cruel grief and fear: "Oh, marsers! my young missus, Miss Black, done been captured and bewitched and turned into somebody else, right afore my own two looking eyes and gone off in dat coach! 'deed she is! and ole marse kill me! 'deed he will, gemmen! He went and ordered me not to take my eyes offen her, and no more I didn't! But what good that do, when she turned to somebody else, and went off right afore my two looking eyes? But ole marse won't listen to reason. He kill me, I know he will!" whimpered Wool, refusing to be comforted.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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10
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CAP IN CAPTIVITY.
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I lingered here and rescue planned For Clara and for me.
--Scott.
Meanwhile how fared it with Capitola in the Hidden House?
"I am in for it now!" said Cap, as she closed the door behind Clara; "I am in for it now! This is a jolly imprudent adventure! What will Wool do when he discovers that he has 'lost sight' of me? What will uncle say when he finds out what I've done? Whe--ew! Uncle will explode! I wonder if the walls at Hurricane Hall will be strong enough to stand it! Wool will go mad! I doubt if he will ever do a bit more good in this world!
"But above all, I wonder what the Le Noirs, father and son, will say when they find that the heiress is flown and a 'beggar,' as uncle flatters me by calling me, will be here in her place! Whe--ew--ew--ew! There will be a tornado! Cap, child, they'll murder you! That's just what they'll do! They'll kill and eat you, Cap, without any salt! or they may lock you up in the haunted room to live with the ghost, Cap, and that would be worse!
"Hush! here comes Dorcas Knight! Now I must make believe I'm Clara, and do the sentimental up brown!" concluded Capitola, as she seated herself near the door where she could be heard, and began to sob softly.
Dorcas rapped.
Cap sobbed in response.
"Are you coming to luncheon, Miss Day?" inquired the woman.
"Ee--hee! Ee--hee! Ee--hee! I do not want to eat," sobbed Cap, in a low and smothered voice. Any one would have thought she was drowned in tears.
"Very well; just as you like," said the woman harshly, as she went away.
"Well, I declare," laughed Cap, "I did that quite as well as an actress could! But now what am I to do? How long can I keep this up? Heigh-ho 'let the world slide!' I'll not reveal myself until I'm driven to it, for when I do----! Cap, child, you'll get chawed right up!"
A little later in the day Dorcas Knight came again and rapped at the door.
"Ee--hee! Eeh--hee! Ee--hee!" sobbed Cap.
"Miss Day, your cousin, Craven Le Noir, wishes to speak with you alone."
"Ee--hee! Ee--hee! Ee--hee! I cannot see him!" sobbed Cap, in a low and suffocating voice.
The woman went away, and Cap suffered no other interruption until six o'clock, when Dorcas Knight once more rapped saying: "Miss Day, your uncle is at the front door with the carriage, and he wishes to know if you are ready to obey him.
"Ee--hee! Ee--hee! Ee--hee! --te--te--tell him yes!" sobbed Cap, as if her heart would break.
The woman went off with this answer, and Capitola hastily enveloped her form in Clara's large, black shawl, put on Clara's black bonnet and tied her thick mourning veil closely over her face.
"A pretty bridal dress, this; but, however, I suppose these men are no more particular about my costume than they are about their own conduct," said Cap.
She had just drawn on her gloves when she heard the footsteps of two men approaching. They rapped at the door.
"Come in," she sobbed, in a low, broken voice, that might have belonged to any girl in deep distress, and she put a white cambric handkerchief up to her eyes and drew her thick veil closely over her face.
The two Le Noirs immediately entered the room. Craven approached her and whispered, softly: "You will forgive me this, my share in these proceedings after awhile, sweet Clara! The Sabine women did not love the Roman youths the less that they were forcibly made wives by them."
"Ee--hee! Ee--hee! Ee--hee!" sobbed Cap, entirely concealing her white cambric handkerchief under her impenetrable veil.
"Come, come! we lose time!" said the elder Le Noir. "Draw her arm within yours, Craven, and lead her out."
The young man did as he was directed and led Cap from the room. It was now quite dark--the long, dreary passage was only dimly lighted by a hanging lamp, so that with the care she took there was scarcely a possibility of Capitola's being discovered. They went on, Craven Le Noir whispering hypocritical apologies and Cap replying only by low sobs.
When they reached the outer door they found a close carriage drawn up before the house.
To this Craven Le Noir led Capitola, placed her within and took the seat by her side. Colonel Le Noir followed and placed himself in the front seat opposite them. And the carriage was driven rapidly off.
An hour's ride brought the party to an obscure church in the depths of the forest, which Capitola recognized by the cross on its top to be a Roman Catholic chapel.
Here the carriage drew up and the two Le Noirs got out and assisted Capitola to alight.
They then led her into the church, which was dimly illumined by a pair of wax candles burning before the altar. A priest in his sacerdotal robes was in attendance. A few country people were scattered thinly about among the pews, at their private devotions.
Guarded by Craven Le Noir on the right and Colonel Le Noir on the left, Capitola was marched up the aisle and placed before the altar.
Colonel Le Noir then went and spoke apart to the officiating priest, saying, in a tone of dissatisfaction: "I told you, sir, that as our bride was an orphan, recently bereaved, and still in deep mourning, we wished the marriage ceremony to be strictly private, and you gave me to understand, sir, that at this hour the chapel was most likely to be vacant. Yet, here I find a half a score of people! How is this?"
"Sir," replied the priest, "it is true that at this hour of the evening the chapel is most likely to be vacant, but it is not therefore certain to be so! nor did I promise as much! Our chapel is, as you know, open at all hours of the day and night, that all who please may come and pray. These people that you see are hard-working farm laborers, who have no time to come in the day, and who are now here to offer up their evening prayers, and also, some of them, to examine their consciences preparatory to confession! They can certainly be no interruption to this ceremony."
"Egad, I don't know that!" muttered Colonel Le Noir between his teeth.
As for Cap, the sight of other persons present in the chapel filled her heart with joy and exultation, inasmuch as it insured her final safety. And so she just abandoned herself to the spirit of frolic that possessed her, and anticipated with the keenest relish the dénouement of her strange adventure.
"Well, what are we waiting for? Proceed, sir, proceed!" said Colonel Le Noir as he took Cap by the shoulders and placed her on the left side of his son, while he himself stood behind ready to "give the bride away."
The ceremony immediately commenced.
The prologue beginning, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here," etc., etc., etc., was read.
The solemn exhortation to the contracting parties, commencing "I require and charge ye both, as ye shall answer in the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any just cause or impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together," etc., etc., etc., followed.
Capitola listened to all this with the deepest attention, saying to herself: "Well, I declare, this getting married is really awfully interesting! If it were not for Herbert Greyson, I'd just let it go right straight on to the end and see what would happen next!"
While Cap was making these mental comments the priest was asking the bridegroom: "Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife," etc., etc., etc., "so long as ye both shall live?"
To which Craven Le Noir, in a sonorous voice responded: "I will."
"Indeed you will? We'll see that presently!" said Cap to herself.
The priest then turning toward the bride, inquired: "Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, etc., etc., etc., so long as ye both shall live?"
To which the bride, throwing aside her veil, answered, firmly: "No! not if he were the last man and I the last woman on the face of the earth and the human race was about to become extinct and the angel of Gabriel came down from above to ask it of me as a personal favor."
The effect of this outburst, this revelation, this explosion, may be imagined but can never be adequately described.
The priest dropped his book and stood with lifted hands and open mouth and staring eyes as though he had raised a ghost!
The two Le Noirs simultaneously sprang forward, astonishment, disappointment and rage contending in their blanched faces.
"Who are you, girl?" exclaimed Colonel Le Noir.
"Capitola Black, your honor's glory!" she replied, making a deep curtsey.
"What the foul fiend is the meaning of all this?" in the same breath inquired the father and son.
Cap put her thumb on the side of her nose, and, whirling her four fingers, replied: "It means, your worships' excellencies, that--you--can't come it! it's no go! this chicken won't fight. It means that the fat's in the fire, and the cat's out of the bag! It means confusion! distraction! perdition! and a tearing off of our wigs! It means the game's up, the play's over, villainy is about to be hanged and virtue about to be married, and the curtain is going to drop and the principal performer--that's I--is going to be called out amid the applause of the audience!" Then, suddenly changing her mocking tone to one of great severity, she said: "It means that you have been outwitted by a girl! It means that your purposed victim has fled, and is by this time in safety! It means that you two, precious father and son, would be a pair of knaves if you had sense enough; but, failing in that, you are only a pair of fools!"
By this time the attention of the few persons in the church was aroused. They all arose to their feet to look and listen, and some of them left their places and approached the altar. And to these latter Capitola now suddenly turned and said, aloud: "Good people, I am Capitola Black, the niece and ward of Major Ira Warfield, of Hurricane Hall, whom you all know, and now I claim your protection while I shall tell you the meaning of my presence here!"
"Don't listen to her. She is a maniac!" cried Colonel Le Noir.
"Stop her mouth!" cried Craven, springing upon Capitola and holding her tightly in the grasp of his right arm, while he covered her lips and nostrils with his large left hand.
Capitola struggled so fiercely to free herself that Craven had enough to do to hold her, and so was not aware of a ringing footstep coming up the aisle, until a stunning blow dealt from a strong arm covered his face with blood and stretched him out at Capitola's feet.
Cap flushed, breathless and confused, looked up and was caught to the bosom of Herbert Greyson, who, pale with concentrated rage, held her closely and inquired: "Capitola! What violence is this which has been done you? Explain! who is the aggressor?"
"Wai--wai--wait until I get my breath! There! that was good! That villain has all but strangled me to death? Oh, Herbert, I'm so delighted you've come! How is it that you always drop right down at the right time and on the right spot?" said Cap, while gasping for breath.
"I will tell you another time! Now I want an explanation."
"Yes, Herbert; I also wish to explain--not only to you but to these gaping, good people! Let me have a hearing!" said Cap.
"She is mad! absolutely mad!" cried Colonel Le Noir, who was assisting his son to rise.
"Silence, sir!" thundered Herbert Greyson, advancing toward him with uplifted and threatening hand.
"Gentlemen! gentlemen! pray remember that you are within the walls of a church!" said the distressed priest.
"Craven, this is no place for us; let us go and pursue our fugitive ward," whispered Colonel Le Noir to his son.
"We might as well; for it is clear that all is over here!" replied Craven. And the two baffled villains turned to leave the place. But Herbert Greyson, speaking up, said: "Good people, prevent the escape of those men until we hear what this young lady has to say! that we may judge whether to let them go or to take them before a magistrate."
The people flew to the doors and windows and secured them, and then surrounded the two Le Noirs, who found themselves prisoners.
"Now, Capitola, tell us how it is that you are here!" said Herbert Greyson.
"Well, that elder man," said Cap, "is the guardian of a young heiress who was betrothed to a worthy young man, one Doctor Traverse Rocke."
"My friend!" interrupted Herbert.
"Yes, Mr. Greyson, your friend! Their engagement was approved by the young lady's father, who gave them his dying blessing. Nevertheless, in the face of all this, this 'guardian' here, appointed by the Orphans' Court to take charge of the heiress and her fortune, undertakes, for his own ends, to compel the young lady to break her engagement and marry his own son! To drive her to this measure, he does not hesitate to use every species of cruelty. This night he was to have forced her to this altar! But in the interval, to-day, I chanced to visit her at the house where she was confined. Being informed by her of her distressing situation, and having no time to help her in any better way, I just changed clothes with her. She escaped unsuspected in my dress. And those two heroes there, mistaking me for her, forced me into a carriage and dragged me hither to be married against my will. And instead of catching an heiress, they caught a Tartar, that's all! And now, Herbert, let the two poor wretches go hide their mortification, and do you take me home, for I am immensely tired of doing the sentimental, making speeches and piling up the agonies!"
While Cap was delivering this long oration, the two Le Noirs had made several essays to interrupt and contradict her, but were effectually prevented by the people, whose sympathies were all with the speaker. Now, at Herbert Greyson's command, they released the culprits, who, threatening loudly took their departure.
Herbert then led Capitola out and placed her upon her own pony, Gyp, which, to her unbounded astonishment, she found there in charge of Wool, who was also mounted upon his own hack.
Herbert Greyson threw himself into the saddle of a third horse, and the three took the road to Hurricane Hall.
"And now," said Capitola, as Herbert rode up to her side, "for mercy sake tell me, before I go crazy with conjecture, how it happened that you dropped down from the sky at the very moment and on the very spot where you were needed? and where did you light upon Wool and the horses?"
"It is very simple when you come to understand it," said Herbert, smiling. "In the first place, you know, I graduated at the last commencement."
"Yes."
"Well, I have just received a lieutenant's commission in a regiment that is ordered to join General Scott in Mexico."
"Oh, Herbert, that is news, and I don't know whether to be in despair or in ecstasy!" said Cap, ready to laugh or cry, as a feather's weight might tip the scales in which she balanced Herbert's new honors with his approaching perils.
"If there's any doubt about it, I decidedly recommend the latter emotion," said Herbert, laughing.
"When do you go?" inquired Cap.
"Our regiment embarks from Baltimore on the first of next month. Meanwhile I got leave of absence to come and spend a week with my friends at home!"
"Oh, Herbert, I--I am in a quandary! But you haven't told me yet how you happened to meet Wool and to come here just in the nick of time!"
"I am just going to do so. Well, you see Capitola, I came down in the stage to Tip Top, which I reached about three o'clock. And there I found Wool in the hands of the Philistines, suspected of being mad, from the manner in which he raved about losing sight of you. Well, of course, like a true knight, I delivered my lady's squire, comforted and reassured him and made him mount his own horse and take charge of yours. After which I mounted the best beast that I had hired to convey me to Hurricane Hall, and we all set off thither. I confess that I was excessively anxious upon your account, for I could make nothing whatever of Wool's wild story of your supposed metamorphosis! I thought it best to make a circuit and take the Hidden House in our course, to make some inquiries there as to what had really happened. I had got a little bewildered between the dark night and the strange road, and, seeing the light in the church, I had just ridden up to inquire my way, when to my astonishment I saw you within, before the altar, struggling in the grasp of that ruffian. And you know the rest! And now let us ride on quickly, for I have a strong presentiment that Major Warfield is suffering the tortures of a lost soul through anxiety upon your account," concluded Herbert Greyson.
"Please, Marse Herbert and Miss Cap, don't you tell ole marse nuffin 'tall 'bout my loosin' sight of you!" pleaded Wool.
"We shall tell your old master all about it, Wool, for I would not have him miss the pleasure of hearing this adventure upon any account; but I promise to bear you harmless through it," said Herbert, as they galloped rapidly toward home.
They reached Hurricane Hall by eight o'clock, and in good time for supper. They found Old Hurricane storming all over the house, and ordering everybody off the premises in his fury of anxiety upon Capitola's account. But when the party arrived, surprise at seeing them in the company of Herbert Greyson quite revolutionized his mood, and, forgetting to rage, he gave them all a hearty welcome.
And when after supper was over and they were all gathered around the comfortable fireside, and Herbert related the adventures and feats of Capitola at the Hidden House, and in the forest chapel, the old man grasped the hand of his favorite and with his stormy old eyes full of rain said: "You deserve to have been a man, Cap! Indeed you do, my girl!"
That was his highest style of praise.
Then Herbert told his own little story of getting his commission and being ordered to Mexico.
"God bless you, lad, and save you in the battle and bring you home with victory!" was Old Hurricane's comment.
Then seeing that the young people were quite worn out with fatigue, and feeling not averse to his own comfortable couch, Old Hurricane broke up the circle and they all retired to rest.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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11
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AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR AT MARAH'S COTTAGE.
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"Friend wilt thou give me shelter here? The stranger meekly saith My life is hunted! evil men Are following on my path."
Marah Rocke sat by her lonely fireside.
The cottage was not changed in any respect since the day upon which we first of all found her there. There was the same bright, little wood fire; the same clean hearth and the identical faded carpet on the floor. There was the dresser with its glistening crockery ware on the right, and the shelves with Traverse's old school books on the left of the fireplace.
The widow herself had changed in nothing except that her clean black dress was threadbare and rusty, and her patient face whiter and thinner than before.
And now there was no eager restlessness; no frequent listening and looking toward the door. Alas! she could not now expect to hear her boy's light and springing step and cheerful voice as he hurried home at eventide from his daily work. Traverse was far away at St. Louis undergoing the cares and trials of a friendless young physician trying to get into practice. Six months had passed since he took leave of her, and there was as yet no hope of his returning even to pay a visit.
So Marah sat very still and sad, bending over her needlework without ever turning her head in the direction of the door. True, he wrote to her every week. No Wednesday ever passed without bringing her a letter written in a strong, buoyant and encouraging strain. Still she missed Traverse very sadly. It was dreary to rise up in the empty house every morning; dreary to sit down to her solitary meals, and drearier still to go to bed in her lonely room without having received her boy's kiss and heard his cheerful good-night. And it was her custom every night to read over Traverse's last letter before retiring to bed.
It was getting on toward ten o'clock when she folded up her work and put it away and drew her boy's latest epistle from her bosom to read. It ran as follows: St. Louis, Dec. 1st, 184--.
My dearest Mother--I am very glad to hear that you continue in good health, and that you do not work too hard, or miss me too sadly. It is the greatest comfort of my life to hear good news of you, sweet mother. I count the days from one letter to another, and read every last letter over daily until I get a new one. You insist upon my telling you how I am getting on, and whether I am out of money. I am doing quite well, ma'am, and have some funds left! I have quite a considerable practice. It is true that my professional services are in request only among the very poor, who pay me with their thanks and good wishes. But I am very glad to be able to pay off a small part of the great debt of gratitude I owe to the benevolent of this world by doing all that I can in my turn for the needy. And even if I had never myself been the object of a good man's benevolence, I should still have desired to serve the indigent; "for whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord," and I "like the security." Therefore, sweet mother of mine, be at ease; for I am getting on swimmingly--with one exception. Still I do not hear from our Clara! Six months have now passed, during which, despite of her seeming silence, I have written to her every week; but not one letter or message have I received from her in return! And now you tell me also that you have not received a single letter from her either! I know not what to think. Anxiety upon her account is my one sole trouble! Not that I wrong the dear girl by one instant's doubt of her constancy--no! my soul upon her truth! if I could do that, I should be most unworthy of her love! No, mother, you and I know that Clara is true! But ah! we do not know to what sufferings she may be subjected by Le Noir, who I firmly believe has intercepted all our letters. Mother, I am about to ask a great, perhaps an unreasonable, favor of you! It is to go down into the neighborhood of the Hidden House and make inquiries and try to find out Clara's real condition. If it be possible, put yourself into communication with her, and tell her that I judge her heart by my own, and have the firmest faith in her constancy, even though I have written to her every week for six months without ever having received an answer. I feel that I am putting you to expense and trouble, but my great anxiety about Clara, which I am sure you share, must be my excuse. I kiss your dear and honored hands, and remain ever your loving son and faithful servant.
TRAVERSE ROCKE.
"I must try to go. It will be an awful expense, because I know no one down there, and I shall have to board at the tavern at Tip Top while I am making inquiries--for I dare not approach the dwelling of Gabriel Le Noir!" said Marah Rocke, as she folded up her letter and replaced it in her bosom.
Just at that moment she heard the sound of wheels approach and a vehicle of some sort draw up to the gate and some one speaking without.
She went to the door, and, listening, heard a girlish voice say: "A dollar? Yes, certainly; here it is. There, you may go now."
She recognized the voice, and with a cry of joy jerked the door open just as the carriage rolled away. And the next instant Clara Day was in her arms.
"Oh, my darling! my darling! my darling! is this really you? Really, really you, and no dream?" cried Marah Rocke, all in a flutter of excitement, as she strained Clara to her bosom.
"Yes, it is I, sweet friend, come to stay with you a long time, perhaps." said Clara, softly, returning her caresses.
"Oh, my lamb! my lamb! what a joyful surprise! I do think I shall go crazy! Where did you come from, my pet? Who came with you? When did you start? Did Le Noir consent to your coming? And how did it all happen? But, dear child, how worn and weary you look! You must be very tired! Have you had supper? Oh, my darling, come and lie down on this soft lounge while I put away your things and get you some refreshment," said Marah Rocke, in a delirium of joy, as she took off Clara's hat and sack and laid her down to rest on the lounge, which she wheeled up near the fire.
"Oh, my sweet, we have been so anxious about you! Traverse and myself! Traverse is still at St. Louis, love, getting on slowly. He has written to you every week, and so, indeed have I, but we neither of us have had so much as one letter in reply. And yet neither of us ever doubted your true heart, my child. We knew that the letters must have been lost, miscarried or intercepted," said Marah, as she busied herself putting on the tea-kettle.
"They must, indeed, since my experience in regard to letters exactly corresponds with yours! I have written every week to both of you, yet never received one line in reply from either," said Clara.
"We knew it! We said so! Oh, those Le Noirs! Those Le Noirs! But, my darling, you are perfectly exhausted, and though I have asked you a half an hundred questions you shall not reply to one of them, nor talk a bit more until you have rested and had refreshment. Here, my love; here is Traverse's last letter. It will amuse you to lie and read it while I am getting tea," said Marah, taking the paper from her bosom and handing it to Clara, and then placing the stand with the light near the head of her couch that she might see to read it without rising.
And while Clara, well pleased, perused and smiled over her lover's letter, Marah Rocke laid the cloth and spread a delicate repast of tea, milk toast and poached eggs, of which she tenderly pressed her visitor to partake.
And when Clara was somewhat refreshed by food and rest, she said: "Now, dear mamma, you will wish to hear how it happens that I am with you to-night."
"Not unless you feel quite rested, dear girl."
"I am rested sufficiently for the purpose; besides, I am anxious to tell you. And oh, dear mamma! I could just now sit in your lap and lay my head upon your kind, soft bosom so willingly!"
"Come, then, Clara! Come, then, my darling," said Marah, tenderly, holding out her arms.
"No, no, mamma; you are too little; it would be a sin!" said Clara, smiling; "but I will sit by you and put my hand in yours and rest my head against your shoulder while I tell you all about it."
"Come, then, my darling!" said Marah Rocke.
Clara took the offered seat, and when she was fixed to her liking she commenced and related to her friend a full history of all that had occurred to her at the Hidden House from the moment that she had first crossed its threshold to the hour in which, through the courage and address of Capitola, she was delivered from imminent peril.
"And now," said Clara, in conclusion, "I have come hither in order to get Doctor Williams to make one more appeal for me to the Orphans' Court. And when it is proved what a traitor my guardian has been to his trust I have no doubt that the judge will appoint some one else in his place, or at least see that my father's last wish in regard to my residence is carried into effect."
"Heaven grant it, my child! Heaven grant it! Oh, those Le Noirs! those Le Noirs! Were there ever in the world before such ruthless villains and accomplished hypocrites?" said Marah Rocke, clasping her hands in the strength of her emotions.
A long time yet they talked together, and then they retired to bed, and still talked until they fell asleep in each other's arms.
The next morning the widow arose early, gazed a little while with delight upon the sleeping daughter of her heart, pressed a kiss upon her cheek so softly as not to disturb her rest, and then, leaving her still in the deep, sweet sleep of wearied youth, she went down-stairs to get a nice breakfast.
Luckily a farmer's cart was just passing the road before the cottage on its way to market.
Marah took out her little purse from her pocket, hailed the driver and expended half her little store in purchasing two young chickens, some eggs and some dried peaches, saying to herself: "Dear Clara always had a good appetite, and healthy young human nature must live substantially in spite of all its little heart-aches."
While Marah was preparing the chicken for the gridiron the door at the foot of the stairs opened and Clara came in, looking, after her night's rest, as fresh as a rosebud.
"What! up with the sun, my darling?" said Marah, going to meet her.
"Yes, mamma! Oh! it is so good to be here with you in this nice, quiet place, with no one to make me shudder! But you must let me help you, mamma! See! I will set the table and make the toast!"
"Oh, Miss Clara----" "Yes, I will! I have been ill used and made miserable, and now you must pet me, mamma, and let me have my own way and help you to cook our little meals and to make the house tidy and afterward to work those buttonholes in the shirts you were spoiling your gentle eyes over last night. Oh! if they will only let me stay here with you and be at peace, we shall be very happy together, you and I!" said Clara, as she drew out the little table and laid the cloth.
"My dear child, may the Lord make you as happy as your sweet affection would make me!" said Marah.
"We can work for our living together," continued Clara, as she gaily flitted about from the dresser to the table, placing the cups and saucers and plates. "You can sew the seams and do the plain hemming, and I can work the buttonholes and stitch the bosoms, collars and wristbands! And 'if the worst comes to the worst,' we can hang out our little shingle before the cottage gate, inscribed with: "MRS. ROCKE AND DAUGHTER. Shirt Makers. Orders executed with neatness and dispatch.
"We'd drive a thriving business, mamma, I assure you," said Clara, as she sat down on a low stool at the hearth and began to toast the bread.
"I trust in heaven that it will never come to that with you, my dear!"
"Why? Why, mamma? Why should I not taste of toil and care as well as others a thousand times better than myself? Why should not I work as well as you and Traverse, mamma? I stand upon the broad platform of human rights, and I say I have just as good a right to work as others!" said Clara, with a pretty assumption of obstinacy, as she placed the plate of toast upon the board.
"Doubtless, dear Clara, you may play at work just as much as you please; but heaven forbid you should ever have to work at work!" replied Mrs. Rocke as she placed the coffee pot and the dish of broiled chicken on the table.
"Why, mamma, I do not think that is a good prayer at all! That is a wicked, proud prayer, Mrs. Marah Rocke! Why shouldn't your daughter really toil as well as other people's daughters, I'd like to be informed?" said Clara, mockingly, as they both took their seats at the table.
"I think, dear Clara, that you must have contracted some of your eccentric little friend Capitola's ways, from putting on her habit! I never before saw you in such gay spirits!" said Mrs. Rocke, as she poured out the coffee.
"Oh, mamma; it is but the glad rebound of the freed bird! I am so glad to have escaped from that dark prison of the Hidden House and to be here with you. But tell me, mamma, is my old home occupied?"
"No, my dear; no tenant has been found for it. The property is in the hands of an agent to let, but the house remains quite vacant and deserted."
"Why is that?" asked Clara.
"Why, my love, for the strangest reason! The foolish country people say that since the doctor's death the place has been haunted!"
"Haunted!"
"Yes, my dear, so the foolish people say, and they get wiser ones to believe them."
"What exactly do they say? I hope--I hope they do not trifle with my dear father's honored name and memory?"
"Oh, no, my darling! no! but they say that although the house is quite empty and deserted by the living strange sights and sounds are heard and seen by passers-by at night. Lights appear at the upper windows from which pale faces look out."
"How very strange!" said Clara.
"Yes, my dear, and these stories have gained such credence that no one can be found to take the house."
"So much the better, dear mamma, for if the new judge of the Orphans' Court should give a decision in our favor, as he must, when he hears the evidence, old and new, you and I can move right into it and need not then enter the shirt-making line of business!"
"Heaven grant it, my dear! But now, Clara, my love, we must lose no time in seeing Doctor Williams, lest your guardian should pursue you here and give you fresh trouble."
Clara assented to this, and they immediately arose from the table, cleared away the service, put the room in order and went up-stairs to put on their bonnets, Mrs. Rocke lending Clara her own best bonnet and shawl. When they were quite ready they locked up the house and set out for the town.
It was a bright, frosty, invigorating winter's morning, and the two friends walked rapidly until they reached Doctor Williams' house.
The kind old man was at home, and was much surprised and pleased to see his visitors. He invited them into his parlor, and when he had heard their story, he said: "This is a much more serious affair than the other. We must employ counsel. Witnesses must be brought from the neighborhood of the Hidden House. You are aware that the late judge of the Orphans' Court has been appointed to a high office under the government at Washington. The man that has taken his place is a person of sound integrity, who will do his duty. It remains only for us to prove the justice of our cause to his satisfaction, and all will be well."
"Oh, I trust in heaven that it will be," said Marah, fervently.
"You two must stay in my house until the affair is decided. You might possibly be safe from real injury; but you could not be free from molestation in your unprotected condition at the cottage," said Doctor Williams.
Clara warmly expressed her thanks.
"You had better go home now and pack up what you wish to bring, and put out the fire and close up the house and come here immediately. In the mean time I will see your dear father's solicitor and be ready with my report by the time you get back," said Doctor Williams, promptly taking his hat to go.
Mrs. Rocke and Clara set out for the cottage, which they soon reached.
Throwing off her bonnet and shawl, Clara said: "Now, mamma, the very first thing I shall do will be to write to Traverse, so that we can send the letter by to-day's mail and set his mind at rest. I shall simply tell him that our mutual letters have failed to reach their destination, but that I am now on a visit to you, and that while I remain here nothing can interrupt our correspondence. I shall not speak of the coming suit until we see how it will end."
Mrs. Rocke approved this plan, and placed writing materials on the table. And while the matron employed herself in closing up the rooms, packing up what was needful to take with them to the doctor's and putting out the fire, Clara wrote and sealed her letter. They then put on their bonnets, locked up the house, and set out. They called at the post-office just in time to mail their letter, and they reached the doctor's house just as he himself walked up to the door, accompanied by the lawyer. The latter greeted the daughter of his old client and her friend, and they all went into the house together.
In the doctor's study the whole subject of Clara's flight and its occasion was talked over, and the lawyer agreed to commence proceedings immediately.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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12
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CAP "RESTS ON HER LAURELS" AND "SPOILS FOR A FIGHT."
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'Tis hardly in a body's power, To keep at times frae being sour, To see how things are shared; How best o' chiels are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wear 't. --Burns.
Leaving Clara Day and Marah Rocke in a home of safety, plenty and kindness, in the old doctor's house, we must run down to Hurricane Hall to see what mischief Cap has been getting into since we left her! In truth, none! Cap had had such a surfeit of adventures that she was fain to lie by and rest upon her laurels. Besides, there seemed just now nothing to do--no tyrants to take down, no robbers to capture, no distressed damsels to deliver, and Cap was again in danger of "spoiling for a fight." And then Herbert Greyson was at the Hall--Herbert Greyson whom she vowed always did make a Miss Nancy of her! And so Cap had to content herself for a week with quiet mornings of needlework at her workstand, with Herbert to read to or talk with her; sober afternoon rides, attended by Herbert and Old Hurricane; and hum-drum evenings at the chess board, with the same Herbert, while Major Warfield dozed in a great "sleepy hollow" of an armchair.
One afternoon when they were out riding through the woods beyond the Demon's Run, a Sheriff's officer rode up, and bowing to the party, presented a suspicious-looking document to Capitola and a similar one to Herbert Greyson. And while Old Hurricane stared his eyes half out, the parties most interested opened the papers, which they found to be rather pressing invitations to be present at a certain solemnity at Staunton. In a word, they were subpoenaed to give testimony in the case of Williams vs. Le Noir.
"Here's a diabolical dilemma!" said Old Hurricane to himself, as soon as he learned the purport of these documents.
"Here I shall have to bring Cap into court face to face with that demon to bear witness against him! Suppose losing one ward, he should lay claim to another! Ah, but he can't, without foully criminating himself! Well, well, we shall see!"
While Old Hurricane was cogitating Cap was exulting.
"Oh, won't I tell all I know! Yes, and more, too!" she exclaimed, in triumph. " 'More, too!' Oh, hoity-toity! Never say more, too!" said Herbert laughing.
"I will, for I'll tell all I suspect!" said Cap, galloping on ahead, in her eagerness to get home and pack up for her journey.
The next day Old Hurricane, Herbert Greyson, Capitola, Pitapat and Wool went by stage to Staunton. They put up at the Planters' and Farmers' Hotel, whence Herbert Greyson and Capitola soon sallied forth to see Clara and Mrs. Rocke. They soon found the doctor's house, and were ushered into the parlor in the presence of their friends.
The meeting between Capitola and Clara and between Mrs. Rocke and Herbert was very cordial. And then Herbert introduced Capitola to Mrs. Rocke and Cap presented Herbert to Clara. And they all entered into conversation upon the subject of the coming lawsuit, and the circumstances that led to it. And Clara and Capitola related to each other all that had happened to each after their exchanging clothes and parting. And when they had laughed over their mutual adventures and misadventures, Herbert and Capitola took leave and returned to their hotel.
Herbert Greyson was the most serious of the whole family. Upon reaching the hotel he went to his own room and fell into deep reflection. And this was the course of his thought: "Ira Warfield and Marah Rocke are here in the same town--brought hither upon the same errand--to-morrow to meet in the same court-room! And yet not either of them suspects the presence of the other! Mrs. Rocke does not know that in Capitola's uncle she will behold Major Warfield! He does not foresee that in Clara's matronly friend he will behold Marah Rocke! And Le Noir, the cause of all their misery, will be present also! What will be the effect of this unexpected meeting? Ought I not to warn one or the other? Let me think--no! For were I to warn Major Warfield he would absent himself. Should I drop a hint to Marah she would shrink from the meeting! No, I will leave it all to Providence--perhaps the sight of her sweet, pale face and soft, appealing eyes, so full of constancy and truth, may touch that stern old heart! Heaven grant it may!" concluded Herbert Greyson.
The next day the suit came on.
At an early hour Doctor Williams appeared, having in charge Clara Day, who was attended by her friend Mrs. Rocke. They were accommodated with seats immediately in front of the judge.
Very soon afterward Major Warfield, Herbert Greyson and Capitola entered, and took their places on the witness's bench, at the right side of the court-room.
Herbert watched Old Hurricane, whose eyes were spellbound to the bench where sat Mrs. Rocke and Clara. Both were dressed in deep mourning, with their veils down and their faces toward the judge. But Herbert dreaded every instant that Marah Rocke should turn her head and meet that fixed, wistful look of Old Hurricane. And he wondered what strange instinct it could be that riveted the old man's regards to that unrecognized woman.
At last, to Herbert's great uneasiness, Major Warfield turned and commenced questioning him: "Who is that woman in mourning?"
"Hem--m--that one with the flaxen curls under her bonnet is Miss Day."
"I don't mean the girl, I mean the woman sitting by her?"
"That is--hem--hem--that is Doctor Williams sitting----" Old Hurricane turned abruptly around and favored his nephew with a severe, scrutinizing gaze, demanding: "Herbert, have you been drinking so early in the morning? Demmy, sir, this is not the season for mint juleps before breakfast! Is that great, stout, round-bodied, red-faced old Doctor Williams a little woman? I see him sitting on the right of Miss Day. I didn't refer to him! I referred to that still, quiet little woman sitting on her left, who has never stirred hand or foot since she sat down there. Who is she?"
"That woman? Oh, she? --yes--ah, let me see--she is a--Miss Day's companion!" faltered Herbert.
"To the demon with you! Who does not see that? But who is she? What is her name?" abruptly demanded Old Hurricane.
"Her name is a--a--did you ever see her before, sir?"
"I don't know! That is what I am trying to remember; but, sir, will you answer my question?"
"You seem very much interested in her."
"You seem very much determined not to let me know who she is! Hang it, sir, will you or will you not tell me that woman's name?"
"Certainly," said Herbert. "Her name is----" He was about to say Marah Rocke, but moral indignation overpowered him and he paused.
"Well, well, her name is what?" impatiently demanded Old Hurricane.
"Mrs. Warfield!" answered Herbert, doggedly.
And just at that unfortunate moment Marah turned her pale face and beseeching eyes around and met the full gaze of her husband!
In an instant her face blanched to marble and her head sank upon the railing before her bench. Old Hurricane was too dark to grow pale, but his bronzed cheek turned as gray as his hair, which fairly lifted itself on his head. Grasping his walking stick with both his hands, he tottered to his feet, and, muttering: "I'll murder you for this, Herbert!" he strode out of the court-room.
Marah's head rested for about a minute on the railing before her and when she lifted it again her face was as calm and patient as before.
This little incident had passed without attracting attention from any one except Capitola, who, sitting on the other side of Herbert Greyson, had heard the little passage of words between him and her uncle, and had seen the latter start up and go out, and who now, turning to her companion, inquired: "What is the meaning of all this, Herbert?"
"It means--Satan! And now attend to what is going on! Mr. Sauter has stated the case, and now Stringfellow, the attorney for the other side, is just telling the judge that he stands there in the place of his client, Lieutenant-Colonel Le Noir, who, being ordered to join General Taylor in Mexico, is upon the eve of setting out and cannot be here in person!"
"And is that true? Won't he be here?"
"It seems not. I think he is ashamed to appear after what has happened, and just takes advantage of a fair excuse to absent himself."
"And is he really going to Mexico?"
"Oh, yes! I saw it officially announced in this morning's papers. And, by the bye, I am very much afraid he is to take command of our regiment, and be my superior officer!"
"Oh, Herbert, I hope and pray not! I think there is wickedness enough packed up in that man's body to sink a squadron or lose an army!"
"Well, Cap, such things will happen. Attention! There's Sauter, ready to call his witnesses!" And, in truth, the next moment Capitola Black was called to the stand.
Cap took her place and gave her evidence con amore, and with such vim and such expressions of indignation, that Stringfellow reminded her she was there to give testimony, and not to plead the cause.
Cap rejoined that she was perfectly willing to do both! And so she continued not only to tell the acts, but to express her opinions as to the motives of Le Noir, and give her judgment as to what should be the decision of the court.
Stringfellow, the attorney for Colonel Le Noir, evidently thought that in this rash, reckless, spirited witness he had a fine subject for sarcastic cross-examination! But he reckoned "without his host." He did not know Cap! He, too, "caught a Tartar." And before the cross-examination was concluded, Capitola's apt and cutting replies had overwhelmed him with ridicule and confusion, and done more for the cause of her friend than all her partisans put together!
Other witnesses were called to corroborate the testimony of Capitola, and still others were examined to prove the last expressed wishes of the late William Day, in regard to the disposal of his daughter's person during the period of her minority.
There was no effective rebutting evidence, and after some hard arguing by the attorneys on both sides, the case was closed, and the judge deferred his decision until the third day thereafter.
The parties then left the court and returned to their several lodgings.
Old Hurricane gave no one a civil word that day. Wool was an atrocious villain, an incendiary scoundrel, a cut-throat, and a black demon. Cap was a beggar, a vagabond and a vixen. Herbert Greyson was another beggar, besides being a knave, a fop and an impudent puppy. The innkeeper was a swindler, the waiters thieves, the whole world was going to ruin, where it well deserved to go, and all mankind to the demon--as he hoped and trusted they would!
And all this tornado of passion and invective arose just because he had unexpectedly met in the court-room the patient face and beseeching eyes of a woman, married and forsaken, loved and lost, long ago!
Was it strange that Herbert, who had so resented his treatment of Marah Rocke, should bear all his fury, injustice and abuse of himself and others with such compassionate forbearance? But he not only forbore to resent his own affronts, but also besought Capitola to have patience with the old man's temper and apologized to the host by saying that Major Warfield had been very severely tried that day, and when calmer would be the first to regret the violence of his own words.
Marah Rocke returned with Clara to the old doctor's house. She was more patient, silent and quiet than before. Her face was a little paler, her eyes softer, and her tones lower--that was the only visible effect of the morning's unexpected rencounter.
The next day but one all the parties concerned assembled at the court-house to hear the decision of the judge. It was given, as had been anticipated, in favor of Clara Day, who was permitted, in accordance with her father's approved wishes, to reside in her patrimonial home under the care of Mrs. Rocke. Colonel Le Noir was to remain trustee of the property, with directions from the court immediately to pay the legacies left by the late Doctor Day to Marah Rocke and Traverse Rocke, and also to pay to Clara Day, in quarterly instalments, from the revenue of her property, an annual sum of money sufficient for her support.
This decision filled the hearts of Clara and her friends with joy. Forgetting time, and place, she threw herself into the arms of Marah Rocke and wept with delight. All concerned in the trial then sought their lodgings.
Clara and Mrs. Rocke returned to the cottage to make preparations for removing to Willow Heights.
Doctor Williams went to the agent of the property to require him to give up the keys, which he did without hesitation.
Old Hurricane and his party packed up to be ready for the stage to take them to Tip-Top the next day.
But that night a series of mysterious events were said to have taken place at the deserted house at Willow Heights that filled the whole community with superstitious wonder. It was reported by numbers of gardeners and farmers, who passed that road, on their way to early market, that a perfect witches' sabbath had been held in that empty house all night; that lights had appeared, flitting from room to room; that strange, weird faces had looked out from the windows; and wild screams had pierced the air!
The next day when this report reached the ears of Clara, and she was asked by Doctor Williams whether she would not be afraid to live there, she laughed gaily and bade him try her.
Cap, who had come over to take leave of Clara, joined her in her merriment, declared that she, for her part, doted on ghosts, and that after Herbert Greyson's departure she should come and visit Clara and help her to entertain the specters.
Clara replied that she should hold her to her promise. And so the friends kissed and separated.
That same day saw several removals.
Clara and Mrs. Rocke took up their abode at Willow Heights and seized an hour even of that busy time to write to Traverse and apprise him of their good fortune.
Old Hurricane and his party set out for their home, where they arrived before nightfall.
And the next day but one Herbert Greyson took leave of his friends and departed to join his company on their road to glory.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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13
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BLACK DONALD.
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Feared, shunned, belied ere youth had lost her force, He hated men too much to feel remorse, And thought the vice of wrath a sacred call, To pay the injuries of some on all.
There was a laughing devil in his sneer, That caused emotions both of rage and fear: And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, Hope, withering fled and mercy sighed farewell!
--Byron.
Herbert Greyson had been correct in his conjecture concerning the cause of Colonel Le Noir's conduct in absenting himself from the trial, or appearing there only in the person of his attorney. A proud, vain, conceited man, full of Joseph Surfacisms, he could better have borne to be arraigned upon the charge of murder than to face the accusation of baseness that was about to be proved upon him. Being reasonably certain as to what was likely to be the decision of the Orphans' Court, he was not disappointed in hearing that judgment had been rendered in favor of his ward and her friends. His one great disappointment had been upon discovering the flight of Clara. For when he had ascertained that she had fled, he knew that all was lost--and lost through Capitola, the hated girl for whose destruction he had now another and a stronger motive--revenge!
In this mood of mind three days before his departure to join his regiment he sought the retreat of the outlaw. He chose an early hour of the evening as that in which he should be most likely to find Black Donald.
It was about eight o'clock when he wrapped his large cloak around his tall figure, pulled his hat low over his sinister brow and set out to walk alone to the secret cavern in the side of the Demon's Punch Bowl.
The night was dark and the path dangerous; but his directions had been careful, so that when he reached the brink of that awful abyss he knew precisely where to begin his descent with the least danger of being precipitated to the bottom.
And by taking a strong hold upon the stunted saplings of pine and cedar that grew down through the clefts of the ravine, and placing his feet firmly upon the points of projecting rocks, he contrived to descend the inside of that horrible abyss, which from the top seemed to be fraught with certain death to any one daring enough to make the attempt.
When about half-way down the precipice he reached the clump of cedar bushes growing in the deep cleft, and concealing the hole that formed the entrance to the cavern.
Here he paused, and, looking through the entrance into a dark and apparently fathomless cavern, he gave the peculiar signal whistle, which was immediately answered from within by the well-known voice of the outlaw chief, saying: "All right, my colonel! Give us your hand! Be careful, now, the floor of this cavern is several feet below the opening."
Le Noir extended his hand into the darkness within and soon felt it grasped by that of Black Donald, who, muttering: "Slowly, slowly, my colonel!" succeeded in guiding him down the utter darkness of the subterranean descent until they stood upon the firm bottom of the cavern.
They were still in the midst of a blackness that might be felt, except that from a small opening in the side of the rock a light gleamed. Toward this second opening Black Donald conducted his patron.
And stooping and passing before him, led him into an inner cavern, well lighted and rudely fitted up. Upon a large natural platform of rock, occupying the center of the space, were some dozen bottles of brandy or whisky, several loaves of bread and some dried venison. Around this rude table, seated upon fragments of rock, lugged thither for the purpose, were some eight or ten men of the band, in various stages of intoxication. Along the walls were piles of bearskins, some of which served as couches for six or seven men, who had thrown themselves down upon them in a state of exhaustion or drunken stupor.
"Come, boys, we have not a boundless choice of apartments here, and I want to talk to my colonel! Suppose you take your liquor and bread and meat into the outer cavern and give us the use of this one for an hour," said the outlaw.
The men sullenly obeyed and began to gather up the viands. Demon Dick seized one of the lights to go after them.
"Put down the glim! Satan singe your skin for you! Do you want to bring a hue and cry upon us? Don't you know a light in the outer cavern can be seen from the outside?" roared Black Donald.
Dick sulkily set down the candle and followed his comrades.
"What are you glummering about, confound you! You can see to eat and drink well enough and find your way to your mouth, in the dark, you brute!" thundered the captain. But as there was no answer to this and the men had retreated and left their chief with his visitor alone, Black Donald turned to Colonel Le Noir and said: "Well, my patron, what great matter is it that has caused you to leave the company of fair Clara Day for our grim society?"
"Ah, then, it appears you are not aware that Clara Day has fled from us--has made a successful appeal to the Orphans' Court, and been taken out of our hands?" angrily replied Colonel Le Noir.
"Whe-ew! My colonel, I think I could have managed that matter better! I think if I had had that girl in my power as you had, she should not have escaped me!"
"Bah! bah! bah! Stop boasting, since it was through your neglect--yours! yours! that I lost this girl!"
"Mine!" exclaimed Black Donald, in astonishment.
"Aye, yours! for if you had done your duty, performed your engagement, kept your word, and delivered me from this fatal Capitola, I had not lost my ward, nor my son his wealthy bride!" exclaimed Le Noir, angrily.
"Capitola! Capitola again! What on earth had she to do with the loss of Clara Day?" cried Black Donald, in wonder.
"Everything to do with it, sir! By a cunning artifice she delivered Clara from our power--actually set her free and covered her flight until she was in security!"
"That girl again! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho ho, ho!" laughed and roared Black Donald, slapping his knees.
Le Noir ground and gnashed his teeth in rage, muttering hoarsely: "Yes, you may laugh, confound you, since it is granted those who win to do so! You may laugh; for you have done me out of five thousand dollars, and what on earth have you performed to earn it?"
"Come, come, my colonel, fair and easy! I don't know which is vulgarest, to betray loss of temper or love of money, and you are doing both. However, it is between friends. But how the demon did that girl, that capital Capitola, get Clara off from right under your eyes?"
"By changing clothes with her, confound you! I will tell you all about it," replied Le Noir, who thereupon commenced and related the whole stratagem by which Capitola freed Clara, including the manner in which she accompanied them to the church and revealed herself at the altar.
Black Donald threw himself back and roared with laughter, vigorously slapping his knees and crying: "That girl! that capital Capitola! I would not sell my prospect of possessing her for double your bribe."
"Your 'prospect!' Your prospect is about as deceptive as a fata morgana! What have you been doing, I ask you again, toward realizing this prospect and earning the money you have already received?"
"Fair and easy, my colonel! Don't let temper get the better of justice! What have I been doing toward earning the money you have already paid me? In the first place, I lost time and risked my liberty watching around Hurricane Hall. Then, when I had identified the girl and the room she slept in by seeing her at the window, I put three of my best men in jeopardy to capture her. Then, when she, the witch, had captured them, I sacrificed all my good looks, transmogrifying myself into a frightful old field preacher, and went to the camp-meeting to watch, among other things, for an opportunity of carrying her off. The sorceress! she gave me no such opportunity. I succeeded in nothing except in fooling the wiseacres and getting admitted to the prison of my comrades, whom I furnished with instruments by which they made their escape. Since that time we have had to lie low--yes, literally to lie low--to keep out of sight, to burrow under ground; in a word, to live in this cavern."
"And since which you have abandoned all intention of getting the girl and earning the five thousand dollars," sneered Le Noir.
"Earning the remaining five thousand, you mean, colonel. The first five thousand I consider I have already earned. It was the last five thousand that I was to get when the girl should be disposed of."
"Well?"
"Well, I have not given up either the intention of earning the money or the hope of getting the girl; in truth, I had rather lose the money than the girl. I have been on the watch almost continually; but, though I suppose she rides out frequently, I have not yet happened to hit upon her in any of her excursions. At last, however, I have fixed upon a plan for getting the witch into my power. I shall trust the execution of my plan to no one but myself. But I must have time."
"Time! perdition, sir! delay in this matter is fraught with danger! Listen, sir! How Warfield got possession of this girl or the knowledge of her history I do not know, except that it was through the agency of that accursed hag Nancy Grewell. But that he has her and that he knows all about her is but too certain. That he has not at present legal proof enough to establish her identity and her rights before a court of justice I infer from the fact of his continuing inactive in the matter. But who can foresee how soon he may obtain all the proof that is necessary to establish Capitola's claims and wrest the whole of this property from me? Who can tell whether he is not now secretly engaged in seeking and collecting such proof? Therefore, I repeat that the girl must immediately be got rid of! Donald, rid me of that creature and the day that you prove to me her death I will double your fee!"
"Agreed, my colonel, agreed! I have no objection to your doubling, or even quadrupling, my fee. You shall find me in that, as in all other matters, perfectly amenable to reason. Only I must have time. Haste would ruin us. I repeat that I have a plan by which I am certain to get the girl into my possession--a plan the execution of which I will entrust to no other hands but my own. But I conclude as I began--I must have time."
"And how much time?" exclaimed Le Noir, again losing his patience.
"Easy, my patron. That I cannot tell you. It is imprudent to make promises, especially to you, who will take nothing into consideration when they cannot be kept," replied Black Donald, coolly.
"But, sir, do you not know that I am ordered to Mexico, and must leave within three days? I would see the end of this before I go," angrily exclaimed Le Noir.
"Softly, softly, my child the colonel! 'Slow and sure!' 'Fair and easy goes far in a day!'"
"In a word, will you do this business for me and do it promptly?"
"Surely, surely, my patron! But I insist upon time."
"But I go to Mexico in three days."
"All honor go with you, my colonel. Who would keep his friend from the path of glory?"
"Perdition, sir, you trifle with me."
"Perdition, certainly, colonel; there I perfectly agree with you. But the rest of your sentence is wrong; I don't trifle with you."
"What in the fiend's name do you mean?"
"Nothing in the name of any absent friend of ours. I mean simply that you may go to--Mexico!"
"And--my business----" "--Can be done just as well, perhaps better, without you. Recollect, if you please, my colonel, that when you were absent with Harrison in the West your great business was done here without you! And done better for that very reason! No one even suspected your agency in that matter. The person most benefited by the death of Eugene Le Noir was far enough from the scene of his murder."
"Hush! Perdition seize you! Why do you speak of things so long past?" exclaimed Le Noir, growing white to his very lips.
"To jog your worship's memory and suggest that your honor is the last man who ought to complain of this delay, since it will be very well for you to be in a distant land serving your country at the time that your brother's heiress, whose property you illegally hold, is got out of your way."
"There is something in that," mused Le Noir.
"There is all in that!"
"You have a good brain, Donald."
"What did I tell you? I ought to have been in the cabinet--and mean to be, too! But, colonel, as I mean to conclude my part of the engagement, I should like, for fear of accidents, that you conclude yours--and settle with me before you go."
"What do you mean?"
"That you should fork over to me the remaining five thousand."
"I'll see you at the demon first," passionately exclaimed Le Noir.
"No, you won't, for in that case you'd have to make way with the girl yourself, or see Old Hurricane make way with all your fortune."
"Wretch that you are!"
"Come, come, colonel, don't let's quarrel. The Kingdom of Satan divided against itself cannot stand. Do not let us lose time by falling out. I will get rid of the girl. You, before you go, must hand over the tin, lest you should fall in battle and your heirs dispute the debt! Shell out, my colonel! Shell out and never fear! Capitola shall be a wife and Black Donald a widower before many weeks shall pass."
"I'll do it! I have no time for disputation, as you know, and you profit by the knowledge. I'll do it, though under protest," muttered Le Noir, grinding his teeth.
"That's my brave and generous patron!" said Black Donald, as he arose to attend Le Noir from the cavern; "that's my magnificent colonel of cavalry! The man who runs such risks for you should be very handsomely remunerated!"
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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14
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GLORY.
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"What Alexander sighed for, What Cæsar's soul possessed, What heroes, saints have died for, Glory!"
Within three days after his settlement with Black Donald, Colonel Le Noir left home to join his regiment, ordered to Mexico.
He was accompanied by his son Craven Le Noir as far as Baltimore, from which port the reinforcements were to sail for New Orleans, en route for the seat of war.
Here, at the last moment, when the vessel was about to weigh anchor, Craven Le Noir took leave of his father and set out for the Hidden House.
And here Colonel Le Noir's regiment was joined by the company of new recruits in which Herbert Greyson held a commission as lieutenant, and thus the young man's worst forebodings were realized in having for a traveling companion and superior officer the man of whom he had been destined to make a mortal enemy, Colonel Le Noir. However, Herbert soon marked out his course of conduct, which was to avoid Le Noir as much as was consistent with his own official duty, and, when compelled to meet him, to deport himself with the cold ceremony of a subordinate to a superior officer.
Le Noir, on his part, treated Herbert with an arrogant scorn amounting to insult, and used every opportunity afforded him by his position to wound and humiliate the young lieutenant.
After a quick and prosperous voyage they reached New Orleans, where they expected to be farther reinforced by a company of volunteers who had come down the Mississippi river from St. Louis. These volunteers were now being daily drilled at their quarters in the city, and were only waiting the arrival of the vessel to be enrolled in the regiment.
One morning, a few days after the ship reached harbor, Herbert Greyson went on shore to the military rendezvous to see the new recruits exercised. While he stood within the enclosure watching their evolutions under the orders of an officer, his attention became concentrated upon the form of a young man of the rank and file who was marching in a line with many others having their backs turned toward him. That form and gait seemed familiar--the circumstances in which he saw them again--painfully familiar. And yet he could not identify the man. While he gazed, the recruits, at the word of command, suddenly wheeled and faced about. And Herbert could scarcely repress an exclamation of astonishment and regret.
That young man in the dress of a private soldier was Clara Day's betrothed, the widow's only son, Traverse Rocke! While Herbert continued to gaze in surprise and grief, the young recruit raised his eyes, recognized his friend, flushed up to his very temples and cast his eyes down again. The rapid evolutions soon wheeled them around, and the next order sent them into their quarters.
Herbert's time was also up, and he returned to his duty.
The next day Herbert went to the quarters of the new recruits and sought out his young friend, whom he found loitering about the grounds. Again Traverse blushed deeply as the young lieutenant approached. But Herbert Greyson, letting none of his regret appear, since now it would be worse than useless in only serving to give pain to the young private, went up to him cordially and shook his hands, saying: "Going to serve your country, eh, Traverse? Well, I am heartily glad to see you, at any rate."
"But heartily sorry to see me here, enlisted as a private in a company of raw recruits, looking not unlike Falstaff's ragged regiment?"
"Nay; I did not say that, Traverse. Many a private in the ranks has risen to be a general officer," replied Herbert, encouragingly.
Traverse laughed good humoredly, saying: "It does not look much like that in my case. This dress," he said, looking down at his coarse, ill-fitting uniform, cowhide shoes, etc.; "this dress, this drilling, these close quarters, coarse food and mixed company are enough to take the military ardor out of any one!"
"Traverse, you talk like a petit maître, which is not at all your character. Effeminacy is not your vice."
"Nor any other species of weakness, do you mean? Ah, Herbert, your aspiring hopeful, confident old friend is considerably taken down in his ideas of himself, his success and life in general! I went to the West with high hopes. Six months of struggling against indifference, neglect and accumulated debts lowered them down! I carried out letters and made friends, but their friendship began and ended in wishing me well. While trying to get into profitable practice I got into debt. Meanwhile I could not hear from my betrothed in all those months. An occasional letter from her might have prevented this step. But troubles gathered around me, debts increased and----" "--Creditors were cruel. It is the old story; my poor boy!"
"No; my only creditors were my landlady and my laundress, two poor widows who never willingly distressed me, but who occasionally asked for 'that little amount' so piteously that my heart bled to lack it to give them. And as victuals and clean shirts were absolute necessaries of life, every week my debts increased. I could have faced a prosperous male creditor, and might, perhaps, have been provoked to bully such an one, had he been inclined to be cruel; but I could not face poor women who, after all, I believe, are generally the best friends a struggling young man can have; and so, not to bore a smart young lieutenant with a poor private's antecedents----" "Oh, Traverse----" "--I will even make an end of my story. 'At last there came a weary day when hope and faith beneath the weight gave way.' And, hearing that a company of volunteers was being raised to go to Mexico, I enlisted, sold my citizen's wardrobe and my little medical library, paid my debts, made my two friends, the poor widows, some acceptable presents, sent the small remnant of the money to my mother, telling her that I was going farther south to try my fortune, and--here I am."
"You did not tell her that you had enlisted?"
"No."
"Oh, Traverse, how long ago was it that you left St. Louis?"
"Just two weeks."
"Ah! if you had only had patience for a few days longer!" burst unaware from Herbert's bosom. In an instant he was sorry for having spoken thus, for Traverse, with all his soul in his eyes, asked eagerly: "Why--why, Herbert? What do you mean?"
"Why, you should know that I did not come direct from West Point, but from the neighborhood of Staunton and Hurricane Hall."
"Did you? Oh, did you? Then you may be able to give me news of Clara and my dear mother," exclaimed Traverse, eagerly.
"Yes, I am--pleasant news," said Herbert, hesitating in a manner which no one ever hesitated before in communicating good tidings.
"Thank heaven! oh, thank heaven! What is it, Herbert? How is my dear mother getting on? Where is my best Clara?"
"They are both living together at Willow Heights, according to the wishes of the late Doctor Day. A second appeal to the Orphans' Court made in behalf of Clara by her next friend, Doctor Williams, about a month ago, proved more successful. And if you had waited a few days longer before enlisting and leaving St. Louis, you would have received a letter from Clara to the same effect, and one from Doctor Williams apprizing you that your mother had received her legacy, and that the thousand dollars left you by Doctor Day had been paid into the Agricultural Bank, subject to your orders."
"Oh, heaven! had I but waited three days longer!" exclaimed Traverse, in such acute distress that Herbert hastened to console him by saying: "Do not repine, Traverse; these things go by fate. It was your destiny--let us hope it will prove a glorious one."
"It was my impatience!" exclaimed Traverse. "It was my impatience! Doctor Day always faithfully warned me against it; always told me that most of the errors, sins and miseries of this world arose from simple impatience, which is want of faith. And now I know it! and now I know it! What had I, who had an honorable profession, to do with becoming a private soldier?"
"Well, well, it is honorable at least to serve your country," said Herbert, soothingly.
"If a foreign foe invaded her shores, yes; but what had I to do with invading another's country? --enlisting for a war of the rights and wrongs of which I know no more than anybody else does? Growing impatient because fortune did not at once empty her cornucopia upon my head! Oh, fool!"
"You blame yourself too severely, Traverse. Your act was natural enough and justifiable enough, much as it is to be regretted," said Herbert, cheerfully.
"Come, come, sit on this plank bench beside me--if you are not ashamed to be seen with a private who is also a donkey--and tell me all about it. Show me the full measure of the happiness I have so recklessly squandered away," exclaimed Traverse, desperately.
"I will sit beside you and tell you everything you wish to know, on condition that you stop berating yourself in a manner that fills me with indignation," replied Herbert, as they went to a distant part of the dusty enclosure and took their seats upon a rude bench.
"Oh, Herbert, bear with me; I could dash my wild, impatient head against a stone wall!"
"That would not be likely to clear or strengthen your brains," said Herbert, who thereupon commenced and told Traverse the whole history of the persecution of Clara Day at the Hidden House; the interception of her letters; the attempt made to force her into a marriage with Craven Le Noir; her deliverance from her enemies by the address and courage of Capitola; her flight to Staunton and refuge with Mrs. Rocke; her appeal to the court, and finally her success and her settlement under the charge of her matronly friend at Willow Heights.
Traverse had not listened patiently to this account. He heard it with many bursts of irrepressible indignation and many involuntary starts of wild passion. Toward the last he sprang up and walked up and down, chafing like an angry lion in his cage.
"And this man," he exclaimed, as Herbert concluded; "this demon! this beast! is now our commanding officer--the colonel of our regiment."
"Yes," replied Herbert, "but as such you must not call him names; military rules are despotic; and this man, who knows your person and knows you to be the betrothed of Clara Day, whose hand and fortune he covets for his son, will leave no power with which his command invests him untried to ruin and destroy you! Traverse, I say these things to you that being 'forewarned' you maybe 'forearmed.' I trust that you will remember your mother and your betrothed, and for their dear sakes practise every sort of self-control, patience and forbearance under the provocations you may receive from our colonel. And in advising you to do this I only counsel that which I shall myself practise. I, too, am under the ban of Le Noir for the part I played in the church in succoring Capitola, as well as for happening to be 'the nephew of my uncle,' Major Warfield, who is his mortal enemy."
"I? Will I not be patient, after the lesson I have just learned upon the evils of the opposite? Be easy on my account, dear old friend, I will be as patient as Job, meek as Moses and long-suffering as--my own sweet mother!" said Traverse, earnestly.
The drum was now heard beating to quarters, and Traverse, wringing his friend's hand, left him.
Herbert returned to his ship full of one scheme, of which he had not spoken to Traverse lest it should prove unsuccessful. This scheme was to procure his free discharge before they should set sail for the Rio Grande. He had many influential friends among the officers of his regiment, and he was resolved to tell them as much as was delicate, proper and useful for them to know of the young recruit's private history, in order to get their cooperation.
Herbert spent every hour of this day and the next, when off duty, in this service of his friend. He found his brother officers easily interested, sympathetic and propitious. They united their efforts with his own to procure the discharge of the young recruit, but in vain; the power of Colonel Le Noir was opposed to their influence and the application was peremptorily refused.
Herbert Greyson did not sit down quietly under this disappointment, but wrote an application embodying all the facts of the case to the Secretary of War, got it signed by all the officers of the regiment and despatched it by the first mail.
Simultaneously he took another important step for the interest of his friend. Without hinting any particular motive, he had begged Traverse to let him have his photograph taken, and the latter, with a laugh at the lover-like proposal, had consented. When the likeness was finished Herbert sent it by express to Major Warfield, accompanied by a letter describing the excellent character and unfortunate condition of Traverse, praying the major's interest in his behalf and concluding by saying: "You cannot look upon the accompanying photograph of my friend and any longer disclaim your own express image in your son."
How this affected the action of Old Hurricane will be seen hereafter.
Traverse, knowing nothing of the efforts that had been and were still being made for his discharge, suffered neither disappointment for failure of the first nor anxiety for the issue of the last.
He wrote to his mother and Clara, congratulating them on their good fortune; telling them that he, in common with many young men of St. Louis, had volunteered for the Mexican War; that he was then in New Orleans, en route for the Rio Grande, and that they would be pleased to know that their mutual friend, Herbert Greyson, was an officer in the same regiment of which he himself was at present a private, but with strong hopes of soon winning his epaulettes. He endorsed an order for his mother to draw the thousand dollars left him by Doctor Day, and he advised her to re-deposit the sum in her own name for her own use in case of need. Praying God's blessing upon them all, and begging their prayers for himself, Traverse concluded his letter, which he mailed the same evening.
And the next morning the company was ordered on board and the whole expedition set sail for the Rio Grande.
Now, we might just as easily as not accompany our troops to Mexico and relate the feats of arms there performed with the minuteness and fidelity of an eye-witness, since we have sat at dinner-tables where the heroes of that war have been honored guests, and where we have heard them fight their battles o'er till "thrice the foe was slain and thrice the field was won."
We might follow the rising star of our young lieutenant, as by his own merits and others' mishaps he ascended from rank to rank, through all the grades of military promotion, but need not because the feats of Lieutenant--Captain--Major and Colonel Greyson, are they not written in the chronicles of the Mexican War?
We prefer to look after our little domestic heroine, our brave little Cap, who, when women have their rights, shall be a lieutenant-colonel herself. Shall she not, gentlemen?
* * * * * In one fortnight from this time, while Mrs. Rocke and Clara were still living comfortably at Willow Heights and waiting anxiously to hear from Traverse, whom they still supposed to be practising his profession at St. Louis, they received his last letter written on the eve of his departure for the seat of war. At first the news overwhelmed them with grief, but then they sought relief in faith, answered his letter cheerfully and commended him to the infinite mercy of God.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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15
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CAP CAPTIVATES A CRAVEN.
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"He knew himself a villain, but he deemed The rest no better than the thing he seemed; And scorned the best as hypocrites who hid Those deeds the bolder spirits plainly did. He knew himself detested, but he knew The hearts that loathed him crouched and--dreaded, too."
The unregenerate human heart is, perhaps, the most inconsistent thing in all nature; and in nothing is it more capricious than in the manifestations of its passions; and in no passion is it so fantastic as in that which it miscalls love, but which is really often only appetite.
From the earliest days of manhood Craven Le Noir had been the votary of vice, which he called pleasure. Before reaching the age of twenty-five he had run the full course of dissipation, and found himself ruined in health, degraded in character and disgusted with life.
Yet in all this experience his heart had not been once agitated with a single emotion that deserved the name of passion. It was colder than the coldest.
He had not loved Clara, though, for the sake of her money, he had courted her so assiduously. Indeed, for the doctor's orphan girl he had from the first conceived a strong antipathy. His evil spirit had shrunk from her pure soul with the loathing a fiend might feel for an angel. He had found it repugnant and difficult, almost to the extent of impossibility, for him to pursue the courtship to which he was only reconciled by a sense of duty to--his pocket.
It was reserved for his meeting with Capitola at the altar of the Forest Chapel to fire his clammy heart, stagnant blood and sated senses with the very first passion that he had ever known. Her image, as she stood there at the altar with flashing eyes and flaming cheeks and scathing tongue defying him, was ever before his mind's eye. There was something about that girl so spirited, so piquant and original that she impressed even his apathetic nature as no other woman had ever been able to do. But what most of all attracted him to Capitola was her diablerie. He longed to catch that little savage to his bosom and have her at his mercy. The aversion she had exhibited toward him only stimulated his passion.
Craven Le Noir, among his other graces, was gifted with inordinate vanity. He did not in the least degree despair of over-coming all Capitola's dislike to his person and inspiring her with a passion equal to his own.
He knew well that he dared not present himself at Hurricane Hall, but he resolved to waylay her in her rides and there to press his suit. To this he was urged by another motive almost as strong as love--namely, avarice.
He had gathered thus much from his father, that Capitola Black was supposed to be Capitola Le Noir, the rightful heiress of all that vast property in land, houses, iron and coal mines, foundries and furnaces, railway shares, etc., and bank stocks, from which his father drew the princely revenue that supported them both in their lavish extravagance of living.
As the heiress--or, rather, the rightful owner--of all this vast fortune, Capitola was a much greater "catch" than poor Clara, with her modest estate, had been. And Mr. Craven Le Noir was quite willing to turn the tables on his father by running off with the great heiress, and step from his irksome position of dependent upon Colonel Le Noir's often ungracious bounty to that of the husband of the heiress and the master of the property. Added to that was another favorable circumstance--namely, whereas he had had a strong personal antipathy to Clara he had as strong an attraction to Capitola, which would make his course of courtship all the pleasanter.
In one word, he resolved to woo, win and elope with, or forcibly abduct, Capitola Le Noir, marry her and then turn upon his father and claim the fortune in right of his wife. The absence of Colonel Le Noir in Mexico favored his projects, as he could not fear interruption.
Meanwhile our little madcap remained quite unconscious of the honors designed her. She had cried every day of the first week of Herbert's absence; every alternate day of the second; twice in the third; once in the fourth; not at all in the fifth, and the sixth week she was quite herself again, as full of fun and frolic and as ready for any mischief or deviltry that might turn up.
She resumed her rides, no longer followed by Wool, because Old Hurricane, partly upon account of his misadventure in having had the misfortune inadvertently "to lose sight of" his mistress upon that memorable occasion of the metamorphosis of Cap into Clara and partly because of the distant absence of Le Noir, did not consider his favorite in danger.
He little knew that a subtle and unscrupulous agent had been left sworn to her destruction, and that another individual, almost equally dangerous, had registered a secret vow to run off with her.
Neither did poor Cap when, rejoicing to be free from the dogging attendance of Wool, imagine the perils to which she was exposed; nor is it even likely that if she had she would have cared for them in any other manner than as promising piquant adventures. From childhood she had been inured to danger, and had never suffered harm; therefore, Cap, like the Chevalier Bayard, was "without fear and without reproach."
Craven Le Noir proceeded cautiously with his plans, knowing that there was time enough and that all might be lost by haste. He did not wish to alarm Capitola.
The first time he took occasion to meet her in her rides he merely bowed deeply, even to the flaps of his saddle and, with a melancholy smile, passed on.
"Miserable wretch! He is a mean fellow to want to marry a girl against her will, no matter how much he might have been in love with her, and I am very glad I balked him. Still, he looks so ill and unhappy that I can't help pitying him," said Cap, looking compassionately at his white cheeks and languishing eyes, and little knowing that the illness was the effect of dissipation and that the melancholy was assumed for the occasion.
A few days after this Cap again met Craven Le Noir, who again, with a deep bow and sad smile, passed her.
"Poor fellow! he richly deserves to suffer, and I hope it may make him better, for I am right-down sorry for him; it must be so dreadful to lose one we love; but it was too base in him to let his father try to compel her to have him. Suppose, now, Herbert Greyson was to take a fancy to another girl, would I let uncle go to him and put a pistol to his head and say, 'Cap is fond of you, you varlet! and demmy, sir, you shall marry none but her, or receive an ounce of lead in your stupid brains'? No, I'd scorn it; I'd forward the other wedding; I'd make the cake and dress the bride and--then maybe I'd break--no, I'm blamed if I would! I'd not break my heart for anybody. Set them up with it, indeed! Neither would my dear, darling, sweet, precious Herbert treat me so, and I'm a wretch to think of it!" said Cap, with a rich, inimitable unction as, rejoicing in her own happy love, she cheered Gyp and rode on.
Now, Craven Le Noir had been conscious of the relenting and compassionate looks of Capitola, but he did not know that they were only the pitying regards of a noble and victorious nature over a vanquished and suffering wrong-doer. However, he still determined to be cautious, and not ruin his prospects by precipitate action, but to "hasten slowly."
So the next time he met Capitola he raised his eyes with one deep, sad, appealing gaze to hers, and then, bowing profoundly, passed on.
"Poor man," said Cap to herself, "he bears no malice toward me for depriving him of his sweetheart; that's certain. And, badly as he behaved, I suppose it was all for love, for I don't know how any one could live in the same house with Clara and not be in love with her. I should have been so myself if I'd been a man, I know!"
The next time Cap met Craven and saw again that deep, sorrowful, appealing gaze as he bowed and passed her, she glanced after him, saying to herself: "Poor soul, I wonder what he means by looking at me in that piteous manner? I can do nothing to relieve him. I'm sure if I could I would. But 'the way of the transgressor is hard,' Mr. Le Noir, and he who sins must suffer."
For about three weeks their seemingly accidental meetings continued in this silent manner, so slowly did Craven make his advances. Then, feeling more confidence, he made a considerably long step forward.
One day, when he guessed that Capitola would be out, instead of meeting her as heretofore, he put himself in her road and, riding slowly toward a five-barred gate, allowed her to overtake him.
He opened the gate and, bowing, held it open until she had passed.
She bowed her thanks and rode on; but presently, without the least appearance of intruding, since she had overtaken him, he was at her side and, speaking with downcast eyes and deferential manner, he said: "I have long desired an opportunity to express the deep sorrow and mortification I feel for having been hurried into rudeness toward an estimable young lady at the Forest Chapel. Miss Black, will you permit me now to assure you of my profound repentance of that act and to implore your pardon?"
"Oh, I have nothing against you, Mr. Le Noir. It was not I whom you were intending to marry against my will; and as for what you said and did to me, ha! ha! I had provoked it, you know, and I also afterwards paid it in kind. It was a fair fight, in which I was the victor, and victors should never be vindictive," said Cap, laughing, for, though knowing him to have been violent and unjust, she did not suspect him of being treacherous and deceitful, or imagine the base designs concealed beneath his plausible manner. Her brave, honest nature could understand a brute or a despot, but not a traitor.
"Then, like frank enemies who have fought their fight out, yet bear no malice toward each other, we may shake hands and be friends, I hope," said Craven, replying in the same spirit in which she had spoken.
"Well, I don't know about that, Mr. Le Noir. Friendship is a very sacred thing, and its name should not be lightly taken on our tongues. I hope you will excuse me if I decline your proffer," said Cap, who had a well of deep, true, earnest feeling beneath her effervescent surface.
"What! you will not even grant a repentant man your friendship, Miss Black?" asked Craven, with a sorrowful smile.
"I wish you well, Mr. Le Noir. I wish you a good and, therefore, a happy life; but I cannot give you friendship, for that means a great deal."
"Oh, I see how it is! You cannot give your friendship where you cannot give your esteem. Is it not so?"
"Yes," said Capitola; "that is it; yet I wish you so well that I wish you might grow worthy of higher esteem than mine."
"You are thinking of my--yes, I will not shrink from characterizing that conduct as it deserves--my unpardonable violence toward Clara. Miss Black, I have mourned that sin from the day that I was hurried into it until this. I have bewailed it from the very bottom of my heart," said Craven, earnestly, fixing his eyes with an expression of perfect truthfulness upon those of Capitola.
"I am glad to hear you say so," said Cap.
"Miss Black, please hear this in palliation--I would not presume to say in defense--of my conduct: I was driven to frenzy by a passion of contending love and jealousy as violent and maddening as it was unreal and transient. But that delusive passion has subsided, and among the unmerited mercies for which I have to be thankful is that, in my frantic pursuit of Clara Day, I was not cursed with success! For all the violence into which that frenzy hurried me I have deeply repented. I can never forgive myself, but--cannot you forgive me?"
"Mr. Le Noir, I have nothing for which to forgive you. I am glad that you have repented toward Clara and I wish you well, and that is really all that I can say."
"I have deserved this and I accept it," said Craven, in a tone so mournful that Capitola, in spite of all her instincts, could not choose but pity him.
He rode on, with his pale face, downcast eyes and melancholy expression, until they reached a point at the back of Hurricane Hall, where their paths diverged.
Here Craven, lifting his hat and bowing profoundly, said, in a sad tone: "Good evening, Miss Black," and, turning his horse's head, took the path leading down into the Hidden Hollow.
"Poor young fellow! he must be very unhappy down in that miserable place; but I can't help it. I wish he would go to Mexico with the rest," said Cap, as she pursued her way homeward.
Not to excite her suspicion, Craven Le Noir avoided meeting Capitola for a few days, and then threw himself in her road and, as before, allowed her to overtake him.
Very subtly he entered into conversation with her, and, guarding every word and look, took care to interest without alarming her. He said no more of friendship, but a great deal of regret for wasted years and wasted talents in the past and good resolutions for the future.
And Cap listened good humoredly. Capitola, being of a brave, hard, firm nature, had not the sensitive perceptions, fine intuitions and true insight into character that distinguished the more refined nature of Clara Day--or, at least, she had not these delicate faculties in the same perfection. Thus, her undefined suspicions of Craven's sincerity were overborne by a sort of noble benevolence which determined her to think the best of him which circumstances would permit.
Craven, on his part, having had more experience, was much wiser in the pursuit of his object. He also had the advantage of being in earnest. His passion for Capitola was sincere, and not, as it had been in the case of Clara, simulated. He believed, therefore, that, when the time should be ripe for the declaration of his love, he would have a much better prospect of success, especially as Capitola, in her ignorance of her own great fortune, must consider his proposal the very climax of disinterestedness.
After three more weeks of riding and conversing with Capitola he had, in his own estimation, advanced so far in her good opinion as to make it perfectly safe to risk a declaration. And this he determined to do upon the very first opportunity.
Chance favored him.
One afternoon Capitola, riding through the pleasant woods skirting the back of the mountain range that sheltered Hurricane Hall, got a fall, for which she was afterwards inclined to cuff Wool.
It happened in this way: She had come to a steep rise in the road and urged her pony into a hard gallop, intending as she said to herself, to "storm the height," when suddenly, under the violent strain, the girth, ill-fastened, flew apart and Miss Cap was on the ground, buried under the fallen saddle.
With many a blessing upon the carelessness of grooms, Cap picked herself up, put the saddle on the horse, and was engaged in drawing under the girth when Craven Le Noir rode up, sprang from his horse and, with anxiety depicted on his countenance, ran to the spot inquiring: "What is the matter? No serious accident, I hope and trust, Miss Black?"
"No; those wretches in uncle's stables did not half buckle the girth, and, as I was going in a hard gallop up the steep, it flew apart and gave me a tumble; that's all," said Cap, desisting a moment from her occupation to take breath.
"You were not hurt?" inquired Craven, with deep interest in his tone.
"Oh, no; there is no harm done, except to my riding skirt, which has been torn and muddied by the fall," said Cap, laughing and resuming her efforts to tighten the girth.
"Pray permit me," said Craven, gently taking the end of the strap from her hand; "this is no work for a lady, and, besides, is beyond your strength."
Capitola, thanking him, withdrew to the side of the road, and, seating herself upon the trunk of a fallen tree, began to brush the dirt from her habit.
Craven adjusted and secured the saddle with great care, patted and soothed the pony and then, approaching Capitola in the most deferential manner, stood before her and said: "Miss Black, you will pardon me, I hope, if I tell you that the peril I had imagined you to be in has so agitated my mind as to make it impossible for me longer to withhold a declaration of my sentiments----" Here his voice, that had trembled throughout this disclosure, now really and utterly failed him.
Capitola looked up with surprise and interest; she had never in her life before heard an explicit declaration of love from anybody. She and Herbert somehow had always understood each other very well, without ever a word of technical love-making passing between them; so Capitola did not exactly know what was coming next.
Craven recovered his voice, and encouraged by the favorable manner in which she appeared to listen to him, actually threw himself at her feet and, seizing one of her hands, with much ardor and earnestness and much more eloquence than any one would have credited him with, poured forth the history of his passion and his hopes.
"Well, I declare!" said Cap, when he had finished his speech and was waiting in breathless impatience for her answer; "this is what is called a declaration of love and a proposal of marriage, is it? It is downright sentimental, I suppose, if I had only sense enough to appreciate it! It is as good as a play; pity it is lost upon me!"
"Cruel girl! how you mock me!" cried Craven, rising from his knees and sitting beside her.
"No, I don't; I'm in solemn earnest. I say it is first rate. Do it again; I like it!"
"Sarcastic and merciless one, you glory in the pain you give! But if you wish again to hear me say I love you, I will say it a dozen--yes, a hundred--times over if you will only admit that you could love me a little in return."
"Don't; that would be tiresome; two or three times is quite enough. Besides, what earthly good could my saying 'I love you' do?"
"It might persuade you to become the wife of one who will adore you to the last hour of his life."
"Meaning you?"
"Meaning me; the most devoted of your admirers."
"That isn't saying much, since I haven't got any but you."
"Thank fortune for it! Then I am to understand, charming Capitola, that at least your hand and your affections are free," cried Craven, joyfully.
"Well, now, I don't know about that! Really, I can't positively say; but it strikes me, if I were to get married to anybody else, there's somebody would feel queerish!"
"No doubt there are many whose secret hopes would be blasted, for so charming a girl could not have passed through this world without having won many hearts who would keenly feel the loss of hope in her marriage. But what if they do, my enchanting Capitola? You are not responsible for any one having formed such hopes."
"Fudge!" said Cap, "I'm no belle; never was; never can be; have neither wealth, beauty nor coquetry enough to make me one. I have no lovers nor admirers to break their hearts about me, one way or another; but there is one honest fellow--hem! never mind; I feel as if I belonged to somebody else; that's all. I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Le Noir, for your preference, and even for the beautiful way in which you have expressed it, but--I belong to somebody else."
"Miss Black," said Craven, somewhat abashed but not discouraged. "I think I understand you. I presume that you refer to the young man who was your gallant champion in the Forest Chapel."
"The one that made your nose bleed," said the incorrigible Cap.
"Well, Miss Black, from your words it appears that this is by no means an acknowledged but only an understood engagement, which cannot be binding upon either party. Now, a young lady of your acknowledged good sense----" "I never had any more good sense than I have had admirers," interrupted Cap.
Craven smiled.
"I would not hear your enemy say that," he replied; then, resuming his argument, he said: "You will readily understand, Miss Black, that the vague engagement of which you speak, where there is want of fortune on both sides, is no more prudent than it is binding. On the contrary, the position which it is my pride to offer you is considered an enviable one; even apart from the devoted love that goes with it. You are aware that I am the sole heir of the Hidden House estate, which, with all its dependencies, is considered the largest property, as my wife would be the most important lady, in the county."
Cap's lip curled a little; looking askance at him she answered: "I am really very much obliged to you Mr. Le Noir, for the distinguished honor that you designed for me. I should highly appreciate the magnanimity of a young gentleman, the heir of the wealthiest estate in the neighborhood who deigns to propose marriage to the little beggar that I acknowledge myself to be. I regret to be obliged to refuse such dignities, but--I belong to another," said Capitola, rising and advancing toward her horse.
Craven would not risk his success by pushing his suit further at this sitting.
Very respectfully lending his assistance to put Capitola into her saddle, he said he hoped at some future and more propitious time to resume the subject. And then, with a deep bow, he left her, mounted his horse and rode on his way.
He did not believe that Capitola was more than half in earnest, or that any girl in Capitola's circumstances would do such a mad thing as to refuse the position he offered her.
He did not throw himself in her way often enough to excite her suspicion that their meetings were preconcerted on his part, and even when he did overtake her or suffer her to overtake him, he avoided giving her offense by pressing his suit until another good opportunity should offer. This was not long in coming.
One afternoon he overtook her and rode by her side for a short distance when, finding her in unusually good spirits and temper, he again renewed his declaration of love and offer of marriage.
Cap turned around in her saddle and looked at him with astonishment for a full minute before she exclaimed: "Why, Mr. Le Noir, I gave you an answer more than a week ago. Didn't I tell you 'No'? What on earth do you mean by repeating the question?"
"I mean, bewitching Capitola, not to let such a treasure slip out of my grasp if I can help it."
"I never was in your grasp, that I know of," said Cap, whipping up her horse and leaving him far behind.
Days passed before Craven thought it prudent again to renew and press his suit. He did so upon a fine September morning, when he overtook her riding along the banks of the river. He joined her and in the most deprecating manner besought her to listen to him once more. Then he commenced in a strain of the most impassioned eloquence and urged his love and his proposal.
Capitola stopped her horse, wheeled around and faced him, looking him full in the eyes while she said: "Upon my word, Mr. Le Noir, you remind me of an anecdote told of young Sheridan. When his father advised him to take a wife and settle, he replied by asking whose wife he should take. Will nobody serve your purpose but somebody else's sweetheart? I have told you that I belong to a brave young soldier who is fighting his country's battles in a foreign land, while you are lazing here at home, trying to undermine him. I am ashamed of you, sir, and ashamed of myself for talking with you so many times! Never do you presume to accost me on the highway or anywhere else again! Craven by name and Craven by nature, you have once already felt the weight of Herbert's arm! Do not provoke its second descent upon you! You are warned!" and with that Capitola, with her lips curled, her eyes flashing and her cheeks burning, put whip to her pony and galloped away.
Craven Le Noir's thin, white face grew perfectly livid with passion.
"I will have her yet! I have sworn it, and by fair means or by foul I will have her yet!" he exclaimed, as he relaxed his hold upon his bridle and let his horse go on slowly, while he sat with his brows gathered over his thin nose, his long chin buried in his neckcloth and his nails between his teeth, gnawing like a wild beast, as was his custom when deeply cogitating.
Presently he conceived a plan so diabolical that none but Satan himself could have inspired it! This was to take advantage of his acquaintance and casual meetings with Capitola so to malign her character as to make it unlikely that any honest man would risk his honor by taking her to wife; that thus the way might be left clear for himself; and he resolved, if possible, to effect this in such a manner--namely, by jests, innuendos and sneers--that it should never be directly traced to a positive assertion on his part. And in the mean time he determined to so govern himself in his deportment toward Capitola as to arouse no suspicion, give no offense and, if possible, win back her confidence.
It is true that even Craven Le Noir, base as he was, shrank from the idea of smirching the reputation of the woman whom he wished to make a wife; but then he said to himself that in that remote neighborhood the scandal would be of little consequence to him, who, as soon as he should be married, would claim the estate of the Hidden House in right of his wife, put it in charge of an overseer and then, with his bride, start for Paris, the paradise of the epicurean, where he designed to fix their principal residence.
Craven Le Noir was so pleased with his plan that he immediately set about putting it in execution. Our next chapter will show how he succeeded.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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16
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CAP'S RAGE.
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Is he not approved to the height of a villain, who hath slandered, scorned, dishonored thy kinswoman. Oh! that I were a man for his sake, or had a friend who would be one for mine!
--Shakespeare.
Autumn brought the usual city visitors to Hurricane Hall to spend the sporting season and shoot over Major Warfield's grounds. Old Hurricane was in his glory, giving dinners and projecting hunts.
Capitola also enjoyed herself rarely, enacting with much satisfaction to herself and guests her new rôle of hostess, and not unfrequently joining her uncle and his friends in their field sports.
Among the guests there were two who deserve particular attention, not only because they had been for many years annual visitors of Hurricane Hall, but more especially because there had grown up between them and our little madcap heroine a strong mutual confidence and friendship. Yet no three persons could possibly be more unlike than Capitola and the two cousins of her soul, as she called these two friends. They were both distant relatives of Major Warfield, and in right of this relationship invariably addressed Capitola as "Cousin Cap."
John Stone, the elder of the two, was a very tall, stout, squarely built young man, with a broad, good-humored face, fair skin, blue eyes and light hair. In temperament he was rather phlegmatic, quiet and lazy. In character he was honest, prudent and good-tempered. In circumstances he was a safe banker, with a notable wife and two healthy children. The one thing that was able to excite his quiet nerves was the chase, of which he was as fond as he could possibly be of any amusement. The one person who agreeably stirred his rather still spirits was our little Cap, and that was the secret of his friendship for her.
Edwin Percy, the other, was a young West Indian, tall and delicately formed, with a clear olive complexion, languishing dark hazel eyes and dark, bright chestnut hair and beard. In temperament he was ardent as his clime. In character, indolent, careless and self-indulgent. In condition he was the bachelor heir of a sugar plantation of a thousand acres. He loved not the chase, nor any other amusement requiring exertion. He doted upon swansdown sofas with springs, French plays, cigars and chocolate. He came to the country to find repose, good air and an appetite. He was the victim of constitutional ennui that yielded to nothing but the exhilaration of Capitola's company; that was the mystery of his love for her, and doubtless the young Creole would have proposed for Cap, had he not thought it too much trouble to get married, and dreaded the bustle of a bridal. Certainly Edwin Percy was as opposite in character to John Stone, as they both were to Capitola, yet great was the relative attraction among the three. Cap impartially divided her kind offices as hostess between them.
John Stone joined Old Hurricane in many a hard day's hunt, and Capitola was often of the party.
Edwin Percy spent many hours on the luxurious lounge in the parlor, where Cap was careful to place a stand with chocolate, cigars, wax matches and his favorite books.
One day Cap had had what she called "a row with the governor," that is to say, a slight misunderstanding with Major Warfield; a very uncommon occurrence, as the reader knows, in which that temperate old gentleman had so freely bestowed upon his niece the names of "beggar, foundling, brat, vagabond and vagrant," that Capitola, in just indignation, refused to join the birding party, and taking her game bag, powder flask, shot-horn and fowling piece, and calling her favorite pointer, walked off, as she termed it, "to shoot herself." But if Capitola's by no means sweet temper had been tried that morning, it was destined to be still more severely tested before the day was over.
Her second provocation came in this way: John Stone, another deserter of the birding party had that day betaken himself to Tip-top upon some private business of his own. He dined at the Antlers in company with some sporting gentlemen of the neighborhood, and when the conversation naturally turned upon field sports, Mr. John Stone spoke of the fine shooting that was to be had around Hurricane Hall, when one of the gentlemen, looking straight across the table to Mr. Stone, said: "Ahem! That pretty little huntress of Hurricane Hall--that niece or ward, or mysterious daughter of Old Hurricane, who engages with so much enthusiasm in your field sports over there, is a girl of very free and easy manners I understand--a Diana in nothing but her love of the chase!"
"Sir, it is a base calumny! And the man who endorses it is a shameless slanderer! There is my card! I may be found at my present residence, Hurricane Hall," said John Stone, throwing his pasteboard across the table, and rising to leave it.
"Nay, nay," said the stranger, laughing and pushing the card away. "I do not endorse the statement--I know nothing about it! I wash my hands of it," said the young man. And then upon Mr. Stone's demanding the author of the calumny, he gave the name of Mr. Craven Le Noir, who, he said, had "talked in his cups," at a dinner party recently given by one of his friends.
"I pronounce--publicly, in the presence of all these witnesses, as I shall presently to Craven Le Noir himself--that he is a shameless miscreant, who has basely slandered a noble girl! You, sir, have declined to endorse those words; henceforth decline to repeat them! For after this I shall call to a severe account any man who ventures, by word, gesture or glance to hint this slander, or in any other way deal lightly with the honorable name and fame of the lady in question. Gentlemen, I am to be found at Hurricane Hall, and I have the honor of wishing you a more improving subject of conversation, and--a very good afternoon," said John Stone, bowing and leaving the room.
He immediately called for his horse and rode home.
In crossing the thicket of woods between the river and the rising ground in front of Hurricane Hall, he overtook Capitola, who, as we have said, had been out alone with her gun and dog, and was now returning home with her game bag well laden.
Now, as John Stone looked at Capitola, with her reckless, free and joyous air, he thought she was just the sort of girl, unconsciously, to get herself and friends into trouble. And he thought it best to give her a hint to put an abrupt period to her acquaintance, if she had even the slightest, with the heir apparent of the Hidden House.
While still hesitating how to begin the conversation, he came up with the young girl, dismounted, and, leading his horse, walked by her side, asking carelessly: "What have you bagged, Cap?"
"Some partridges! Oh, you should have been out with me and Sweetlips! We've had such sport! But, anyhow, you shall enjoy your share of the spoils! Come home and you shall have some of these partridges broiled for supper, with currant sauce--a dish of my own invention for uncle's sake, you know! He's such a gourmand!"
"Thank you, yes--I am on my way home now. Hem--m! Capitola, I counsel you to cut the acquaintance of our neighbor, Craven Le Noir."
"I have already done so; but--what in the world is the matter that you should advise me thus?" inquired Capitola, fixing her eyes steadily upon the face of John Stone, who avoided her gaze as he answered: "The man is not a proper associate for a young woman."
"I know that, and have cut him accordingly; but, Cousin John, there is some reason for your words, that you have not expressed; and as they concern me, now I insist upon knowing what they are!"
"Tut! it is nothing!" said the other evasively.
"John Stone, I know better! And the more you look down and whip your boot the surer I am that there is something I ought to know, and I will know!"
"Well, you termagant! Have your way! He has been speaking lightly of you--that's all! Nobody minds him--his tongue is no scandal."
"John Stone--what has he said?" asked Capitola, drawing her breath hardly between her closed teeth.
"Oh, now, why should you ask? It is nothing--it is not proper that I should tell you," replied that gentleman, in embarrassment. " 'It is nothing,' and yet 'it is not proper that you should tell me!' How do you make that out? John Stone, leave off lashing the harmless bushes and listen to me! I have to live in the same neighborhood with this man, after you have gone away, and I insist upon knowing the whole length and breadth of his baseness and malignity, that I may know how to judge and punish him!" said Capitola, with such grimness of resolution that Mr. Stone, provoked at her perversity, answered: "Well, you wilful girl, listen!" And commencing, he mercilessly told her all that had passed at the table.
To have seen our Cap then! Face, neck and bosom were flushed with the crimson tide of indignation!
"You are sure of what you tell me, Cousin John?"
"The man vouches for it!"
"He shall bite the dust!"
"What?"
"The slanderer shall bite the dust!"
Without more ado, down was thrown gun, game bag, powder flask and shot-horn, and, bounding from point to point over all the intervening space, Capitola rushed into Hurricane Hall, and without an instant's delay ran straight into the parlor, where her epicurean friend, the young Creole, lay slumbering upon the lounge.
With her face now livid with concentrated rage, and her eyes glittering with that suppressed light peculiar to intense passion, she stood before him and said: "Edwin! Craven Le Noir has defamed your cousin! Get up and challenge him!"
"What did you say, Cap?" said Mr. Percy, slightly yawning.
"Must I repeat it? Craven Le Noir has defamed my character--challenge him!"
"That would be against the law, coz; they would indict me sure!"
"You--you--you lie there and answer me in that way! Oh that I were a man!"
"Compose yourself, sweet coz, and tell me what all this is about! Yaw-ooo! --really I was asleep when you first spoke to me!"
"Asleep! Had you been dead and in your grave, the words that I spoke should have roused you like the trump of the archangel!" exclaimed Capitola, with the blood rushing back to her cheeks.
"Your entrance was sufficiently startling, coz, but tell me over again--what was the occasion?"
"That caitiff, Craven Le Noir, has slandered me! Oh, the villain! He is a base slanderer! Percy, get up this moment and challenge Le Noir! I cannot breathe freely until it is done!" exclaimed Capitola, impetuously.
"Cousin Cap, duelling is obsolete; scenes are passè; law settles everything; and here there is scarcely ground for action for libel. But be comforted, coz, for if this comes to Uncle Hurricane's ears, he'll make mince-meat of him in no time. It is all in his line; he'll chaw him right up!"
"Percy, do you mean to say that you will not call out that man?" asked Capitola, drawing her breath hardly.
"Yes, coz."
"You won't fight him?"
"No, coz."
"You won't?"
"No."
"Edwin Percy, look me straight in the face!" said Cap, between her closed teeth.
"Well, I am looking you straight in the face--straight in the two blazing gray eyes, you little tempest in a teapot--what then?"
"Do I look as though I should be in earnest in what I am about to speak?"
"I should judge so."
"Then listen, and don't take your eyes off mine until I am done speaking!"
"Very well, don't be long, though, for it rather agitates me."
"I will not! Hear me, then! You say that you decline to challenge Le Noir. Very good! I, on my part, here renounce all acquaintance with you! I will never sit down at the same table--enter the same room, or breathe the same air with you--never speak to you--listen to you, or recognize you in any manner, until my deep wrongs are avenged in the punishment of my slanderer, so help me----" "Hush-sh! don't swear, Cap--it's profane and unwomanly; and nothing on earth but broken oaths would be the result!"
But Cap was off! In an instant she was down in the yard, where her groom was holding her horse, ready in case she wished to take her usual ride.
"Where is Mr. John Stone?" she asked.
"Down at the kennels, miss," answered the boy.
She jumped into her saddle, put whip to her horse and flew over the ground between the mansion house and the kennels.
She pulled up before the door of the main building, sprang from her saddle, threw the bridle to a man in attendance, and rushed into the house and into the presence of Mr. John Stone, who was busy in prescribing for an indisposed pointer.
He looked up in astonishment, exclaiming: "Hilloe! All the witches! Here's Cap! Why, where on earth did you shoot from? What's up now? You look as if you were in a state of spontaneous combustion and couldn't stand it another minute."
"And I can't--and I won't! John Stone, you must call that man out!"
"What man, Cap--what the deuce do you mean?"
"You know well enough--you do this to provoke me! I mean the man of whom you cautioned me this afternoon--the wretch who slandered me--the niece of your host!"
"Whe--ew!"
"Will you do it?"
"Where's Percy?"
"On the lounge with an ice in one hand and a novel in the other! I suppose it is no use mincing the matter, John--he is a--mere epicure--there is no fight in him! It is you who must vindicate your cousin's honor!"
"My cousin's honor cannot need vindication! It is unquestioned and unquestionable!"
"No smooth words, if you please, cousin John! Will you, or will you not fight that man?"
"Tut, Cap, no one really questions your honor--that man will get himself knocked into a cocked hat if he goes around talking of an honest girl!"
"A likely thing, when her own cousins and guests take it so quietly."
"What would you have them do, Cap? The longer an affair of this sort is agitated, the more offensive it becomes! Besides, chivalry is out of date! The knights-errant are all dead."
"The men are all dead! If any ever really lived!" cried Cap, in a fury. "Heaven knows I am inclined to believe them to have been a fabulous race like that of the mastodon or the centaur! I certainly never saw a creature that deserved the name of man! The very first of your race was the meanest fellow that ever was heard of--ate the stolen apple and when found out laid one half of the blame on his wife and the other on his Maker--'The woman whom thou gavest me' did so and so--pah! I don't wonder the Lord took a dislike to the race and sent a flood to sweep them all off the face of the earth! I will give you one more chance to retrieve your honor--in one word, now--will you fight that man?"
"My dear little cousin, I would do anything in reason to vindicate the assailed manhood of my whole sex, but really, now----" "Will you fight that man? One word--yes, or no?"
"Tut, Cap! you are a very reckless young woman! You--it's your nature--you are an incorrigible madcap! You bewitch a poor wretch until he doesn't know his head from his heels--puts his feet into his hat and covers his scalp with his boots! You are a will-o'-the-wisp who lures a poor fellow on through woods, bogs and briars, until you land him in the quicksands! You whirl him around and around until he grows dizzy and delirious, and talks at random, and then you'd have him called out, you blood-thirsty little vixen! I tell you, Cousin Cap, if I were to take up all the quarrels your hoydenism might lead me into, I should have nothing else to do!"
"Then you won't fight!"
"Can't, little cousin! I have a wife and family, which are powerful checks upon a man's duelling impulses!"
"Silence! You are no cousin of mine--no drop of your sluggish blood stagnates in my veins--no spark of the liquid fire of my life's current burns in your torpid arteries, else at this insult would it set you in a flame! Never dare to call me cousin again." And so saying, she flung herself out of the building and into her saddle, put whip to her horse and galloped away home.
Now, Mr. Stone had privately resolved to thrash Craven Le Noir; but he did not deem it expedient to take Cap into his confidence. As Capitola reached the horse-block, her own groom came to take the bridle.
"Jem," she said, as she jumped from her saddle, "put Gyp up and then come to my room, I have a message to send by you."
And then, with burning cheeks and flashing eyes, she went to her own sanctum, and after taking off her habit, did the most astounding thing that ever a woman of the nineteenth or any former century attempted--she wrote a challenge to Craven Le Noir--charging him with falsehood in having maligned her honor--demanding from him "the satisfaction of a gentleman," and requesting him as the challenged party to name the time, place and weapons with which he would meet her.
By the time she had written, sealed and directed this war-like defiance, her young groom made his appearance.
"Jem," she asked, "do you know the way to the Hidden House?"
"Yes, miss, sure."
"Then take this note thither, ask for Mr. Le Noir, put it into his hands, and say that you are directed to wait an answer. And listen! You need not mention to any one in this house where you are going--nor when you return, where you have been; but bring the answer you may get directly to this room, where you will find me."
"Yes, miss," said the boy, who was off like a flying Mercury.
Capitola threw herself into her chair to spend the slow hours until the boy's return as well as her fierce impatience and forced inaction would permit.
At tea time she was summoned; but excused herself from going below upon the plea of indisposition.
"Which is perfectly true," she said to herself, "since I am utterly indisposed to go. And besides, I have sworn never again to sit at the same table with my cousins, until for the wrongs done me I have received ample satisfaction."
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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17
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CAPITOLA CAPS THE CLIMAX.
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Oh! when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd; She was a vixen when she went to school; And though she is but little she is fierce.
--Shakespeare.
It was quite late in the evening when Jem, her messenger, returned.
"Have you an answer?" she impetuously demanded, rising to meet him as he entered.
"Yes, miss, here it is," replied the boy, handing a neatly folded, highly perfumed little note.
"Go," said Cap, curtly, as she received it.
And when the boy had bowed and withdrawn, she threw herself into a chair, and with little respect for the pretty device of the pierced heart with which the note was sealed, she tore it open and devoured its contents.
Why did Capitola's cheeks and lips blanch white as death? Why did her eyes contract and glitter like stilettoes? Why was her breath drawn hard and laboriously through clenched teeth and livid lips?
That note was couched in the most insulting terms.
Capitola's first impulse was to rend the paper to atoms and grind those atoms to powder beneath her heel. But a second inspiration changed her purpose.
"No--no--no! I will not destroy you, precious little note! No legal document involving the ownership of the largest estate, no cherished love letter filled with vows of undying affection, shall be more carefully guarded! Next to my heart shall you lie. My shield and buckler shall you be! My sure defense and justification! I know what to do with you, my precious little jewel! You are the warrant for the punishment of that man, signed by his own hand." And so saying Capitola carefully deposited the note in her bosom.
Then she lighted her chamber lamp, and, taking it with her, went down-stairs to her uncle's bedroom.
Taking advantage of the time when she knew he would be absorbed in a game of chess with John Stone, and she should be safe from interruption for several hours if she wished, she went to Major Warfield's little armory in the closet adjoining his room, opened his pistol case and took from it a pair of revolvers, closed and locked the case, and withdrew and hid the key that they might not chance to be missed until she should have time to replace them.
Then she hurried back into her own chamber, locked the pistols up in her own drawer, and, wearied out with so much excitement, prepared to go to rest. Here a grave and unexpected obstacle met her; she had always been accustomed to kneel and offer up to heaven her evening's tribute of praise and thanksgiving for the mercies of the day, and prayers for protection and blessing through the night.
Now she knelt as usual, but thanksgiving and prayer seemed frozen on her lips! How could she praise or pray with such a purpose as she had in her heart?
For the first time Capitola doubted the perfect righteousness of that purpose which was of a character to arrest her prayers upon her lips.
With a start of impatience and a heavy sigh, she sprang up and hurried into bed.
She did not sleep, but lay tossing from side to side in feverish excitement the whole night--having, in fact, a terrible battle between her own fierce passions and her newly awakened conscience.
Nevertheless, she arose by daybreak in the morning, dressed herself, went and unlocked her drawer, took out the pistols, carefully loaded them, and laid them down for service.
Then she went down-stairs, where the servants were only just beginning to stir, and sent for her groom, Jem, whom she ordered to saddle her pony, and also to get a horse for himself, to attend her in a morning ride.
After which she returned up-stairs, put on her riding habit, and buckled around her waist a morocco belt, into which she stuck the two revolvers. She then threw around her shoulders a short circular cape that concealed the weapons, and put on her hat and gloves and went below.
She found her little groom already at the door with the horses. She sprang into her saddle, and, bidding Jem follow her, took the road toward Tip-Top.
She knew that Mr. Le Noir was in the habit of riding to the village every morning, and she determined to meet him. She knew, from the early hour of the day, that he could not possibly be ahead of her, and she rode on slowly to give him an opportunity to overtake her.
Probably Craven Le Noir was later that morning than usual, for Capitola had reached the entrance of the village before she heard the sound of his horse's feet approaching behind her.
She did not wish that their encounter should be in the streets of the village, so she instantly wheeled her horse and galloped back to meet him.
As both were riding at full speed, they soon met.
She first drew rein, and, standing in his way, accosted him with: "Mr. Le Noir!"
"Your most obedient, Miss Black!" he said, with a deep bow.
"I happen to be without father or brother to protect me from affront, sir, and my uncle is an invalid veteran whom I will not trouble! I am, therefore, under the novel necessity of fighting my own battles! Yesterday, sir, I sent you a note demanding satisfaction for a heinous slander you circulated against me! You replied by an insulting note. You do not escape punishment so! Here are two pistols; both are loaded; take either one of them; for, sir, we have met, and now we do not part until one of us falls from the horse!"
And so saying, she rode up to him and offered him the choice of the pistols.
He laughed--partly in surprise and partly in admiration, as he said, with seeming good humor: "Miss Black, you are a very charming young woman, and delightfully original and piquant in all your ideas; but you outrage all the laws that govern the duello. You know that, as the challenged party, I have the right to the choice of time, place and arms. I made that choice yesterday. I renew it to-day. When you accede to the terms of the meeting I shall endeavor to give you all the satisfaction you demand! Good-morning, miss."
And with a deep bow, even to the flaps of his saddle, he rode past her.
"That base insult again!" cried Capitola, with the blood rushing to her face.
Then lifting her voice, she again accosted him: "Mr. Le Noir!"
He turned, with a smile.
She threw one of the pistols on the ground near him, saying: "Take that up and defend yourself."
He waved his hand in negation, bowed, smiled, and rode on.
"Mr. Le Noir!" she called, in a peremptory tone.
Once more he turned.
She raised her pistol, took deliberate aim at his white forehead, and fired-- Bang! bang! bang! bang! bang! bang!
Six times without an instant's intermission, until her revolver was spent.
When the smoke cleared away, a terrible vision met her eyes!
It was Craven Le Noir with his face covered with blood, reeling in his saddle, from which he soon dropped to the ground.
In falling his foot remained in the hanging stirrup. The well-trained cavalry horse stood perfectly still, though trembling in a panic of terror, from which he might at any moment start to run, dragging the helpless body after him.
Capitola saw this danger, and not being cruel, she tempered justice with mercy, threw down her spent pistol, dismounted from her horse, went up to the fallen man, disengaged his foot from the stirrup, and, taking hold of his shoulders, tried with all her might to drag the still breathing form from the dusty road where it lay in danger of being run over by wagons, to the green bank, where it might lie in comparative safety.
But that heavy form was too much for her single strength. And, calling her terrified groom to assist her, they removed the body.
Capitola then remounted her horse and galloped rapidly into the village, and up to the "ladies' entrance" of the hotel, where, after sending for the proprietor she said: "I have just been shooting Craven Le Noir for slandering me; he lies by the roadside at the entrance of the village; you had better send somebody to pick him up."
"Miss!" cried the astonished inn-keeper.
Capitola distinctly repeated her words and then, leaving the inn-keeper, transfixed with consternation, she crossed the street and entered a magistrate's office, where a little, old gentleman, with a pair of green spectacles resting on his hooked nose, sat at a writing-table, giving some directions to a constable, who was standing hat in hand before him.
Capitola waited until this functionary had his orders and a written paper, and had left the office, and the magistrate was alone, before she walked up to the desk and stood before him.
"Well, well, young woman! Well, well, what do you want?" inquired the old gentleman, impatiently looking up from folding his papers.
"I have come to give myself up for shooting Craven Le Noir, who slandered me," answered Capitola, quietly.
The old man let fall his hands full of papers, raised his head and stared at her over the tops of his green spectacles.
"What did you say, young woman?" he asked, in the tone of one who doubted his own ears.
"I say that I have forestalled an arrest by coming here to give myself up for the shooting of a dastard who slandered, insulted and refused to give me satisfaction," answered Capitola, very distinctly.
"Am I awake? Do I hear aright? Do you mean to say that you have killed a man?" asked the dismayed magistrate.
"Oh, I can't say as to the killing! I shot him off his horse and then sent Mr. Merry and his men to pick him up, while I came here to answer for myself!"
"Unfortunate girl! And how can you answer for such a dreadful deed?" exclaimed the utterly confounded magistrate.
"Oh, as to the dreadfulness of the deed, that depends on circumstances," said Cap, "and I can answer for it very well! He made addresses to me. I refused him. He slandered me. I challenged him. He insulted me. I shot him!"
"Miserable young woman, if this be proved true, I shall have to commit you!"
"Just as you please," said Cap, "but bless your soul, that won't help Craven Le Noir a single bit!"
As she spoke several persons entered the office in a state of high excitement--all talking at once, saying: "That is the girl!"
"Yes, that is her!"
"She is Miss Black, old Warfield's niece."
"Yes, he said she was," etc., etc., etc.
"What is all this, neighbors, what is all this?" inquired the troubled magistrate, rising in his place.
"Why, sir, there's been a gentleman, Mr. Craven Le Noir, shot. He has been taken to the Antlers, where he lies in articulus mortis, and we wish him to be confronted with Miss Capitola Black, the young woman here present, that he may identify her, whom he accuses of having shot six charges into him, before his death. She needn't deny it, because he is ready to swear to her!" said Mr. Merry, who constituted himself spokesman.
"She accuses herself," said the magistrate, in dismay.
"Then, sir, had she not better be taken at once to the presence of Mr. Le Noir, who may not have many minutes to live?"
"Yes, come along," said Cap. "I only gave myself up to wait for this; and as he is already at hand, let's go and have it all over, for I have been riding about in this frosty morning air for three hours, and I have got a good appetite, and I want to go home to breakfast."
"I am afraid, young woman, you will scarcely get home to breakfast this morning," said Mr. Merry.
"We'll see that presently," answered Cap, composedly, as they all left the office, and crossed the street to the Antlers.
They were conducted by the landlord to a chamber on the first floor, where upon a bed lay stretched, almost without breath or motion, the form of Craven Le Noir. His face was still covered with blood, that the bystanders had scrupulously refused to wash off until the arrival of the magistrate. His complexion, as far as it could be seen, was very pale. He was thoroughly prostrated, if not actually dying.
Around his bed were gathered the village doctor, the landlady and several maid-servants.
"The squire has come, sir; are you able to speak to him?" asked the landlord, approaching the bed.
"Yes, let him swear me," feebly replied the wounded man, "and then send for a clergyman."
The landlady immediately left to send for Mr. Goodwin, and the magistrate approached the head of the bed, and, speaking solemnly, exhorted the wounded man, as he expected soon to give an account of the works done in his body, to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, without reserve, malice or exaggeration, both as to the deed and its provocation.
"I will I will--for I have sent for a minister and I intend to try to make my peace with heaven," replied Le Noir.
The magistrate then directed Capitola to come and take her stand at the foot of the bed, where the wounded man, who was lying on his back, could see her without turning.
Cap came as she was commanded and stood there with some irrepressible and incomprehensible mischief gleaming out from under her long eye-lashes and from the corners of her dimpled lips.
The magistrate then administered the oath to Craven Le Noir, and bade him look upon Capitola and give his evidence.
He did so, and under the terrors of a guilty conscience and of expected death, his evidence partook more of the nature of a confession than an accusation. He testified that he had addressed Capitola, and had been rejected by her; then, under the influence of evil motives, he had circulated insinuations against her honor, which were utterly unjustifiable by fact; she, seeming to have heard of them, took the strange course of challenging him--just as if she had been a man. He could not, of course, meet a lady in a duel, but he had taken advantage of the technical phraseology of the challenged party, as to time, place and weapons, to offer her a deep insult; then she had waylaid him on the highway, offered him his choice of a pair of revolvers, and told him that, having met, they should not part until one or the other fell from the horse; he had again laughingly refused the encounter except upon the insulting terms he had before proposed. She had then thrown him one of the pistols, bidding him defend himself. He had laughingly passed her when she called him by name, he had turned and she fired--six times in succession, and he fell. He knew no more until he was brought to his present room. He said in conclusion he did not wish that the girl should be prosecuted, as she had only avenged her own honor; and that he hoped his death would be taken by her and her friends as a sufficient expiation of his offenses against her; and, lastly, he requested that he might be left alone with the minister.
"Bring that unhappy young woman over to my office, Ketchum," said the magistrate, addressing himself to a constable. Then turning to the landlord, he said: "Sir, it would be a charity in you to put a messenger on horseback and send him to Hurricane Hall for Major Warfield, who will have to enter into a recognizance for Miss Black's appearance at court.
"Stop," said Cap, "don't be too certain of that! 'Be always sure you're right--then go ahead!' Is not any one here cool enough to reflect that if I had fired six bullets at that man's forehead and every one had struck, I should have blown his head to the sky? Will not somebody at once wash his face and see how deep the wounds are?"
The doctor who had been restrained by others now took a sponge and water and cleaned the face of Le Noir, which was found to be well peppered with split peas!
Cap looked around, and seeing the astonished looks of the good people, burst into an irrepressible fit of laughter, saying, as soon as she had got breath enough: "Upon my word, neighbors, you look more shocked, if not actually more disappointed, to find that, after all he is not killed, and there'll be no spectacle, than you did at first when you thought murder had been done."
"Will you be good enough to explain this, young woman?" said the magistrate, severely.
"Certainly, for your worship seems as much disappointed as others!" said Cap. Then turning toward the group around the bed, she said: "You have heard Mr. Le Noir's 'last dying speech and confession,' as he supposed it to be; and you know the maddening provocations that inflamed my temper against him. Last night, after having received his insulting answer to my challenge, there was evil in my heart, I do assure you! I possessed myself of my uncle's revolvers and resolved to waylay him this morning and force him to give me satisfaction, or if he refused--well, no matter! I tell you, there was danger in me! But, before retiring to bed at night, it is my habit to say my prayers; now the practice of prayer and the purpose of 'red-handed violence,' cannot exist in the same person at the same time! I wouldn't sleep without praying, and I couldn't pray without giving up my thoughts of fatal vengeance upon Craven Le Noir. So at last I made up my mind to spare his life, and teach him a lesson. The next morning I drew the charges of the revolvers and reloaded them with poor powder and dried peas! Everything else has happened just as he has told you! He has received no harm, except in being terribly frightened, and in having his beauty spoiled! And as for that, didn't I offer him one of the pistols, and expose my own face to similar damage? For I'd scorn to take advantage of any one!" said Cap, laughing.
Craven Le Noir had now raised himself up in a sitting posture, and was looking around with an expression of countenance which was a strange blending of relief at this unexpected respite from the grave, and intense mortification at finding himself in the ridiculous position which the address of Capitola and his own weak nerves, cowardice and credulity had placed him.
Cap went up to him and said, in a consoling voice: "Come, thank heaven that you are not going to die this bout! I'm glad you repented and told the truth; and I hope you may live long enough to offer heaven a truer repentance than that which is the mere effect of fright! For I tell you plainly that if it had not been for the grace of the Lord, acting upon my heart last night, your soul might have been in Hades now!"
Craven Le Noir shut his eyes, groaned and fell back overpowered by the reflection.
"Now, please your worship, may I go home?" asked Cap, demurely, popping down a mock courtesy to the magistrate.
"Yes--go! go! go! go! go!" said that officer, with an expression as though he considered our Cap an individual of the animal kingdom whom neither Buffon nor any other natural philosopher had ever classified, and who, as a creature of unknown habits, might sometimes be dangerous.
Cap immediately availed herself of the permission, and went out to look for her servant and horses.
But Jem, the first moment he had found himself unwatched, had put out as fast as he could fly to Hurricane Hall, to inform Major Warfield of what had occurred.
And Capitola, after losing a great deal of time in looking for him, mounted her horse and was just about to start, when who should ride up in hot haste but Old Hurricane, attended by Wool.
"Stop there!" he shouted, as he saw Cap.
She obeyed, and he sprang from his horse with the agility of youth, and helped her to descend from hers.
Then drawing her arm within his own, he led her into the parlor, and, putting an unusual restraint upon himself, he ordered her to tell him all about the affair.
Cap sat down and gave him the whole history from beginning to end.
Old Hurricane could not sit still to hear. He strode up and down the room, striking his stick upon the floor, and uttering inarticulate sounds of rage and defiance.
When Cap had finished her story he suddenly stopped before her, brought down the point of his stick with a resounding thump upon the floor and exclaimed: "Demmy, you New York newsboy! Will you never be a woman? Why the demon didn't you tell me, sirrah? I would have called the fellow out and chastised him to your heart's content! Hang it, miss, answer me and say!"
"Because you are on the invalid list and I am in sound condition and capable of taking my own part!" said Cap.
"Then, answer me this, while you were taking your own part, why the foul fiend didn't you pepper him with something sharper than dried peas?"
"I think he is quite as severely punished in suffering from extreme terror and intense mortification and public ridicule," said Cap.
"And now, uncle, I have not eaten a single blessed mouthful this morning, and I am hungry enough to eat up Gyp, or to satisfy Patty."
Old Hurricane, permitting his excitement to subside in a few expiring grunts, rang the bell and gave orders for breakfast to be served.
And after that meal was over he set out with his niece for Hurricane Hall.
And upon arriving at home he addressed a letter to Mr. Le Noir, to the effect that as soon as the latter should have recovered from the effect of his fright and mortification, he, Major Warfield, should demand and expect satisfaction.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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18
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BLACK DONALD'S LAST ATTEMPT.
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Who can express the horror of that night, When darkness lent his robes to monster fear? And heaven's black mantle, banishing the light, Made everything in fearful form appear.
--Brandon.
Let it not be supposed that Black Donald had forgotten his promise to Colonel Le Noir, or was indifferent to its performance.
But many perilous failures had taught him caution.
He had watched and waylaid Capitola in her rides. But the girl seemed to bear a charmed safety; for never once had he caught sight of her except in company with her groom and with Craven Le Noir. And very soon by eavesdropping on these occasions, he learned the secret design of the son to forestall the father, and run off with the heiress.
And as Black Donald did not foresee what success Craven Le Noir might have with Capitola, he felt the more urgent necessity for prompt action on his own part.
He might, indeed, have brought his men and attacked and overcome Capitola's attendants, in open day; but the enterprise must needs have been attended with great bloodshed and loss of life, which would have made a sensation in the neighborhood that Black Donald, in the present state of his fortunes, was by no means ambitious of daring.
In a word, had such an act of unparalleled violence been attempted, the better it succeeded the greater would have been the indignation of the people, and the whole country would probably have risen and armed themselves and hunted the outlaws, as so many wild beasts, with horses and hounds.
Therefore, Black Donald preferred quietly to abduct his victim, so as to leave no trace of her "taking off," but to allow it to be supposed that she had eloped.
He resolved to undertake this adventure alone, though to himself personally this plan was even more dangerous than the other.
He determined to gain access to her chamber, secrete himself anywhere in the room (except under the bed, where his instincts informed him that Capitola every night looked), and when the household should be buried in repose, steal out upon her, overpower, gag and carry her off, in the silence of the night, leaving no trace of his own presence behind.
By means of one of his men, who went about unsuspected among the negroes, buying up mats and baskets, that the latter were in the habit of making for sale, he learned that Capitola occupied the same remote chamber, in the oldest part of the house; but that a guest slept in the room next, and another in the one opposite hers. And that the house was besides full of visitors from the city, who had come down to spend the sporting season, and that they were hunting all day and carousing all night from one week's end to another.
On hearing this, Black Donald quickly comprehended that it was no time to attempt the abduction of the maiden, with the least probability of success. All would be risked and most probably lost in the endeavor.
He resolved, therefore, to wait until the house should be clear of company, and the household fallen into their accustomed carelessness and monotony.
He had to wait much longer than he had reckoned upon--through October and through November, when he first heard of and laughed over Cap's "duel" with Craven Le Noir, and congratulated himself upon the fact that that rival was no longer to be feared. He had also to wait through two-thirds of the month of December, because a party had come down to enjoy a short season of fox-hunting. They went away just before Christmas.
And then at last came Black Donald's opportunity! And a fine opportunity it was! Had Satan himself engaged to furnish him with one to order, it could not have been better!
The reader must know that throughout Virginia the Christmas week, from the day after Christmas until the day after New-Year, is the negroes' saturnalia! There are usually eight days of incessant dancing, feasting and frolicking from quarter to quarter, and from barn to barn. Then the banjo, the fiddle and the "bones" are heard from morning until night, and from night until morning.
And nowhere was this annual octave of festivity held more sacred than at Hurricane Hall. It was the will of Major Warfield that they should have their full satisfaction out of their seven days' carnival. He usually gave a dinner party on Christmas day, after which his people were free until the third of January.
"Demmy, mum!" he would say to Mrs. Condiment, "they wait on us fifty-one weeks in the year, and it's hard if we can't wait on ourselves the fifty-second!"
Small thanks to Old Hurricane for his self-denial! He did nothing for himself or others, and Mrs. Condiment and Capitola had a hot time of it in serving him. Mrs. Condiment had to do all the cooking and housework. And Cap had to perform most of the duties of Major Warfield's valet. And that was the way in which Old Hurricane waited on himself.
It happened, therefore, that about the middle of the Christmas week, being Wednesday, the twenty-eighth of December, all the house-servants and farm laborers from Hurricane Hall went off in a body to a banjo break-down given at a farm five miles across the country.
And Major Warfield, Mrs. Condiment and Capitola were the only living beings left in the old house that night.
Black Donald, who had been prowling about the premises evening after evening, watching his opportunity to effect his nefarious object, soon discovered the outward bound stampede of the negroes, and the unprotected state in which the old house, for that night only, would be left. And he determined to take advantage of the circumstance to consummate his wicked purpose.
In its then defenceless condition he could easily have mustered his force and carried off his prize without immediate personal risk. But, as we said before, he eschewed violence, as being likely to provoke after effects of a too fatal character.
He resolved rather at once to risk his own personal safety in the quieter plan of abduction which he had formed.
He determined that as soon as it should be dark he would watch his opportunity to enter the house, steal to Cap's chamber, secrete himself in a closet, and when all should be quiet, "in the dead waste and middle of the night," he would come out, master her, stop her mouth and carry her off.
When it became quite dark he approached the house, and hid himself under the steps beneath the back door leading from the hall into the garden, to watch his opportunity of entering. He soon found that his enterprise required great patience as well as courage. He had to wait more than two hours before he heard the door unlocked and opened.
He then peered out from his hiding-place and saw old Hurricane taking his way out towards the garden.
Now was his time to slip unperceived into the house. He stealthily came out from his hiding-place, crept up the portico stairs to the back door, noiselessly turned the latch, entered and closed it behind him. He had just time to open a side door on his right hand and conceal himself in a wood closet under the stairs, when he heard the footsteps of Old Hurricane returning.
The old man came in and Black Donald laughed to himself to hear with what caution he locked, bolted and barred the doors to keep out house-breakers!
"Ah, old fellow, you are fastening the stable after the horse has been stolen!" said Black Donald to himself.
As soon as old Hurricane had passed by the closet in which the outlaw was concealed, and had gone into the parlor, Black Donald determined to risk the ascent into Capitola's chamber. From the description given by his men, who had once succeeded in finding their way thither, he knew very well where to go.
Noiselessly, therefore, he left his place of concealment and crept out to reconnoitre the hall, which he found deserted.
Old Hurricane's shawl, hat and walking stick were deposited in one corner. In case of being met on the way, he put the hat on his head, wrapped the shawl around his shoulders, and took the stick in his hand.
His forethought proved to be serviceable. He went through the hall and up the first flight of stairs without interruption; but on going along the hall of the second story he met Mrs. Condiment coming out of Old Hurricane's room.
"Your slippers are on the hearth, your gown is at the fire and the kettle is boiling to make your punch, Major Warfield," said the old lady in passing.
"Umph! umph! umph!" grunted Black Donald in reply.
The housekeeper then bade him good-night, saying that she was going at once to her room.
"Umph!" assented Black Donald. And so they parted and this peril was passed.
Black Donald went up the second flight of stairs and then down a back passage and a narrow staircase and along a corridor and through several untenanted rooms, and into another passage, and finally through a side door leading into Capitola's chamber.
Here he looked around for a safe hiding-place--there was a high bedstead curtained; two deep windows also curtained; two closets, a dressing bureau, workstand, washstand and two arm chairs. The forethought of little Pitapat had caused her to kindle a fire on the hearth and place a waiter of refreshments on the workstand, so as to make all comfortable before she had left with the other negroes to go to the banjo break-down.
Among the edibles Pitapat had been careful to leave a small bottle of brandy, a pitcher of cream, a few eggs and some spice, saying to herself, "Long as it was Christmas time Miss Caterpillar might want a sup of egg-nog quiet to herself, jes' as much as old marse did his whiskey punch"--and never fancying that her young mistress would require a more delicate lunch than her old master.
Black Donald laughed as he saw this outlay, and remarking that the young occupant of the chamber must have an appetite of her own, he put the neck of the brandy bottle to his lips and took what he called "a heavy swig."
Then vowing that old Hurricane knew what good liquor was, he replaced the bottle and looked around to find the best place for his concealment.
He soon determined to hide himself behind the thick folds of the window curtain, nearest the door, so that immediately after the entrance of Capitola he could glide to the door, lock it, withdraw the key and have the girl at once in his power.
He took a second "swig" at the brandy bottle and then went into his place of concealment to wait events.
That same hour Capitola was her uncle's partner in a prolonged game of chess. It was near eleven o'clock before Cap, heartily tired of the battle, permitted herself to be beaten in order to get to bed.
With a satisfied chuckle, Old Hurricane arose from his seat, lighted two bed-chamber lamps, gave one to Capitola, took the other himself, and started off for his room, followed by Cap as far as the head of the first flight of stairs, where she bade him good night.
She waited until she saw him enter his room, heard him lock his door on the inside and throw himself down heavily into his arm chair, and then she went on her own way.
She hurried up the second flight of stairs and along the narrow passages, empty rooms, and steep steps and dreary halls, until she reached the door of her own dormitory.
She turned the latch and entered the room.
The first thing that met her sight was the waiter of provisions upon the stand. And at this fresh instance of her little maid's forethought, she burst into a uncontrollable fit of laughter.
She did not see a dark figure glide from behind the window curtains, steal to the door, turn the lock and withdraw the key!
But still retaining her prejudice against the presence of food in her bed-chamber, she lifted up the waiter in both hands to carry it out into the passage, turned and stood face to face with--Black Donald!
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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19
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THE AWFUL PERIL OF CAPITOLA.
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Out of this nettle, danger, I'll pluck the flower, safety!
--Shakespeare.
Capitola's blood seemed turned to ice, and her form to stone by the sight! Her first impulse was to scream and let fall the waiter! She controlled herself and repressed the scream though she was very near dropping the waiter.
Black Donald looked at her and laughed aloud at her consternation, saying with a chuckle: "You did not expect to see me here to-night, did you now, my dear?"
She gazed at him in a silent panic for a moment.
Then her faculties, that had been suddenly dispersed by the shock, as suddenly rallied to her rescue.
In one moment she understood her real position.
Black Donald had locked her in with himself and held the key--so she could not hope to get out.
The loudest scream that she might utter would never reach the distant chamber of Major Warfield, or the still more remote apartment of Mrs. Condiment; so she could not hope to bring any one to her assistance.
She was, therefore, entirely in the power of Black Donald. She fully comprehended this, and said to herself: "Now, my dear Cap, if you don't look sharp your hour is come! Nothing on earth will save you, Cap, but your own wits! For if ever I saw mischief in any one's face, it is in that fellow's that is eating you up with his great eyes at the same time that he is laughing at you with his big mouth! Now, Cap, my little man, be a woman! Don't you stick at trifles! Think of Jael and Sisera! Think of Judith and Holofernes! And the devil and Doctor Faust, if necessary, and don't you blanch! All stratagems are fair in love and war--especially in war, and most especially in such a war as this is likely to be--a contest in close quarters for dear life!"
All this passed through her mind in one moment, and in the next her plan was formed.
Setting her waiter down upon the table and throwing herself into one of the armchairs, she said: "Well, upon my word! I think a gentleman might let a lady know when he means to pay her a domiciliary visit at midnight!"
"Upon my word, I think you are very cool!" replied Black Donald, throwing himself into the second armchair on the other side of the stand of refreshments.
"People are likely to be cool on a December night, with the thermometer at zero, and the ground three feet under the snow," said Cap, nothing daunted.
"Capitola, I admire you! You are a cucumber! That's what you are, a cucumber!"
"A pickled one?" asked Cap.
"Yes, and as pickled cucumbers are good to give one an appetite, I think I shall fall to and eat."
"Do so," said Cap, "for heaven forbid that I should fail in hospitality!"
"Why, really, this looks as though you had expected a visitor--doesn't it?" asked Black Donald, helping himself to a huge slice of ham, and stretching his feet out toward the fire.
"Well, yes, rather; though, to say the truth, it was not your reverence I expected," said Cap.
"Ah! somebody else's reverence, eh? Well, let them come! I'll be ready for them!" said the outlaw, pouring out and quaffing a large glass of brandy. He drank it, set down the glass, and turning to our little heroine, inquired: "Capitola did you ever have Craven Le Noir here to supper with you?"
"You insult me! I scorn to reply!" said Cap.
"Whe-ew! What long whiskers our Grimalkin's got! You scorn to reply! Then you really are not afraid of me?" asked the robber, rolling a great piece of cheese in his mouth.
"Afraid of you? No, I guess not!" replied Cap, with a toss of her head.
"Yet, I might do you some harm."
"But, you won't!"
"Why won't I?"
"Because it won't pay!"
"Why wouldn't it?"
"Because you couldn't do me any harm, unless you were to kill me, and you would gain nothing by my death, except a few trinkets that you may have without."
"Then, you are really not afraid of me?" he asked, taking another deep draught of brandy.
"Not a bit of it--I rather like you!"
"Come, now, you're running a rig upon a fellow," said the outlaw, winking and depositing a huge chunk of bread in his capacious jaws.
"No, indeed! I liked you, long before I ever saw you! I always did like people that make other people's hair stand on end! Don't you remember when you first came here disguised as a peddler, though I did not know who you were, when we were talking of Black Donald, and everybody was abusing him, except myself? I took his part and said that for my part I liked Black Donald and wanted to see him."
"Sure enough, my jewel, so you did! And didn't I bravely risk my life by throwing off my disguise to gratify your laudable wish?"
"So you did, my hero!"
"Ah, but well as you liked me, the moment you thought me in your power didn't you leap upon my shoulders like a catamount and cling there, shouting to all the world to come and help you, for you had caught Black Donald and would die before you would give him up? Ah! you little vampire, how you thirsted for my blood! And you pretended to like me!" said Black Donald, eying her from head to foot, with a sly leer.
Cap returned the look with interest. Dropping her head on one side, she glanced upward from the corner of her eye, with an expression of "infinite" mischief and roguery, saying: "Lor, didn't you know why I did that?"
"Because you wanted me captured, I suppose."
"No, indeed, but, because----" "Well, what?"
"Because I wanted you to carry me off!"
"Well, I declare! I never thought of that!" said the outlaw, dropping his bread and cheese, and staring at the young girl.
"Well, you might have thought of it then! I was tired of hum-drum life, and I wanted to see adventures!" said Cap.
Black Donald looked at the mad girl from head to foot and then said, coolly: "Miss Black, I am afraid you are not good."
"Yes I am--before folks!" said Cap.
"And so you really wished me to carry you off?"
"I should think so! Didn't I stick to you until you dropped me?"
"Certainly! And now if you really like me as well as you say you do, come give me a kiss."
"I won't!" said Cap, "until you have done your supper and washed your face! Your beard is full of crumbs!"
"Very well, I can wait awhile! Meantime just brew me a bowl of egg-nog, by way of a night-cap, will you?" said the outlaw, drawing off his boots and stretching his feet to the fire.
"Agreed, but it takes two to make egg-nog; you'll have to whisk up the whites of the eggs into a froth, while I beat the yellows, and mix the other ingredients," said Cap.
"Just so," assented the outlaw, standing up and taking off his coat and flinging it upon the floor.
Cap shuddered, but went on calmly with her preparations. There were two little white bowls setting one within the other upon the table. Cap took them apart and set them side by side and began to break the eggs, letting the whites slip into one bowl and dropping the yellows into the other.
Black Donald sat down in his shirt sleeves, took one of the bowls from Capitola and began to whisk up the whites with all his might and main.
Capitola beat up the yellows, gradually mixing the sugar with it. In the course of her work she complained that the heat of the fire scorched her face, and she drew her chair farther towards the corner of the chimney, and pulled the stand after her.
"Oh, you are trying to get away from me," said Black Donald, hitching his own chair in the same direction, close to the stand, so that he sat immediately in front of the fireplace.
Cap smiled and went on beating her eggs and sugar together. Then she stirred in the brandy and poured in the milk and took the bowl from Black Donald and laid on the foam. Finally, she filled a goblet with the rich compound and handed it to her uncanny guest.
Black Donald untied his neck cloth, threw it upon the floor and sipped his egg-nog, all the while looking over the top of the glass at Capitola.
"Miss Black," he said, "it must be past twelve o'clock."
"I suppose it is," said Cap.
"Then it must be long past your usual hour of retiring."
"Of course it is," said Cap.
"Then what are you waiting for?"
"For my company to go home," replied Cap.
"Meaning me?"
"Meaning you."
"Oh, don't mind me, my dear."
"Very well," said Cap, "I shall not trouble myself about you," and her tones were steady, though her heart seemed turned into a ball of ice, through terror.
Black Donald went on slowly sipping his egg-nog, filling up his goblet when it was empty, and looking at Capitola over the top of his glass. At last he said: "I have been watching you, Miss Black."
"Little need to tell me that," said Cap.
"And I have been reading you."
"Well, I hope the page was entertaining."
"Well, yes, my dear, it was, rather so. But why don't you proceed?"
"Proceed--with what?"
"With what you are thinking of, my darling."
"I don't understand you!"
"Why don't you offer to go down-stairs and bring up some lemons?"
"Oh, I'll go in a moment," said Cap, "if you wish."
"Ha--ha--ha--ha--ha! Of course you will, my darling! And you'd deliver me into the hands of the Philistines, just as you did my poor men when you fooled them about the victuals! I know your tricks and all your acting has no other effect on me than to make me admire your wonderful coolness and courage; so, my dear, stop puzzling your little head with schemes to baffle me! You are like the caged starling! You can't--get--out!" chuckled Black Donald, hitching his chair nearer to hers. He was now right upon the center of the rug.
Capitola turned very pale, but not with fear, though Black Donald thought she did, and roared with laughter.
"Have you done your supper?" she asked, with a sort of awful calmness.
"Yes my duck," replied the outlaw, pouring the last of the egg-nog into his goblet, drinking it at a draught and chuckling as he set down the glass.
Capitola then lifted the stand with the refreshments to remove it to its usual place.
"What are you going to do, my dear?" asked Black Donald.
"Clear away the things and set the room in order," said Capitola, in the same awfully calm tone.
"A nice little housewife you'll make, my duck!" said Black Donald.
Capitola set the stand in its corner and then removed her own armchair to its place before the dressing bureau.
Nothing now remained upon the rug except Black Donald seated in the armchair!
Capitola paused; her blood seemed freezing in her veins; her heart beat thickly; her throat was choked; her head full nearly to bursting, and her eyes were veiled by a blinding film.
"Come--come--my duck--make haste; it is late; haven't you done setting the room in order yet?" said Black Donald, impatiently.
"In one moment," said Capitola, coming behind his chair and leaning upon the back of it.
"Donald," she said, with dreadful calmness, "I will not now call you Black Donald! I will call you as your poor mother did, when your young soul was as white as your skin, before she ever dreamed her boy would grow black with crime! I will call you simply Donald, and entreat you to hear me for a few minutes."
"Talk on, then, but talk fast, and leave my mother alone! Let the dead rest!" exclaimed the outlaw, with a violent convulsion of his bearded chin and lip that did not escape the notice of Capitola, who hoped some good of this betrayal of feeling.
"Donald," she said, "men call you a man of blood; they say that your hand is red and your soul black with crime!"
"They may say what they like--I care not!" laughed the outlaw.
"But I do not believe all this of you! I believe that there is good in all, and much good in you; that there is hope for all, and strong hope for you!"
"Bosh! Stop talking poetry! 'Tain't in my line, nor yours, either!" laughed Black Donald.
"But truth is in all our lines. Donald, I repeat it, men call you a man of blood! They say that your hands are red and your soul black with sin! Black Donald, they call you! But, Donald, you have never yet stained your soul with a crime as black as that which you think of perpetrating to-night!"
"It must be one o'clock, and I'm tired," replied the outlaw, with a yawn.
"All your former acts," continued Capitola, in the same voice of awful calmness, "have been those of a bold, bad man! This act would be that of a base one!"
"Take care, girl--no bad names! You are in my power--at my mercy!"
"I know my position, but I must continue. Hitherto you have robbed mail coaches and broken into rich men's houses. In doing thus you have always boldly risked your life, often at such fearful odds that men have trembled at their firesides to hear of it. And even women, while deploring your crimes, have admired your courage."
"I thank 'em kindly for it! Women always like men with a spice of the devil in them!" laughed the outlaw.
"No, they do not!" said Capitola, gravely. "They like men of strength, courage and spirit--but those qualities do not come from the Evil One, but from the Lord, who is the giver of all good. Your Creator, Donald, gave you the strength, courage and spirit that all men and women so much admire; but He did not give you these great powers that you might use them in the service of his enemy, the devil!"
"I declare there is really something in that! I never thought of that before."
"Nor ever thought, perhaps, that however misguided you may have been, there is really something great and good in yourself that might yet be used for the good of man and the glory of God!" said Capitola, solemnly.
"Ha, ha, ha! Oh, you flatterer! Come, have you done? I tell you it is after one o'clock, and I am tired to death!"
"Donald, in all your former acts of lawlessness your antagonists were strong men; and as you boldly risked your life in your depredations, your acts, though bad, were not base! But now your antagonist is a feeble girl, who has been unfortunate from her very birth; to destroy her would be an act of baseness to which you never yet descended."
"Bosh! Who talks of destruction? I am tired of all this nonsense! I mean to carry you off and there's an end of it!" said the outlaw, doggedly, rising from his seat.
"Stop!" said Capitola, turning ashen pale. "Stop--sit down and hear me for just five minutes--I will not tax your patience longer."
The robber, with a loud laugh, sank again into his chair, saying: "Very well, talk on for just five minutes, and not a single second longer; but if you think in that time to persuade me to leave this room to-night without you, you are widely out of your reckoning, my duck, that's all."
"Donald, do not sink your soul to perdition by a crime that heaven cannot pardon! Listen to me! I have jewels here worth several thousand dollars! If you will consent to go I will give them all to you and let you quietly out of the front door and never say one word to mortal of what has passed here to-night."
"Ha, ha, ha! Why, my dear, how green you must think me! What hinders me from possessing myself of your jewels, as well as of yourself!" said Black Donald, impatiently rising.
"Sit still! The five minutes' grace are not half out yet," said Capitola, in a breathless voice.
"So they are not! I will keep my promise," replied Black Donald, laughing, and again dropping into his seat.
"Donald, Uncle pays me a quarterly sum for pocket money, which is at least five times as much as I can spend in this quiet country place. It has been accumulating for years until now I have several thousand dollars all of my own. You shall have it if you will only go quietly away and leave me in peace!" prayed Capitola.
"My dear, I intend to take that anyhow--take it as your bridal dower, you know! For I'm going to carry you off and make an honest wife of you!"
"Donald, give up this heinous purpose!" cried Capitola, in an agony of supplication, as she leaned over the back of the outlaw's chair.
"Yes, you know I will--ha--ha--ha!" laughed the robber.
"Man, for your own sake give it up!"
"Ha, ha, ha! for my sake!"
"Yes, for yours! Black Donald, have you ever reflected on death?" asked Capitola, in a low and terrible voice.
"I have risked it often enough; but as to reflecting upon it--it will be time enough to do that when it comes! I am a powerful man, in the prime and pride of life," said the athlete, stretching himself exultingly.
"Yet it might come--death might come with sudden overwhelming power, and hurl you to destruction! What a terrible thing for this magnificent frame of yours, this glorious handiwork of the Creator, to be hurled to swift destruction, and for the soul that animates it to be cast into hell!"
"Bosh again! That is a subject for the pulpit, not for a pretty girl's room. If you really think me such a handsome man, why don't you go with me at once and say no more about it," roared the outlaw laughing.
"Black Donald--will you leave my room?" cried Capitola, in an agony of prayer.
"No!" answered the outlaw, mocking her tone.
"Is there no inducement that I can hold out to you to leave me?"
"None!"
Capitola raised herself from her leaning posture, took a step backward, so that she stood entirely free from the trap-door, then slipping her foot under the rug, she placed it lightly on the spring-bolt, which she was careful not to press; the ample fall of her dress concealed the position of her foot.
Capitola was now paler than a corpse, for hers was the pallor of a living horror! Her heart beat violently, her head throbbed, her voice was broken as she said: "Man, I will give you one more chance! Oh, man, pity yourself as I pity you, and consent to leave me!"
"Ha, ha, ha! It is quite likely that I will! Isn't it, now? No, my duck, I haven't watched and planned for this chance for this long time past to give it up, now that you are in my power! A likely story indeed! And now the five minutes' grace are quite up!"
"Stop! Don't move yet! Before you stir, say: 'Lord, have mercy on me!" said Capitola, solemnly.
"Ha, ha, ha! That's a pretty idea! Why should I say that?"
"Say it to please me! Only say it, Black Donald!"
"But why to please you?"
"Because I wish not to kill both your body and soul--because I would not send you prayerless into the presence of your Creator! For, Black Donald, within a few seconds your body will be hurled to swift destruction, and your soul will stand before the bar of God!" said Capitola, with her foot upon the spring of the concealed trap.
She had scarcely ceased speaking before he bounded to his feet, whirled around and confronted her, like a lion at bay, roaring forth: "You have a revolver there, girl--move a finger and I shall throw myself upon you like an avalanche?"
"I have no revolver--watch my hands as I take them forth, and see!" said Capitola, stretching her arms out toward him.
"What do you mean, then, by your talk of sudden destruction?" inquired Black Donald, in a voice of thunder.
"I mean that it hangs over you--that it is imminent! That it is not to be escaped! Oh, man, call on God, for you have not a minute to live!"
The outlaw gazed on her in astonishment.
Well he might, for there she stood paler than marble--sterner than fate--with no look of human feeling about her, but the gleaming light of her terrible eyes, and the beading sweat upon her death-like brow.
For an instant the outlaw gazed on her in consternation, and then, recovering himself he burst into a loud laugh, exclaiming: "Ha, ha, ha! Well, I suppose this is what people would call a piece of splendid acting! Do you expect to frighten me, my dear, as you did Craven Le Noir, with the peas!"
"Say 'Lord have mercy on my soul'--say it. Black Donald--say it. I beseech you!" she prayed.
"Ha, ha, ha, my dear! You may say it for me! And to reward you, I will give you, such a kiss! It will put life into those marble cheeks of yours!" he laughed.
"I will say it for you! May the Lord pity and save Black Donald's soul, if that be yet possible, for the Saviour's sake!" prayed Capitola, in a broken voice, with her foot upon the concealed and fatal spring.
He laughed aloud, stretched forth his arms and rushed to clasp her.
She pressed the spring.
The drop fell with a tremendous crash!
The outlaw shot downwards--there was an instant's vision of a white and panic-stricken face, and wild, uplifted hands as he disappeared, and then a square, black opening, was all that remained where the terrible intruder had sat.
No sight or sound came up from that horrible pit, to hint of the secrets of the prison house.
One shuddering glance at the awful void and then Capitola turned and threw herself, face downward, upon the bed, not daring to rejoice in the safety that had been purchased by such a dreadful deed, feeling that it was an awful, though a complete victory!
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{
"id": "24337"
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20
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THE NEXT MORNING.
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Oh, such a day! So fought, so followed and so fairly won Came not till now to dignify the times. Since Cæsar's fortunes.
--Shakespeare.
Capitola lay upon the bed, with her face buried in the pillow, the greater portion of the time from two o'clock until day. An uncontrollable horror prevented her from turning lest she should see the yawning mystery in the middle of the floor, or hear some awful sound from its unknown depths. The very shadows on the walls thrown up wildly by the expiring firelight were objects of grotesque terror. Never--never--in her whole youth of strange vicissitude, had the nerves of this brave girl been so tremendously shaken and prostrated.
It was late in the morning when at last nature succumbed, and she sank into a deep sleep. She had not slept long when she was aroused from a profound state of insensibility by a loud, impatient knocking at her door.
She started up wildly and gazed around her. For a minute she could not remember what were the circumstances under which she had laid down, or what was that vague feeling of horror and alarm that possessed her. Then the yawning trap-door, the remnants of the supper, and Black Donald's coat, hat and boots upon the floor, drove in upon her reeling brain the memory of the night of terror!
The knocking continued more loudly and impatiently, accompanied by the voice of Mrs. Condiment, crying: "Miss Capitola--Miss Capitola--why, what can be the matter with her? Miss Capitola!"
"Eh? What? Yes!" answered Capitola, pressing her hands to her feverish forehead, and putting back her dishevelled hair.
"Why, how soundly you sleep, my dear! I've been calling and rapping here for a quarter of an hour! Good gracious, child what made you oversleep yourself so?"
"I--did not get to bed till very late," said Capitola, confusedly.
"Well, well, my dear, make haste now, your uncle is none of the patientest, and he has been waiting breakfast for some time! Come, open the door and I will help you to dress, so that you may be ready sooner."
Capitola rose from the side of the bed, where she had been sitting, and went cautiously around that gaping trap door to her chamber door, when she missed the key, and suddenly remembered that it had been in Black Donald's pocket when he fell. A shudder thrilled her frame at the thought of that horrible fall.
"Well--well--Miss Capitola, why don't you open the door?" cried the old lady, impatiently.
"Mrs. Condiment, I have lost the key--dropped it down the trap-door. Please ask uncle to send for some one to take the lock off--and don't wait breakfast for me."
"Well, I do think that was very careless, my dear; but I'll go at once," said the old lady, moving away.
She had not been gone more than ten minutes, when Old Hurricane was heard, coming blustering along the hall and calling: "What now, you imp of Satan? What mischief have you been at now? Opening the trap-door, you mischievous monkey! I wish from the bottom of my soul you had fallen into it, and I should have got rid of one trial! Losing your key, you careless baggage! I've a great mind to leave you locked up there forever."
Thus scolding, Old Hurricane reached the spot and began to ply screw-drivers and chisels until at length the strong lock yielded, and he opened the door.
There a vision met his eyes that arrested his steps upon the very threshold; the remains of a bacchanalian supper; a man's coat and hat and boots upon the floor; in the midst of the room the great, square, black opening; and beyond it standing upon the hearth, the form of Capitola, with disordered dress, dishevelled hair and wild aspect!
"Oh, uncle, see what I have been obliged to do!" she exclaimed, extending both her arms down toward the opening with a look of blended horror and inspiration, such as might have sat upon the countenance of some sacrificial priestess of the olden time.
"What--what--what!" cried the old man, nearly dumb with amazement.
"Black Donald was in my room last night. He stole from his concealment and locked the door on the inside and withdrew the key, thus locking me in with himself, and----" She ceased and struck both hands to her face, shuddering from head to foot.
"Go on, girl!" thundered Old Hurricane, in an agony of anxiety.
"I escaped harmless--oh, I did, sir--but at what a fearful price!"
"Explain! Explain!" cried Old Hurricane, in breathless agitation.
"I drew him to sit upon the chair on the rug, and"--again she shuddered from head to foot, "and I sprang the trap and precipitated him to--oh, heaven of heavens! --where? I know not!"
"But you--you were unharmed?"
"Yes--yes!"
"Oh, Cap! Oh, my dear Cap! Thank heaven for that!"
"But, uncle, where--oh, where did he go?" inquired Capitola, almost wildly.
"Who the demon cares? To perdition. I hope and trust, with all my heart and soul!" cried Old Hurricane, with emphasis, as he approached and looked down the opening.
"Uncle, what is below there?" asked Capitola anxiously, pointing down the abyss.
"An old cellar, as I have told you long ago, and Black Donald, as you have just told me. Hilloe there! Are you killed, as you deserve to be, you atrocious villain?" roared Old Hurricane, stooping down into the opening.
A feeble distant moan answered him.
"Oh, heaven! He is living! He is living! I have not killed him!" cried Capitola, clasping her hands.
"Why, I do believe you are glad of it!" exclaimed Old Hurricane, in astonishment.
"Oh, yes, yes, yes! For it was a fearful thought that I had been compelled to take a sacred life! to send an immortal soul unprepared to its account!"
"Well! his neck isn't broken, it appears, or he couldn't groan; but I hope and trust every other bone in his body is! Mrs. Condiment, mum! I'll trouble you to put on your bonnet and walk to Ezy's and tell him to come here directly! I must send for the constable," said Old Hurricane, going to the door and speaking to his housekeeper, who, with an appalled countenance had been a silent spectator of all that had passed.
As soon as the old woman had gone to do her errand he turned again, and stooping down the hole, exclaimed: "I say, you scoundrel down there! What do you think of yourself now? Are you much hurt, you knave? Is every one of your bones broken, as they deserve to be, you villain? Answer me, you varlet!"
A low, deep moan was the only response.
"If that means yes, I'm glad to hear it, you wretch. You'll go to the camp-meeting with us again, won't you, you knave? You'll preach against evil passions and profane swearing, looking right straight at me all the time, until you bring the eyes of the whole congregation upon me as a sinner above all sinners, you scoundrel? You'll turn me out of my own bed and away from my own board, won't you, you villain? Won't you, precious Father Grey? Oh, we'll Father Grey you! Demmy, the next time a trap-door falls under you, you rascal, there shall be a rope around your neck to keep you from the ground, precious Father Grey!"
"Uncle! Uncle! that is cowardly!" exclaimed Capitola.
"What is cowardly, Miss Impertinence?"
"To insult and abuse a fallen man who is in your power! The poor man is badly hurt, may be dying, for aught you know, and you stand over him and berate him when he cannot even answer you!"
"Umph, umph, umph; demmy, you're--umph, well, he is fallen, fallen pretty badly, eh? and if he should come round after this, the next fall he gets will be likely to break his neck, eh? --I say, you gentleman below there--Mr. Black Donald--precious Father Grey--you'll keep quiet, won't you, while we go and get our breakfast? do, now! Come, Cap, come down and pour out my coffee, and by the time we get through, Old Ezy will be here."
Capitola complied, and they left the room together.
The overseer came in while they were at breakfast, and with his hair standing on end, listened to the account of the capture of the outlaw by our heroine.
"And now saddle Fleetfoot and ride for your life to Tip-Top and bring a pair of constables," were the last orders of Old Hurricane.
While Mr. Ezy was gone on his errand, Major Warfield, Capitola and Mrs. Condiment remained below stairs.
It was several hours before the messenger returned with the constables, and with several neighbors whom interest and curiosity had instigated to join the party.
As soon as they arrived, a long ladder was procured and carried up into Capitola's chamber, and let down through the trap-door. Fortunately it was long enough, for when the foot of the ladder found the floor of the cellar, the head rested securely against the edge of the opening.
In a moment the two constables began singly to descend, the foremost one carrying a lighted candle in his hand.
The remaining members of the party, consisting of Major Warfield, Capitola, Mrs. Condiment, and some half dozen neighbors, remained gathered around the open trap-door, waiting, watching, and listening for what might next happen.
Presently one of the constables called out: "Major Warfield, sir!"
"Well!" replied Old Hurricane.
"He's a-breathing still, sir; but seems badly hurt, and may be a-dying, seeing as he's unsensible and unspeakable. What shall we do long of him?"
"Bring him up! let's have a look at the fellow, at any rate!" exclaimed Old Hurricane, peremptorily.
"Just so, sir! but some of the gem-men up there'll have to come down on the ladder and give a lift. He's a dead weight now, I tell your honor!"
Several of the neighbors immediately volunteered for the service, and two of the strongest descended the ladder to lend their aid.
On attempting to move the injured man he uttered a cry of pain, and fainted, and then it took the united strength and skill of four strong men to raise the huge insensible form of the athlete, and get him up the ladder. No doubt the motion greatly inflamed his inward wounds, but that could not be helped. They got him up at last, and laid out upon the floor a ghastly, bleeding, insensible form, around which every one gathered to gaze. While they were all looking upon him as upon a slaughtered wild beast, Capitola alone felt compassion.
"Uncle, he is quite crushed by his fall. Make the men lay him upon the bed. Never think of me; I shall never occupy this room again; its associations are too full of horrors. There, uncle, make them at once lay him upon the bed."
"I think the young lady is right, unless we mean to let the fellow die," said one of the neighbors.
"Very well! I have particular reasons of my own for wishing that the man's life should be spared until he could be brought to trial and induced to give up his accomplices," said Old Hurricane. Then, turning to his ward, he said: "Come along, Capitola. Mrs. Condiment will see that your effects are transferred to another apartment.
"And you, friends," he continued, addressing the men present, "be so good, so soon as we have gone, to undress that fellow and put him to bed, and examine his injuries while I send off for a physician; for I consider it very important his life should be spared sufficiently long to enable him to give up his accomplices." And so saying, Old Hurricane drew the arm of Capitola within his own and left the room.
It was noon before the physician arrived. When he had examined the patient he pronounced him utterly unfit to be removed, as besides other serious contusions and bruises, his legs were broken and several of his ribs fractured.
In a word. It was several weeks before the strong constitution of the outlaw prevailed over his many injuries, and he was pronounced well enough to be taken before a magistrate and committed to prison to await his trial. Alas! his life, it was said, was forfeit by a hundred crimes, and there could be no doubt as to his fate. He maintained a self-possessed good-humored and laughingly defiant manner, and when asked to give up his accomplices, he answered gaily: That treachery was a legal virtue which outlaws could not be expected to know anything about.
Capitola was everywhere lauded for her brave part in the capture of the famous desperado. But Cap was too sincerely sorry for Black Donald to care for the applause.
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{
"id": "24337"
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21
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A FATAL HATRED.
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"Oh, heaven and all its hosts, he shall not die!" "By Satan and his fiends, he shall not live! This is no transient flash of fugitive passion, His death has been my life for years of misery, Which, else I had not lived, Upon that thought, and not on food, I fed, Upon that thought, and not on sleep, I rested, I came to do the deed that must be done, Nor thou, nor the sheltering angels could prevent me."
--Maturin.
The United States army, under General Scott, invested the city of Mexico.
A succession of splendid victories had marked every stage of their advance, from the seacoast to the capital. Vera Cruz had fallen; Cerro-Gordo had been stormed and passed; Xalapa taken; the glorious triumph of Churubusco had been achieved. The names of Scott, Worth, Wool, Quitman, Pillow and others were crowned with honor. Others again, whose humble names and unnoticed heroism have never been recorded, endured as nobly, suffered as patiently, and fought as bravely. Our own young hero, Herbert Greyson, had covered himself with honor.
The War with Mexico witnessed, perhaps, the most rapid promotions of any other in the whole history of military affairs.
The rapid ascent of our young officer was a striking instance of this. In two years from the time he had entered the service, with a lieutenant's commission, he held the rank of major, in the ---- Regiment of Infantry.
Fortune had not smiled upon our other young friend, Traverse Rocke--partly because, being entirely out of his vocation, he had no right to expect success; but mostly because he had a powerful enemy in the Colonel of his regiment--an unsleeping enemy, whose constant vigilance was directed to prevent the advancement and insure the degradation and ruin of one whom he contemptuously termed the "gentleman private."
Now, it is known that by the rules of military etiquette, a wide social gulf lies between the Colonel of the regiment and the private in the ranks.
Yet, Colonel Le Noir continually went out of his way to insult Private Rocke, hoping to provoke him to some act of fatal insubordination.
And very heavy was this trial to a high spirited young man like Traverse Rocke, and very fortunate was it for him that he had early been imbued with that most important truth, that "He who ruleth his own spirit is greater than he who taketh a city."
But, if Colonel Le Noir crossed the gulf of military etiquette to harass the poor young soldier, Major Greyson did the same thing for the more honorable purpose of soothing and encouraging him.
And both Herbert and Traverse hoped that the designs of their Colonel would be still frustrated by the self-command and patience of the young private.
Alas! they did not know the great power of evil! They did not know that nothing less than Divine Providence could meet and overcome it.
They fondly believed that the malignity of Le Noir had resulted in no other practical evil than in preventing the young soldier's well-merited advancement, and in keeping him in the humble position of a private in the ranks.
They were not aware that the discharge of Traverse Rocke had long ago arrived, but that it had been suppressed through the diabolical cunning of Le Noir. That letters, messages and packets, sent by his friends to the young soldier, had found their way into his Colonel's possession and no further.
And so, believing the hatred of that bad man to have been fruitless of serious, practical evil, Herbert encouraged his friend to be patient for a short time longer, when they should see the end of the campaign, if not of the war.
It was now that period of suspense and of false truce between the glorious 20th of August and the equally glorious 8th of September, 1847--between the two most brilliant actions of the war, the battle of Churubusco and the storming of Chapultepec.
The General-in-Chief of the United States forces in Mexico was at his headquarters in the Archiepiscopal palace of Tacubaya, on the suburbs, or in the full sight of the city of the Montezumas, awaiting the issue of the conference between the commissioners of the hostile governments, met to arrange the terms of a treaty of peace--that every day grew more hopeless.
General Scott, who had had misgivings as to the good faith of the Mexicans, had now his suspicions confirmed by several breaches on the part of the enemy of the terms of the armistice.
Early in September he despatched a letter to General Santa Anna, complaining of these infractions of the truce, and warning him that if some satisfactory explanations were not made within forty-eight hours he should consider the armistice at an end, and renew hostilities.
And not to lose time, he began on the same night a series of reconnaissances, the object of which was to ascertain their best approach to the city of Mexico, which, in the event of the renewal of the war, he purposed to carry by assault.
It is not my intention to pretend to describe the siege and capture of the capital, which has been so often and eloquently described by grave and wise historians, but rather to follow the fortunes of an humble private in the ranks, and relate the events of a certain court-martial, as I learned them from the after-dinner talk of a gallant officer who had officiated on the occasion.
It was during these early days in September, while the illustrious General-in-Chief was meditating concluding the war by the assault of the city of Mexico, that Colonel Le Noir also resolved to bring his own private feud to an end, and ruin his enemy by a coup-de-diable.
He had an efficient tool for his purpose in the Captain of the company to which Traverse Rocke belonged. This man, Captain Zuten, was a vulgar upstart thrown into his command by the turbulence of war, as the scum is cast up to the surface by the boiling of the cauldron.
He hated Traverse Rocke, for no conceivable reason, unless it was that the young private was a perfect contrast to himself, in the possession of a handsome person, a well cultivated mind, and a gentlemanly deportment--cause sufficient for the antagonism of a mean and vulgar nature.
Colonel Le Noir was not slow to see and to take advantage of this hatred.
And Captain Zuten became the willing coadjutor and instrument of his vengeance. Between them they concocted a plot to bring the unfortunate young man to an ignominious death.
One morning, about the first of September, Major Greyson, in going his rounds, came upon Traverse, standing sentry near one of the outposts. The aspect of the young private was so pale, haggard and despairing that his friend immediately stopped and exclaimed: "Why Traverse, how ill you look! More fitted for the sick list than the sentry's duties. What the deuce is the matter?"
The young soldier touched his hat to his superior and answered sadly, "I am ill, ill in body and mind, sir."
"Pooh! --leave off etiquette when we are alone, Traverse, and call me Herbert, as usual. Heaven knows, I shall be glad when all this is over and we fall back into our relative civil positions towards each other. But what is the matter now, Traverse? Some of Le Noir's villainy again, of course."
"Of course. But I did not mean to complain, Herbert; that were childish. I must endure this slavery, these insults and persecutions patiently, since I have brought them upon myself."
"Take comfort, Traverse. The war is drawing to a close. Either this armistice will end in a permanent peace, or when hostilities are renewed our General will carry the city of Mexico by storm, and dictate the terms of a treaty from the grand square of the capital. In either event the war will soon be over, the troops disbanded, and the volunteers free to go about their business, and Doctor Traverse Rocke at liberty to pursue his legitimate profession," said Herbert, cheerfully.
"It may be so, I do not know. Oh, Herbert, whether it be from want of sleep and excessive fatigue--for I have been on duty for three days and nights--or whether it be from incipient illness, or all these causes put together, I cannot tell, but my spirits are dreadfully depressed! There seems to be hanging over me a cloud of fate I cannot dispel. Every hour seems descending lower and blacker over my head, until it feels like some heavy weight about to suffocate or crush me," said Traverse, sadly.
"Pooh, pooh! hypochondria! cheer up! Remember that in a month we shall probably be disbanded, and in a year--think of it, Traverse Rocke--Clara Day will be twenty-one, and at liberty to give you her hand. Cheer up!"
"Ah, Herbert, all that seems now to be more unsubstantial than the fabric of a dream. I cannot think of Clara or of my mother without despair. For oh, Herbert, between me and them there seems to yawn a dishonored grave! Herbert, they talk, you know, of an attack upon the Molina-del-Rey, and I almost hope to fall in that charge!"
"Why?" inquired Major Greyson, in dismay.
"To escape being forced into a dishonored grave! Herbert, that man has sworn my ruin, and he will accomplish it!" said Traverse, solemnly.
"For Heaven's sake, explain yourself!" said Herbert.
"I will. Listen! I will tell you the history of the last three days," said Traverse; but before he could add another word the sentry that was to relieve his guard approached and said: "Captain Zuten orders you to come to his tent instantly."
With a glance of significance, Traverse bowed to Herbert and walked off, while the sentinel took his place.
Herbert saw no more of Traverse that day. At night he went to inquire for him, but learned that he had been sent with a reconnoitering party to the Molina-del-Rey.
The next day, on seeking Traverse, he understood that the young private had been despatched on a foraging expedition. That night, upon again inquiring for him, he was told that he had been sent in attendance upon the officers who had borne secret despatches to General Quitman, at his quarters on the Acapulco road.
"Traverse is right. They mean to ruin him. I see how it is, exactly. When I saw Traverse on guard, two days ago, he looked like a man exhausted and crazed for want of sleep, and since that time he has been night and day engaged in harassing duty. That demon, Le Noir, with Zuten to help him, has determined to keep Traverse from sleep, until nature is thoroughly exhausted, and then set him upon guard, that he may be found sleeping on his post. That was what the boy meant when he talked of the cloud that was hanging over him, and of being forced into a dishonored grave, and when he hoped, poor fellow, to fall in the approaching assault upon the Molina-del-Rey! I see it all now. They have decided upon the destruction of Traverse. He can do nothing, A soldier's whole duty is comprised in one word--obedience, even if, as in this instance, he is ordered to commit suicide. Let them hatch their diabolical plots. We will see if the Lord does not still reign, and the devil is not a fool. It shall go hard, but that they are 'hoist with their own petard!'" said Herbert, indignantly.
Early the next morning he went to the tent of Captain Zuten and requested to see Private Traverse Rocke, in whom, he said, he felt a warm interest.
The answer of Colonel Le Noir's tool confirmed Herbert's worse suspicions.
Touching his cap with an air of exaggerated deference, he said: "As you think so much of the young fellow, Major, I am very sorry to inform you, sir, that he is under arrest."
"Upon what charge?" inquired Herbert, calmly, concealing the suspicion and indignation of his bosom.
"Upon a rather bad one, Major--sleeping on his post," replied the officer, masking his exultation with a show of respect.
"Rather bad! The penalty is death," said Herbert, dryly.
"Yes, sir--martial law is rather severe."
"Who charges him?" asked Herbert, curtly.
"The Colonel of our regiment, sir," replied the man, scarcely able to conceal his triumph.
"An accusation from a high quarter. Is his charge supported by other testimony?"
"Beg pardon, Major, but is that necessary?"
"You have answered my question by asking another one, sir. I will trouble you for a direct reply," said Herbert with dignity.
"Then, Major, I must reply--yes."
"What testimony? I would know the circumstances?"
"Well, sir, I will tell you about it," said the officer, with ill-concealed triumph. "Private Traverse Rocke had the early morning watch----" "After his return from the night ride to Acapulco?"
"Yes, sir. Well, Colonel Le Noir and myself in going our rounds this morning, just before sunrise, came full upon the young fellow, fast asleep on his post. In fact, sir, it required a hearty shake to awaken him."
"After ninety-six hours' loss of sleep, I should not wonder."
"I know nothing about that, sir. I only know that Colonel Le Noir and myself found him fast asleep on his post. He was immediately arrested."
"Where is he now?" inquired Herbert.
"In one of the Colonel's extra tents, under guard," replied the officer.
Herbert immediately went to the tent in question, where he found two sentinels, with loaded muskets, on duty before the door. They grounded arms on the approach of their superior officer.
"Is Private Traverse Rocke confined within there?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir."
"I must pass in to see him."
"I beg your pardon, sir, but our orders are strict, not even to admit an officer, without a written order from our Colonel, said the sentinel.
"Where is the Colonel?"
"In his tent, sir."
Herbert immediately went on to the fine marquee occupied by Colonel Le Noir.
The sentinel on duty there at once admitted him, and he passed on into the presence of the Colonel.
He saluted his superior officer with cold military etiquette, and said: "I have come, sir, to ask of you an order to see Private Traverse Rocke, confined under the charge of sleeping on his post."
"I regret to say, Major Greyson, that it cannot be done," replied Le Noir, with ironical politeness.
"Will you have the kindness to inform me, sir, upon what pretext my reasonable request is refused?" asked Herbert, coldly.
"I deem it quite unnecessary to do so, sir," answered the Colonel, haughtily.
"Then I have no more to do here," replied Herbert, leaving the tent.
He immediately threw himself into his saddle and rode off to the Archiepiscopal palace of Tacubaya, where the General-in-Chief had fixed his headquarters.
Here he had to wait some little time before he was admitted to the presence of the gallant commander, who received him with all the stately courtesy for which that renowned officer is distinguished.
Herbert mentioned the business that had brought him to the General's presence, the request of a written order to see a prisoner in strict confinement for sleeping on his post.
The commander whose kind heart was interested in the welfare of all his soldiers, made some inquiries into the affair, of which Herbert proceeded to give him a short history, without, however, venturing, as yet, directly to charge the Captain or the Colonel with intentional foul play; indeed to have attempted to criminate the superior officers of the accused man would then have been most unwise, useless and hurtful.
The General immediately wrote the desired order and passed it to the young officer.
Herbert bowed and was about to retire from the room, when he was called back by the General, who placed a packet of letters in his hand, saying that they had arrived among his despatches, and were for the prisoner, to whom Major Greyson might as well take them at once.
Herbert received them with avidity, and on his way back to the Colonel's tent he examined their superscription.
There were three letters--all directed to Traverse Rocke. On two of them he recognized the familiar handwriting of Marah Rocke, on the other he saw the delicate Italian style of a young lady's hand, which he readily believed to be that of Clara.
In the midst of his anxiety on his friend's account he rejoiced to have this one little ray of comfort to carry him. He knew that many months had elapsed since the young soldier had heard from his friends at home--in fact, Traverse never received a letter unless it happened to come under cover to Herbert Greyson. And well they both knew the reason.
"How very fortunate," said Herbert, as he rode on, "that I happened to be at the General's quarters to receive these letters just when I did; for if they had been sent to Colonel Le Noir's quarters or to Captain Z.'s, poor Traverse would never have heard of them. However, I shall not distract Traverse's attention by showing him these letters until he has told me the full history of his arrest, for I wish him to give me a cool account of the whole thing, so that I may know if I can possibly serve him. Ah, it is very unlikely that any power of mine will be able to save him if indeed, and in truth, he did sleep upon his post," ruminated Herbert, as he rode up to the tent where the prisoner was confined.
Another pair of sentinels were on duty in place of those who had refused him admittance.
He alighted from his horse, was challenged, showed his order, and passed into the tent.
There a sight met him that caused the tears to rush to his eyes--for the bravest is always the tenderest heart.
Thrown down on the mat at the back of the tent lay Traverse Rocke, pale, haggard and sunken in the deep, deep sleep of utter exhaustion. Even in that state of perfect abandonment, prostration and insensibility, the expression of great mental anguish remained upon his deathly countenance; a mortal pallor overspread his face; his thick, black curls, matted with perspiration, clung to his hollow temples and cheeks; great drops of sweat beaded upon his corrugated brow; a quiver convulsed his mouth and chin; every circumstance betrayed how severely, even in that swoon-like state, he suffered.
Herbert drew a camp-stool and sat down beside his mat, resolving not to break that greatly needed rest, but to wait patiently until the sleeper should awake.
Again, I say that I know nothing about mesmerism, but I have seen strange effects produced quite unconsciously by the presence of one person upon another. And in a few minutes after Herbert took his seat beside Traverse, it was noticeable that the face of the sleeper lost its look of pain, and his rest grew deep and calm.
Herbert sat watching that pale, calm, intellectual face, thanking heaven that his mother, in her distant home, knew nothing of her boy's deadly peril and praying heaven that its justice might be vindicated in the deliverance of this victim from the snares of those who sought his life.
For more than an hour longer Traverse slept the deep sleep of exhaustion, and then calmly awoke. On seeing Herbert sitting beside him, he smiled sadly, saying: "You here, Herbert? How kind of you to come. Well, Herbert, you see they have succeeded, as I knew they would. That was what I wished to tell you about when I was abruptly ordered away. I do believe it was done on purpose to prevent my telling you. I really think I have been surrounded by spies to report and distort every word and look and gesture. If our company had only watched the enemy with half the vigilance with which they watched me, that party of emigrants would not have been cut off on the plains."
"Traverse," said Herbert, solemnly taking the hand of his friend, "were you caught sleeping on your post?"
"Ah, sleeping like death, Herbert."
Herbert dropped the hand of his friend, covered his face with his own, and groaned aloud, "He could not help it!"
"I told you that they had resolved upon my death, Herbert. I told you that I should be pushed into a shameful grave!"
"Oh, no, no, the Lord forbid! But tell me all about it, Traverse, that I may understand and know how to proceed," said Herbert, in a broken voice.
"Well, I need not tell you how I have been insulted, oppressed and persecuted by those two men, for you know that already."
"Yes, yes!"
"It really soon became apparent to me that they were resolved, if possible, to exasperate me to desert, to retort, or to commit some other fatal act of insubordination or violence. Yet, for the sake of my dear mother and of Clara, I did violence only to my own natural manhood, and bore it all with the servility of a slave."
"With the submission of a saint, dear Traverse; and in doing so you followed the divine precept and example of Our Saviour, who, when accused, railed upon and buffeted, 'opened not his mouth.' And in His forbearance, dear Traverse, there was as much of God-like dignity as there was of saintly patience. Great self-respect is as often manifested in forbearance as in resentment," said Herbert, soothingly.
"But you see it availed me nothing. Here I am, under a charge to which I plead guilty, and the penalty of which is--death!" replied Traverse, in despair.
"Tell me how it was, Traverse. Your persecutions and your patience I knew before, but what are the circumstances that led to your present position? That your misfortune is the result of a concerted plan on the part of Le Noir and his tool, I partly see, but I wish you to put me in possession of all the facts, that I may see in what manner I may be able to assist you."
"Ah, Herbert, I thank you, most faithful of friends, but I doubt whether you can assist me in any other manner than in being kind to my poor mother and my dear Clara when I am gone--for ah, old playmate, the act can be too surely proved upon me, and the penalty is certain--and it is death!" said the poor boy, deeply sighing.
Herbert groaned, and said: "But tell me, at least, the history of the four days preceding your arrest."
"I will. Let me see--this is Friday. Well, until this morning's fatal sleep, I had not slept since Sunday night. Monday was passed in the usual routine of military duty. Monday evening I was sent on a reconnoitering expedition to the old castellated Spanish fort of the Casa de Mata, that occupied the whole night. On Tuesday morning I was selected to attend the messenger who went with the flag of truce into the city to carry our General's letter of expostulation to Santa Anna, which employed the whole day. On Tuesday night, without having had an hour's rest in the interval, I was put on guard. Wednesday morning I was sent with a party to escort an emigrant caravan across the marsh to the village of Churubusco. Wednesday afternoon you saw me on guard and I told you that I had not slept one hour for three days and nights."
"Yes, you looked ill enough to be ordered on the sick list."
"Yet, listen. Thoroughly exhausted as I was, on Wednesday night I was ordered to join a party to go on a secret reconnoitering expedition to the Molina-del-Rey. On Thursday morning I was sent out with another party on a foraging tour. On Thursday night I was sent in attendance upon the officer who carried despatches to General Quitman. On Friday morning I was set on guard between the hours of four and eight!"
"Oh, heaven, what an infamous abuse of military authority!" exclaimed Herbert, indignantly.
"Herbert, in my life I have sometimes suffered with hunger, cold and pain, and have some idea of what starving, freezing and torture may be, but among all the ills to which flesh is heir, I doubt if there is one so trying to the nerves and brain of man as enforced and long-continued vigilance, when all his failing nature sinks for want of sleep. Insanity and death must soon be the result."
"Humph! Go on. Tell me about the manner of their finding you," said Herbert, scarcely able to repress his indignation.
"Well, when after--let me see--eighty-four--ninety--ninety-six hours of incessant watching, riding and walking, I was set on guard to keep the morning watch between four o'clock and eight, 'my whole head was sick and my whole heart faint'; my frame was sinking; my soul could scarcely hold my body upright. In addition to this physical suffering was the mental anguish of feeling that these men had resolved upon my death, and thinking of my dear mother and Clara, whose hearts would be broken by my fall. Oh! the thought of them at this moment quite unmans me. I must not reflect. Well, I endeavored with all the faculties of my mind and body to keep awake. I kept steadily pacing to and fro, though I could scarcely drag one limb after the other, or even stand upright; sleep would arrest me while in motion, and I would drop my musket and wake up in a panic, with the impression of some awful, overhanging ruin appalling my soul. Herbert, will you think me a miserably weak wretch if I tell you that that night was a night of mental and physical horrors? Brain and nerves seemed in a state of disorganization; thought and emotion were chaos; the relations of soul and body broken up. I had but one strong, clear idea, namely, that I must keep awake at all costs, or bring shameful death upon myself and disgrace upon my family. And even in the very midst of thinking this I would fall asleep."
"No power within yourself could have prevented it; indeed, you had to drop into sleep or death!"
"I pinched myself, I cut my flesh, I burned my skin, but all in vain. Nothing could withstand the overwhelming power of sleep that finally conquered me, about five o'clock this morning. Then, in the midst of a delightful dream of mother and Clara and home, I was roused up by a rude shake, and awoke to find my musket fallen from my hands, and my Captain and Colonel standing over me. It was several minutes before I could travel back from the pleasant land of sleep and dreams and realize my real position. When I did I had nothing to say. The inevitable ruin I felt had come, and crushed me into a sort of dumb despair. Nor did my superior officers reproach me--their revenge was too perfect. The captain called a sergeant to take my gun, and I was marched off to my present prison. And, Herbert, no sooner was I left alone here than sleep overcame me again, like a strong man, and despite all the gloom and terror of my situation, despite all my thoughts of home and mother and Clara, I slept like a tired child. But this awakening. Oh! this awakening, Herbert!"
"Be of good courage. Let us hope that heaven will enable us to confound the plots of the evil, and save you!"
"Ah, Herbert, that will be impossible. The duty of a soldier is clear and stern; his punishment, if he fails in it, swift and sure. At the word of command he must march into the very jaws of death, as is right. He must die or madden for the want of rest, rather than fall asleep on his post, for if he does, his punishment is certain and shameful death. Oh, my mother! Oh, Clara! Would heaven I had fallen at Vera Cruz or Churubusco, rather than live to bring this dreadful sorrow upon you," cried Traverse, covering his convulsed face with his hands.
"Cheer up, cheer up, old comrade. All is not lost that is endangered, and we shall save you yet!"
"Herbert, you know it is impossible."
"No, I do not know any such thing!"
"You know that I shall be tried to-day and shot to-morrow! Oh, Herbert, never let my dear ones at home know how I shall die. Tell them that I fell before Chepultepec--which will be literally true, you know. Oh, my mother! Oh, my dear Clara, shall I never see you more? Never hear your sweet voices calling me? Never feel the kind clasp of your hands again? Is this the end of a life of aspiration and endeavor? Is this the comfort and happiness I was to bring you? --early bereavement, dishonored names and broken hearts?"
"I tell you, no! You shall be saved! I say it!"
"Ah, it is impossible."
"No, it is only very difficult--so very difficult that I shall be sure to accomplish it!"
"What a paradox!"
"It is a truth. Things difficult--almost to impossibility--can always be accomplished. Write that upon your tablets, for it is a valuable truth. And now cheer up, for I bring you letters from Clara and your mother."
"Letters! from Clara! and mother! Oh, give them to me!" exclaimed the young man eagerly.
Herbert handed them, and Traverse eagerly broke the seals, one after another, and devoured the contents.
"They are well! They are well and happy! Oh, thank God they are so. Oh, Herbert, never let them know how I shall die! If they think I fell honorably in battle, they will get over it in time, but if they know I died a convict's death it will break their hearts. Oh, Herbert, my dear friend, by all our boyhood's love, never let my poor mother and dear Clara know the manner of my death!" cried Traverse, in an imploring voice.
Before he could say another word or Herbert could answer, an orderly sergeant entered and put into Major Greyson's hands a paper that proved to be a summons for him to attend immediately at headquarters to serve upon a court-martial, to try Private Traverse Rocke upon the charge of sleeping on his post.
"This is done on purpose to prevent me becoming a witness for the defense!" whispered Herbert to his friend, "but take courage. We will see yet whether you shall succeed!"
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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22
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THE COURT-MARTIAL.
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I wish I could Meet all accusers with as good excuse, As well as I am certain I can clear Myself of this.
--Shakespeare.
Pursuant with the general orders issued from headquarters, the court-martial, consisting of thirteen officers, convened at Tacubaya, for the trial of Traverse Rocke, private in the ---- Regiment of Infantry, accused of sleeping on his post.
It was a sultry morning, early in September, and by seven o'clock the drum was heard beating before the Archiepiscopal palace, where it was understood the trial, involving life or death, would come off.
The two sentinels on guard before the doors and a few officers off duty, loitering about the verandas, were the only persons visible near the well-ordered premises, until the members of the court-martial, with the prosecutors and witnesses, began to assemble and pass in.
Within a lofty apartment of the building, which was probably at one time the great dining-hall of the priests, were collected some twenty persons, comprising the court-martial and its attendants.
An extension table covered with green cloth occupied the middle of the long room.
At the head of this table sat General W., the president of the court. On his right and left, at the sides of the table, were arranged the other members according to their rank.
At a smaller table, near the right hand of the President, stood the Judge Advocate or prosecutor on behalf of the United States.
At the door stood a sentinel on guard, and near him two or three orderly sergeants in attendance upon the officers.
The Judge Advocate opened the court by calling over the names of the members, beginning with the President and ending with the youngest officer present, and recording them as they responded.
This preliminary settled, orders were despatched to bring the prisoner, prosecutor and witnesses into court.
And in a few minutes entered Colonel Le Noir, Captain Zuten, Ensign Allen and Sergeant Baker. They were accommodated with seats near the left hand of the President.
Lastly, the prisoner was brought in guarded, and placed standing at the foot of the table.
Traverse looked pale, from the severe effects of excessive fatigue and anxiety, but he deported himself with firmness and dignity, bowed respectfully to the court, and then drew his stately form up to its fullest height, and stood awaiting the proceedings.
The Judge Advocate at the order of the President, commenced and read the warrant for holding the court. He then read over the names of the members, commencing as before, with the President, and descending through the gradations of rank to the youngest officer, and demanded of the prisoner whether he had any cause of challenge, or took any exception to any member present, and if so, to declare it, as was his privilege.
Traverse lifted his noble head and keen eyes, and looked slowly around, in turn, upon each officer of the court-martial.
They might all be said to be strangers to him, since he knew them only by sight--all except his old acquaintance, Herbert Greyson, who sat first at the left hand of the President, and who returned his look of scrutiny with a gaze full of encouragement.
"I find no cause of challenge, and take no exception to any among the officers composing this court," answered Traverse, again bowing with such sweetness and dignity in tone and gesture that the officers, in surprise, looked first at the prisoner and then at each other. No one could doubt that the accused, in the humble garb of a private soldier, was nevertheless a man of education and refinement--a true gentleman, both in birth and breeding.
As no challenge was made, the Judge Advocate proceeded to administer to each of the members of the court the oath prescribed in the Articles of War, to the intent that they should "try the matter before them, between the prisoner and the United States, according to the evidence, without fear, favor or affection."
This oath was taken by each member holding up his right hand and repeating the words after the officer.
The court then being regularly constituted, and every preliminary form observed, the Judge Advocate arose and directed the prisoner to listen to the charge brought against him, and preferred by the Colonel of his Regiment, Gabriel Le Noir.
Traverse raised his head and fixed his eagle eyes upon the prosecutor, who stood beside the Judge Advocate, while the latter in an audible voice read the accusation, charging the prisoner with wilful neglect of duty, in that he, the said Traverse Rocke, on the night of the first of September, being placed on guard at the northwestern outpost of the Infantry quarters, at Tacubaya, did fall asleep upon his post, thereby endangering the safety of the quarters, and violating the 46th Article of War.
To which charge the prisoner, in a firm voice, replied: "Not guilty of wilful neglect of duty, though found sleeping upon my post."
The Judge Advocate then cautioned all witnesses to withdraw from the court and come only as they were called. They withdrew, and he then arranged some preliminaries of the examination, and called in--Captain Zuten, of the ---- Regiment of Infantry.
This witness was a short, coarse-featured, red-haired person of Dutch extraction, without intellect enough to enable him to conceal the malignity of his nature.
He testified that on Thursday, the first of September, Traverse Rocke, private in his company, was ordered on guard at the northwestern outpost of the quarters, between the hours of four and eight a.m. That about five o'clock on the same morning, he, Joseph Zuten, in making his usual rounds, and being accompanied on that occasion by Colonel Gabriel Le Noir, Lieutenant Adams and Ensign Baker, did surprise Private Traverse Rocke asleep on his post leaning against the sentry box with his musket at his feet.
This witness was cross-examined by the Judge Advocate, who, it is known, combines in his own person the office of prosecutor on the part of the United States and counsel for the prisoner, or rather, if he be honest, he acts as impartial inquirer and arbiter between the two.
As no new facts were gained by the cross-examination, the Judge Advocate proceeded to call the next witness, Colonel Le Noir.
Here, then, was a gentleman of most prepossessing exterior, as well as of most irreproachable reputation.
In brief, his testimony corroborated that of the foregoing witness, as to the finding of the prisoner asleep on his post at the time and place specified. In honor of his high social and military standing, this witness was not cross-examined.
The next called was Lieutenant Adams, who corroborated the evidence of former witnesses. The last person examined was Ensign Baker, whose testimony corresponded exactly to that of all who had gone before him.
The Judge Advocate then briefly summed up the case on the part of the United States--first by reading the 46th Article of War, to wit, that: "Any sentinel who shall be found sleeping on his post, or shall leave it before he shall be regularly relieved, shall suffer death," etc., etc., etc.
And secondly, by reading the recorded evidence to the effect that: Traverse Rocke had been found by competent witnesses sleeping on his post.
And concluded by saying: "Gentlemen, officers of the court-martial, here is the law and here is the fact both proven, and it remains for the court to find a verdict in accordance with both."
The prisoner was then put upon his defence.
Traverse Rocke drew himself up and said, that the truth, like the blessed sun, must, on its shining forth, dispel all clouds of error; that, trusting in the power of truth, he should briefly relate the history of the preceding seven days. And then he commenced and narrated the facts with which the reader is already acquainted.
Traverse was interrupted several times in the course of his narrative by the President, General W., a severe martinet, who reminded him that an attempt to criminate his superior officers would only injure his cause before the court.
Traverse, bowing, as in duty bound to the President at every fresh interruption, nevertheless proceeded straight on with his narrative to its conclusion.
The defence being closed, the Judge Advocate arose, as was his privilege, to have the last word. He stated that if the prisoner had been oppressed or aggrieved by his superior officer, his remedy lay in the 35th of the Articles of War, providing that any soldier who shall feel himself wronged by his captain shall complain thereof to the Colonel of his Regiment.
To this the prisoner begged to reply that he had considered the Colonel of his Regiment his personal enemy, and as such could have little hope of the issue, even if he had had opportunity afforded him, of appealing to that authority.
The Judge Advocate expressed his belief that this complaint was vexatious and groundless.
And here the evidence was closed, the prosecutor, prisoner and witnesses dismissed, and the court adjourned to meet again to deliberate with closed doors.
It was a period of awful suspense with Traverse Rocke. The prospect seemed dark for him.
The fact of the offense and the law affixing the penalty of death to that offence was established, and as the Judge Advocate truly said, nothing remained but for the court to find their verdict in accordance to both.
Extenuating circumstances there were certainly; but extenuating circumstances were seldom admitted in courts-martial, the law and practice of which were severe to the extent of cruelty.
Another circumstance against him was the fact that it did not require an unanimous vote to render a legal verdict, but that if a majority of two-thirds should vote for conviction, the fate of the prisoner would be sealed. Traverse had but one friend in the court, and what could his single voice do against so many? Apparently nothing: yet, as the prisoner on leaving the court-room, raised his eyes to that friend, Herbert Greyson returned the look with a glance of more than encouragement--of triumph.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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23
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THE VERDICT.
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We must not make a scare-crow of the law, Setting it up to frighten birds of prey; And let it keep one shape till custom makes it, Their perch and not their terror.
--Shakespeare.
The members of a court-martial sit in the double capacity of jurors and judges; as jurors they find the facts, and as judges they award the punishment. Yet their session with closed doors was without the solemn formality that the uninitiated might have supposed to attend a grave deliberation upon a matter of guilt or innocence involving a question of life or death.
No sooner were the doors closed that shut out the "vulgar" crowd, than the "high and mighty" officials immediately fell into easy attitudes, and disengaged conversation upon the weather, the climate, yesterday's dinner at General Cushion's quarters, the claret, the cigars and the Mexican signoritas.
They were presently recalled from this easy chat by the President, a severe disciplinarian, who reminded them rather sharply of the business upon which they had convened.
The officers immediately wheeled themselves around in the chairs, facing the table, and fell into order.
The Judge Advocate seated himself at his detached stand, opened his book, called the attention of the court, and commenced and read over the whole record of the evidence and the proceedings up to this time.
The President then said: "For my own part, gentlemen, I think this quite a simple matter, requiring but little deliberation. Here is the fact of the offence proved, and here is the law upon that offence clearly defined. Nothing seems to remain for us to do but to bring in a verdict in accordance with the law and the fact."
Several of the older officers and sterner disciplinarians agreed with the President, who now said: "I move that the vote be immediately taken upon this question."
To this, also, the elder officers assented. And the Judge Advocate was preparing to take the ballot, when one of the younger members arose and said: "Mr. President and gentlemen, there are mitigating circumstances attending this offence, which, in my opinion, should be duly weighed before making up our ballot."
"Lieutenant Lovel, when your hair has grown white in the service of your country, as mine has, and when your skin is mottled with the scars of a score of well-fought fields, you will find your soft theories corrected by hard experience, and you will know that in the case of a sentinel sleeping upon his post there can be no mitigating circumstances; that nothing can palliate such flagrant and dangerous neglect, involving the safety of the whole army; a crime that martial law and custom have very necessarily made punishable by death," said the President, sternly.
The young lieutenant sat down abashed, under the impression that he had betrayed himself into some act of gross impropriety. This was his first appearance in the character of juror and judge; he was literally unaccustomed to public speaking, and did not hazard a reply.
"Has any other gentleman any views to advance before we proceed to a general ballot?" inquired the President.
Several of the officers whispered together, and then some one replied that there seemed to be no reason why the vote should not be immediately taken.
Herbert Greyson remained perfectly silent. Why he did not speak then, in reply to this adjuration--why, indeed, he had not spoken before, in support of Lieutenant Lovel's views in favor of his friend, I do not know to this day, though I mean to ask him the first time I have the opportunity. Perhaps he wished to "draw the enemy's fire," perhaps he was inclined to dramatic effects; but whatever might have been the motive, he continued silent, offering no obstacle to the immediate taking of the vote.
The Judge Advocate then called the court to order for the taking of the ballot, and proceeded to question the members in turn, commencing with the youngest.
"How say you, Lieutenant Lovel, is the prisoner on trial guilty or not guilty of the offence laid to his charge?"
"Guilty," responded the young officer, as his eyes filled with tears of pity for the other young life against which he had felt obliged to record this vote.
"If that is the opinion of one who seems friendly to him, what will be the votes of the other stern judges?" said Herbert Greyson to himself, in dismay.
"What say you, Lieutenant Adams--is the prisoner guilty or not guilty?" said the Judge Advocate, proceeding with the ballot.
"Guilty!"
"Lieutenant Cragin?"
"Guilty!"
"Lieutenant Evans?"
"Guilty!"
"Lieutenant Goffe?"
"Guilty!"
"Lieutenant Hesse?"
"Guilty!"
"Captain Kingsley?"
"Guilty!"
"Captain McConkey?"
"Guilty!"
"Captain Lucas?"
"Guilty!"
"Captain O'Donnelly?"
"Guilty!"
"Captain Rosencrantz?"
"Guilty!"
"Major Greyson?"
"NOT GUILTY!"
Every officer sprang to his feet and gazed in astonishment, consternation and indignant inquiry upon the renderer of this unprecedented vote.
The President was the first to speak, breaking out with: "Sir! Major Greyson! your vote, sir, in direct defiance of the fact and the law upon it, is unprecedented, sir, in the whole history of court-martial!"
"I record it as uttered, nevertheless," replied Herbert.
"And your oath, sir! What becomes of your oath as a judge of this court?"
"I regard my oath in my vote!"
"What, sir?" inquired Captain McConkey, "do you mean to say that you have rendered that vote in accordance with the facts elicited in evidence, as by your oath you were bound to do?"
"Yes."
"How, sir, do you mean to say that the prisoner did not sleep upon his post?"
"Certainly I do not; on the contrary, I grant that he did sleep upon his post, and yet I maintain that in doing so he was not guilty!"
"Major Greyson plays with us," said the President.
"By no means, sir! I never was in more solemn earnest than at present! Your honor, the President and gentlemen judges of the court, as I am not counsel for the prisoner, nor civil officer, nor lawyer, of whose interference courts-martial are proverbially jealous, I beg you will permit me to say a few words in support, or at least, I will say, in explanation of the vote which you have characterized as an opinion in opposition to fact and law, and unprecedented in the whole history of courts-martial."
"Yes, it is! it is!" said General W., shifting uneasily in his seat.
"You heard the defense of the prisoner," continued Herbert; "you heard the narrative of his wrongs and sufferings, to the truth of which his every aspect bore testimony. I will not here express a judgment as to the motives that prompted his superior officers, I will merely advert to the facts themselves, in order to prove that the prisoner, under the circumstances, could not, with his human power, have done otherwise than he did."
"Sir, if the prisoner considered himself wronged by his captain, which is very doubtful, he could have appealed to the Colonel of his Regiment!"
"Sir, the Articles of War accord him that privilege. But is it ever taken advantage of? Is there a case on record where a private soldier ventures to make a dangerous enemy of his immediate superior by complaining of his Captain to his Colonel? Nor in this case would it have been of the least use, inasmuch as this soldier had well-founded reasons for believing the Colonel of his regiment his personal enemy, and the Captain as the instrument of this enmity."
"And you, Major Greyson, do you coincide in the opinion of the prisoner? Do you think that there could have been anything in common between the Colonel of the regiment and the poor private in the ranks, to explain such an equalizing sentiment as enmity?" inquired Captain O'Donnelly.
"I answer distinctly, yes, sir! In the first place, this poor private is a young gentleman of birth and education, the heir of one of the most important estates in Virginia, and the betrothed of one of the most lovely girls in the world. In both these capacities he has stood in the way of Colonel Le Noir, standing between him and the estate on the one hand, and between him and the young lady on the other. He has disappointed Le Noir both in love and ambition. And he has thereby made an enemy of the man who has, besides, the nearest interest in his destruction. Gentlemen, what I say now in the absence of Colonel Le Noir, I am prepared to repeat in his presence, and maintain at the proper time and place."
"But how came this young gentleman of birth and expectations to be found in the ranks?" inquired Captain Rosencrantz.
"How came we to have headstrong sons of wealthy parents, fast young men of fortune, and runaway students from the universities and colleges of the United States in our ranks? In a burst of boyish impatience the youth enlisted. Destiny gave him as the Colonel of his regiment his mortal enemy. Colonel Le Noir found in Captain Zuten a ready instrument for his malignity. And between them both they have done all that could possibly be effected to defeat the good fortune and insure the destruction of Traverse Rocke. And I repeat, gentlemen, that what I feel constrained to affirm here in the absence of those officers, I shall assuredly reassert and maintain in their presence, upon the proper occasion. In fact I shall bring formal charges against Colonel Le Noir and Captain Zuten, of conduct unworthy of officers and gentlemen!"
"But it seems to me that this is not directly to the point at issue," said Captain Kingsley.
"On the contrary, sir, it is the point, the whole point, and only point, as you shall presently see by attending to the facts that I shall recall to your memory. You and all present must, then, see that there was a deliberate purpose to effect the ruin of this young man. He is accused of having been found sleeping on his post, the penalty of which, in time of war, is death. Now listen to the history of the days that preceded his fault, and tell me if human nature could have withstood the trial?"
"Sunday night was the last of repose to the prisoner until Friday morning, when he was found asleep on his post.
"Monday night he was sent with the reconnoitering party to Casa-de-Mata.
"Tuesday he was sent with the officer that carried our General's expostulation to Santa Anna. At night he was put on guard.
"Wednesday he was sent with another party to protect a band of emigrants crossing the marshes. At night he was sent with still another party to reconnoiter Molina-del-Rey.
"Thursday he was sent in attendance upon the officer that carried despatches to General Quitman, and did not return until after midnight, when, thoroughly worn out, driven indeed to the extreme degree of mortal endurance, he was again on a sultry, oppressive night, in a still, solitary place, set on guard where a few hours later he was found asleep upon his post--by whom? The Colonel of his regiment and the Captain of his company, who seemed bent upon his ruin--as I hold myself bound to establish before another court-martial.
"This result had been intended from the first! If five nights' loss of sleep would not have effected this, fifteen probably would; if fifteen would not, thirty would; or if thirty wouldn't sixty would! --and all this Captain Zuten had the power to enforce until his doomed victim should fall into the hands of the provost-marshal, and into the arms of death!
"And now, gentlemen, in view of all these circumstances, I ask you--was Traverse Rocke guilty of wilful neglect of duty in dropping asleep on his post? And I move for a reconsideration, and a new ballot!"
"Such a thing is without precedent, sir! These mitigating circumstances may be brought to bear on the Commander-in-Chief, and may be embodied in a recommendation to mercy! They should have no weight in the finding of the verdict," said the President, "which should be in accordance with the fact and the law."
"And with justice and humanity! to find a verdict against this young man would be to place an unmerited brand upon his spotless name, that no after clemency of the Executive could wipe out! Gentlemen, will you do this! No! I am sure that you will not! And again I move for a new ballot!"
"I second the motion!" said Lieutenant Lovel, rising quite encouraged to believe in his own first instincts, which had been so favorable.
"Gentlemen," said the President sternly, "this thing is without precedent! In all the annals of courts-martial, without precedent!"
"Then, if there is no such precedent, it is quite time that such a one were established, so that the iron car of literal law should not always roll over and crush justice! Gentlemen, shall we have a new ballot?"
"Yes! yes! yes!" were the answers.
"It is irregular! It is illegal! It is unprecedented! A new ballot? Never heard of such a thing in forty years of military life! Lord bless my soul, what is the service coming to!"
"A new ballot! a new ballot! a new ballot!" was the unanimous cry.
The President groaned in spirit, and recorded a vow never to forgive Herbert Greyson for this departure from routine.
The new ballot demanded by acclamation had to be held.
The Judge Advocate called the court to order and began anew. The votes were taken as before, commencing with the young lieutenant, who now responded sonorously: "Not guilty!"
And so it ran around the entire circle.
"Not guilty!" "Not guilty!" "Not guilty!" were the hearty responses of the court.
The acquittal was unanimous. The verdict was recorded.
The doors were then thrown open to the public, and the prisoner called in and publicly discharged from custody.
The court then adjourned.
Traverse Rocke threw himself upon the bosom of his friend, exclaiming in a broken voice: "I cannot sufficiently thank you! My dear mother and Clara will do that!"
"Nonsense!" said Herbert laughing; "didn't I tell you that the Lord reigns, and the devil is a fool? This is only the beginning of victories!"
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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24
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THE END OF THE WAR.
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Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front, And now instead of mounting barbed steeds, To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
--Shakespeare.
Ten days later Molina-del-Rey, Casa-de-Mata, and Chapultepec had fallen! The United States forces occupied the city of Mexico, General Scott was in the Grand Plaza, and the American standard waved above the capital of the Montezumas!
Let those who have a taste for swords and muskets, drums and trumpets, blood and fire, describe the desperate battles and splendid victories that led to this final magnificent triumph!
My business lies with the persons of our story, to illustrate whom I must pick out a few isolated instances of heroism in this glorious campaign.
Herbert Greyson's division was a portion of the gallant Eleventh that charged the Mexican batteries on Molina-del-Rey. He covered his name with glory, and qualified himself to merit the command of the regiment, which he afterwards received.
Traverse Rocke fought like a young Paladin. When they were marching into the very mouths of the cannon they were vomiting fire upon them, and when the young ensign of his company was struck down before him, Traverse Rocke took the colors from his falling hand, and crying "Victory!" pressed onward and upward over the dead and the dying, and springing upon one of the guns which continued to belch forth fire, he thrice waved the flag over his head and then planted it upon the battery. Captain Zuten fell in the subsequent assault upon Chapultepec.
Colonel Le Noir entered the city of Mexico with the victorious army, but on the subsequent day, being engaged in a street skirmish with the leperos, or liberated convicts, he fell mortally wounded by a copper bullet, and he was now dying by inches at his quarters near the Grand Cathedral.
It was on the evening of the 20th of September, six days from the triumphant entry of General Scott into the capital, that Major Greyson was seated at supper at his quarters, with some of his brother officers, when an orderly entered and handed a note to Herbert, which proved to be a communication from the surgeon of their regiment, begging him to repair without delay to the quarters of Colonel Le Noir, who, being in extremity, desired to see him.
Major Greyson immediately excused himself to his company, and repaired to the quarters of the dying man.
He found Colonel Le Noir stretched upon his bed in a state of extreme exhaustion and attended by the surgeon and chaplain of his regiment.
As Herbert advanced to the side of his bed, Le Noir stretched out his pale hand and said: "You bear no grudge against a dying man, Greyson?"
"Certainly not," said Herbert, "especially when he proposes doing the right thing, as I judge you do, from the fact of your sending for me."
"Yes, I do; I do!" replied Le Noir, pressing the hand that Herbert's kindness of heart could not withhold.
Le Noir then beckoned the minister to hand him two sealed packets, which he took and laid upon the bed before him.
Then taking up the larger of the two packets, he placed it in the hands of Herbert Greyson, saying: "There, Greyson, I wish you to hand that to your friend, young Rocke, who has received his colors, I understand?"
"Yes, he has now the rank of ensign."
"Then give this parcel into the hands of Ensign Rocke, with the request, that being freely yielded up, they may not be used in any manner to harass the last hours of a dying man."
"I promise, on the part of my noble young friend, that they shall not be so used," said Herbert, as he took possession of the parcel.
Le Noir then took up the second packet, which was much smaller, but much more firmly secured, than the first, being in an envelope of parchment, sealed with three great seals.
Le Noir held it in his hand for a moment, gazing from the surgeon to the chaplain, and thence down upon the mysterious packet, while spasms of pain convulsed his countenance. At length he spoke: "This second packet, Greyson, contains a--well, I may as well call it a narrative. I confide it to your care upon these conditions--that it shall not be opened until after my death and funeral, and that, when it has served its purpose of restitution, it may be, as far as possible, forgotten. Will you promise me this?"
"On my honor, yes," responded the young man, as he received the second parcel.
"This is all I have to say, except this--that you seemed to me, upon every account, the most proper person to whom I could confide this trust. I thank you for accepting it, and I believe that I may safely promise that you will find the contents of the smaller packet of great importance and advantage to yourself and those dear to you."
Herbert bowed in silence.
"That is all, good-by. I wish now to be alone with our chaplain," said Colonel Le Noir, extending his hand.
Herbert pressed that wasted hand; silently sent up a prayer for the dying wrong-doer, bowed gravely and withdrew.
It was almost eight o'clock, and Herbert thought that he would scarcely have time to find Traverse before the drum should beat to quarters.
He was more fortunate than he had anticipated, for he had scarcely turned the Grand Cathedral when he came full upon the young ensign.
"Ah! Traverse, I am very glad to meet you! I was just going to look for you. Come immediately to my rooms, for I have a very important communication to make to you. Colonel Le Noir is supposed to be dying. He has given me a parcel to be handed to you, which I shrewdly suspect to contain your intercepted correspondence for the last two years," said Herbert.
Traverse started and gazed upon his friend in amazement, and was about to express his astonishment, when Herbert, seeing others approach, drew the arm of his friend within his own, and they hurried silently on toward Major Greyson's quarters.
They had scarcely got in and closed the door and stricken a light before Traverse exclaimed impatiently: "Give it me!" and almost snatched the parcel from Herbert's hands.
"Whist! don't be impatient! I dare say it is all stale news!" said Herbert, as he yielded up the prize.
They sat down together on each side of a little stand supporting a light.
Herbert watched with sympathetic interest while Traverse tore open the envelope and examined its contents.
They were, as Herbert had anticipated, letters from the mother and the betrothed of Traverse--letters that had arrived and been intercepted, from time to time, for the preceding two years.
There were blanks, also, directed in a hand strange to Traverse, but familiar to Herbert as that of Old Hurricane, and those blanks inclosed drafts upon a New Orleans bank, payable to the order of Traverse Rocke.
Traverse pushed all these latter aside with scarcely a glance and not a word of inquiry, and began eagerly to examine the long-desired, long-withheld letters from the dear ones at home.
His cheek flamed to see that every seal was broken, and the fresh aroma of every heart-breathed word inhaled by others, before they reached himself.
"Look here, Herbert! look here! Is not this insufferable? Every fond word of my mother, every delicate and sacred expression of--of regard from Clara, all read by the profane eyes of that man!"
"That man is on his deathbed, Traverse, and you must forgive him! He has restored your letters."
"Yes, after their sacred privacy has been profaned! Oh!"
Traverse handed his mother's letters over to Herbert, that his foster brother might read them, but Clara's "sacred epistles" were kept to himself.
"What are you laughing at?" inquired Traverse, looking up from his page, and detecting Herbert with a smile upon his face.
"I am thinking that you are not as generous as you were some few years since, when you would have given me Clara herself; for now you will not even let me have a glimpse of her letters!"
"Have they not been already sufficiently published?" said Traverse, with an almost girlish smile and blush.
When those cherished letters were all read and put away, Traverse stooped down and "fished up" from amidst envelopes, strings and waste paper another set of letters which proved to be the blanks inclosing the checks, of various dates, which Herbert recognized as coming anonymously from Old Hurricane.
"What in the world is the meaning of all this, Herbert? Have I a nabob uncle turned up anywhere, do you think? Look here! --a hundred dollars--and a fifty, and another--all drafts upon the Planters' Bank, New Orleans, drawn in my favor and signed by Largent & Dor, bankers! --I, that haven't had five dollars at a time to call my own for the last two years! Here, Herbert, give me a good, sharp pinch to wake me up! I may be sleeping on my post again?" said Traverse in perplexity.
"You are not sleeping, Traverse!"
"Are you sure?"
"Perfectly," replied Herbert, laughing.
"Well, then, do you think that crack upon the crown of my head that I got upon Chapultepec has not injured my intellect?"
"Not in the slightest degree!" said Herbert, still laughing at his friend's perplexity.
"Then I am the hero of a fairy tale, that is all--a fairy tale in which waste paper is changed into bank notes and private soldiers prince palatines! Look here!" cried Traverse, desperately, thrusting the bank checks under the nose of his friend, "do you see those things and know what they are, and will you tell me that everything in this castle don't go by enchantment?"
"Yes, I see what they are, and it seems to me perfectly natural that you should have them!"
"Humph!" said Traverse, looking at Herbert with an expression that seemed to say that he thought the wits of his friend deranged.
"Traverse," said Major Greyson, "did it never occur to you that you must have other relatives in the world besides your mother? Well, I suspect that those checks were sent by some relative of yours or your mother's, who just begins to remember that he has been neglecting you."
"Herbert, do you know this?" inquired Traverse, anxiously.
"No, I do not know it; I only suspect this to be the case," said Herbert, evasively. "But what is that which you are forgetting?"
"Oh! this--yes, I had forgotten it. Let us see what it is!" said Traverse, examining a paper that had rested unobserved upon the stand.
"This is an order for my discharge, signed by the Secretary of War, and dated--ha--ha--ha--two years ago! Here I have been serving two years illegally, and if I had been convicted of neglect of duty in sleeping on my post, I should have been shot unlawfully, as that man, when he prosecuted me, knew perfectly well!" exclaimed Traverse.
"That man, as I said before, lies upon his deathbed! Remember, nothing against him! But that order for a discharge! now that you are in the way of promotion and the war is over, will you take advantage of it?"
"Decidedly, yes! for though I am said to have acquitted myself passably well at Chapultepec----" "Gloriously, Traverse! You won your colors gloriously!"
"Yet for all that my true mission is not to break men's bones, but to set them when broken. Not to take men's lives, but to save them when endangered! So to-morrow morning, please Providence, I shall present this order to General Butler and apply for my discharge."
"And you will set out immediately for home?"
The face of Traverse suddenly changed.
"I should like to do so! Oh, how I should like to see my dear mother and Clara, if only for a day! but I must not indulge the longing of my heart. I must not go home until I can do so with honor!"
"And can you not do so now? You, who triumphed over all your personal enemies and who won your colors at Chapultepec?"
"No, for all this was in my legitimate profession! Nor will I present myself at home until, by the blessing of the Lord, I have done what I set out to do, and established myself in a good practice. And so, by the help of heaven, I hope within one week to be on my way to New Orleans to try my fortune in that city."
"To New Orleans! And a new malignant fever of some horrible, unknown type, raging there!" exclaimed Herbert.
"So much the more need of a physician! Herbert, I am not the least uneasy on the subject of infection! I have a theory for its annihilation."
"I never saw a clever young professional man without a theory!" laughed Herbert.
The drum was now heard beating the tattoo, and the friends separated with hearts full of revived hope.
The next morning Traverse presented the order of the Secretary to the Commander-in-Chief and received his discharge.
And then, after writing long, loving and hopeful letters to his mother and his betrothed, and entreating the former to try to find out who was the secret benefactor who had sent him such timely aid, Traverse took leave of his friends, and set out for the Southern Queen of Cities, once more to seek his fortune.
Meantime the United States army continued to occupy the City of Mexico, through the whole of the autumn and winter.
General Butler, who temporarily succeeded the illustrious Scott in the chief command, very wisely arranged the terms of an armistice with the enemy that was intended to last two months from the beginning of February, but which happily lasted until the conclusion of the treaty of peace between the two countries.
Colonel Le Noir had not been destined soon to die; his wound, an inward canker from a copper bullet, that the surgeon had at length succeeded in extracting, took the form of a chronic fester disease. Since the night upon which he had been so extremely ill to be supposed dying, and yet had rallied, the doctors felt no apprehensions of his speedy death, though they gave no hopes of his final recovery.
Under these circumstances there were hours in which Le Noir bitterly regretted his precipitation in permitting those important documents to go out of his own hands. And he frequently sent for Herbert Greyson in private to require assurances that he would not open the packet confided to him before the occurrence of the event specified.
And Herbert always soothed the sufferer by reiterating his promise that so long as Colonel Le Noir should survive the seals of that packet should not be broken.
Beyond the suspicion that the parcel contained an important confession, Herbert Greyson was entirely ignorant of its contents.
But the life of Gabriel Le Noir was prolonged beyond all human calculus of probabilities.
He was spared to experience a more effectual repentance than that spurious one into which he had been frightened by the seeming rapid approach of death. And after seven months of lingering illness and gradual decline, during the latter portions of which he was comforted by the society of his only son, who had come at his summons to visit him, in May, 1848, Gabriel Le Noir expired a sincere penitent, reconciled to God and man.
And soon afterward, in the month of May, the treaty of peace having been ratified by the Mexican Congress at Queretaro, the American army evacuated the city and territory of Mexico.
And our brave soldiers, their "brows crowned with victorious wreaths," set out upon their return to home and friends.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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25
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THE FORTUNATE BATH.
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Heaven has to all allotted soon or late Some lucky revolution of their fate; Whose motions if we watch and guide with skill (For human good depends on human will) Our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent. And from the first impression takes its bent. Now, now she meets you with a glorious prize, And spreads her locks before her as she files.
--Dryden.
Meanwhile, what had our young adventurer been doing in all these months between September and June?
Traverse, with his two hundred dollars, had set out for New Orleans about the first of October.
But by the time he had paid his traveling expenses and fitted himself out with a respectable suit of professional black and a few necessary books, his little capital had diminished three-quarters.
So that when he found himself settled in his new office, in a highly respectable quarter of the city, he had but fifty dollars and a few dimes left.
A portion of this sum was expended in a cheap sofa-bedstead, a closed washstand and a spirit lamp coffee boiler, for Traverse determined to lodge in his office and board himself--"which will have this additional advantage," said the cheerful fellow to himself--"for besides saving me from debt, it will keep me always on hand for calls."
The fever, though it was October, had scarcely abated; indeed, on the contrary, it seemed to have revived and increased in virulency in consequence of the premature return of many people who had fled on its first appearance, and who in coming back too soon to the infected atmosphere, were less able to withstand contagion than those who remained.
That Traverse escaped the plague was owing not so much to his favorite "theory" as to his vigorous constitution, pure blood and regular habits of temperance, cleanliness and cheerful activity of mind and body.
Just then the demand was greater than the supply of medical service. Traverse found plenty to do, and his pleasant, young face and hopeful and confident manners won him great favor in sick rooms, where, whether it were to be ascribed to his "theory," his "practice" or to the happy, inspiring influence of his personal presence, or to all these together, with the blessing of the Lord upon them, it is certain that he was very successful in raising the sick. It is true that he did not earn five dollars in as many days, for his practice, like that of almost every very young professional man, was among the indigent.
But what of that? What if he were not running up heavy accounts against wealthy patrons? He was "giving to the poor," not money, for he himself was as poor as any of them; but his time, labor and professional skill; he was "giving to the poor;" he was "lending to the Lord," and he "liked the security." And the most successful speculator that ever made a fortune on 'change never, never invested time, labor or money to a surer advantage.
And this I would say for the encouragement of all young persons in similar circumstances--do not be impatient if the "returns" are a little while delayed, for they are so sure and so rich that they are quite worth waiting for, nor will the waiting be long. Give your services cheerfully, also, for "the Lord loveth a cheerful giver."
Traverse managed to keep out of debt; he regularly paid his office rent and his laundress' bill; he daily purchased his mutton shop or pound of beefsteak and broiled it himself; he made his coffee, swept and dusted his office, put up his sofa-bed, blacked his boots; and oh! miracle of independence, he mended his own gloves and sewed on his own shirt buttons, for you may depend that the widow's son knew how to do all these things; nor was there a bit of hardship in his having so to wait upon himself, though if his mother and Clara, in their well-provided and comfortable home at Willow Heights, had only known how destitute the young man was of female aid and comfort, how they would have cried!
"No one but himself to mend his poor dear gloves! Oh--oh-boo-hoo-oo!"
Traverse never alluded to his straitened circumstances, but boasted of the comfort of his quarters and the extent of his practice, and declared that his income already exceeded his outlay, which was perfectly true, since he was resolved to live within it, whatever it might be.
As the fever began to subside Traverse's practice declined, and about the middle of November his "occupation was gone."
We said that his office was in the most respectable locality in the city; it was, in fact, on the ground floor of a first-class hotel.
It happened that one night, near the close of winter, Traverse lay awake on his sofa-bedstead, turning over in his mind how he should contrive to make both ends meet at the conclusion of the present term and feeling as near despondency as it was possible for his buoyant and God-trusting soul to be, when there came a loud ringing at his office bell.
This reminded him of the stirring days and nights of the preceding autumn. He started up at once to answer the summons.
"Who's there?"
"Is Doctor Rocke in?"
"Yes, what's wanted?"
"A gentleman, sir, in the house here, sir, taken very bad, wants the doctor directly, room number 555."
"Very well, I will be with the gentleman immediately," answered Traverse, plunging his head into a basin of cold water and drying it hastily.
In five minutes Traverse was in the office of the hotel, inquiring for a waiter to show him up into 555.
One was ordered to attend him, who led the way up several flights of stairs and around divers galleries, until he opened a door and ushered the doctor immediately into the sick room.
There was a little, old, dried-up Frenchman in a blue night-cap, extended on a bed in the middle of the room and covered with a white counterpane that clung close to his rigid form as to a corpse.
And there was a little, old, dried-up Frenchwoman in a brown merino gown and a high-crowned muslin cap who hopped and chattered about the bed like a frightened magpie.
"Ou! Monsieur le Docteur!" she screamed, jumping at Traverse in a way to make him start back; "Ou, Monsieur le Docteur, I am very happy you to see! Voilà mon frère! Behold my brother! He is ill! He is verra ill! He is dead! He is verra dead!"
"I hope not," said Traverse, approaching the bed.
"Voilà, behold! Mon dieu, he is verra still! He is verra cold! He is verra dead! What can you, mon frère, my brother to save?"
"Be composed, madam, if you please, and allow me to examine my patient," said Traverse.
"Ma foi! I know not what you speak 'compose.' What can you my brother to save?"
"Much, I hope, madam, but you must leave me to examine my patient and not interrupt me," said Traverse, passing his hand over the naked chest of the sick man.
"Mon Dieu! I know not 'exam' and 'interrupt'! and I know not what can you mon frère to save!"
"If you don't hush parley-vooing, the doctor can do nothink, mum," said the waiter, in a respectful tone.
Traverse found his patient in a bad condition--in a stupor, if not in a state of positive insensibility. The surface of his body was cold as ice, and apparently without the least vitality. If he was not, as his sister had expressed it, "very dead," he was certainly "next to it."
By close questioning, and by putting his questions in various forms, the doctor learned from the chattering little magpie of a Frenchwoman that the patient had been ill for nine days; that he had been under the care of Monsieur le Doctor Cartiere; that there had been a consultation of physicians; that they had prescribed for him and given him over: that le Docteur Cartiere still attended him, but was at this instant in attendance as accoucheur to a lady in extreme danger, whom he could not leave; but Doctor Cartiere had directed them, in his unavoidable absence, to call in the skilful, the talented, the soon to be illustrious young Docteur Rocque, who was also near at hand.
The heart of Traverse thrilled with joy. The Lord had remembered him! His best skill spent upon the poor and needy who could make him no return, but whose lives he had succeeded in saving, had reached the ears of the celebrated Dr. C., who had with the unobtrusive magnanimity of real genius quietly recommended him to his own patrons.
Oh! well, he would do his very best, not only to advance his own professional interests, and to please his mother and Clara, but also to do honor to the magnanimous Doctor C.'s recommendation!
Here, too, was an opportunity of putting in practise his favorite theory; but first of all it was necessary to be informed of the preceding mode of treatment and its results.
So he further questioned the little, restless magpie, and by ingeniously framed inquiries succeeded in gaining from her the necessary knowledge of his patient's antecedents. He examined all the medicines that had been used, and informed himself of their effects upon the disease. But the most serious difficulty of all seemed to be the impossibility of raising vital action upon the cold, dead skin.
The chattering little woman informed him that the patient had been covered with blisters that would not "pull," that would not "delineate," that would not, what call you it--"draw!"
Traverse could easily believe this, for not only the skin, but the very flesh of the old doctor seemed bloodless and lifeless.
Now for his theory! What would kill a healthy man with a perfect circulation might save the life of this dying one, whose whole surface, inch deep, seemed already dead.
"Put him in a bath of mustard water, as hot as you can bear your own hand in and continue to raise the temperature slowly, watching the effect, for about five minutes. I will go down and prepare a cordial draught to be taken the moment he gets back to bed," said Doctor Rocke, who immediately left the room.
His directions were all but too well obeyed. The bathing tub was quickly brought into the chamber and filled with water as hot as the nurse could bear her hand in, then the invalid was hastily invested in a slight bathing gown and lifted by two servants and laid in the hot bath.
"Now, bring quickly, water boiling," said the little, old woman, imperatively. And when a large copper kettleful was forthcoming, she took it and began to pour a stream of hissing, bubbling water in at the foot of the bath.
The skin of the torpid patient had been reddening for a few seconds, so as to prove that its sensibility was returning, and now when the stream from the kettle began to mix with the already very hot bath, and to raise its temperature almost to boiling, suddenly there was heard a cry from the bath, and the patient, with the agility of youth and health, skipped out of the tub and into his bed, kicking vigorously and exclaiming: "Brigands! Assassins! You have scalded my legs to death!"
"Glory be to the Lord, he's saved!" cried one of the waiters, a devout Irishman.
"Ciel! he speaks! he moves! he lives! mon frère!" cried the little Frenchwoman, going to him.
"Ah, murderers! bandits! you've scalded me to death! I'll have you all before the commissaire!"
"He scolds! he threatens! he swears! he gets well! mon frère!" cried the old woman, busying herself to change his clothes and put on his flannel nightgown. They then tucked him up warmly in bed and put bottles of hot water all around, to keep up this newly stimulated circulation.
At that moment Dr. Rocke came in, put his hand into the bath-tub and could scarcely repress a cry of pain and of horror--the water scalded his fingers! What must it have done to the sick man?
"Good heavens, madam! I did not tell you to parboil your patient!" exclaimed Traverse, speaking to the old woman. Traverse was shocked to find how perilously his orders had been exceeded.
"Eh bien, Monsieur! he lives! he does well! voilà mon frère!" exclaimed the little old woman.
It was true: the accidental "boiling bath," as it might almost be called, had effected what perhaps no other means in the world could--a restored circulation.
The disease was broken up, and the convalescence of the patient was rapid. And as Traverse kept his own secret concerning the accidental high temperature of that bath, which every one considered a fearful and successful experiment, the fame of Dr. Rocke spread over the whole city and country.
He would soon have made a fortune in New Orleans, had not the hand of destiny beckoned him elsewhere. It happened thus: The old Frenchman whose life Traverse had, partly by accident and partly by design, succeeded in saving, comprehended perfectly well how narrow his escape from death had been, and attributed his restoration solely to the genius, skill and boldness of his young physician, and was grateful accordingly with all a Frenchman's noisy demonstration.
He called Traverse his friend, his deliverer, his son.
One day, as soon as he found himself strong enough to think of pursuing his journey, he called his "son" into the room and explained to him that he, Doctor Pierre St. Jean, was the proprietor of a private insane asylum, very exclusive, very quiet, very aristocratic, indeed, receiving none but patients of the highest rank; that this retreat was situated on the wooded banks of a charming lake in one of the most healthy and beautiful neighborhoods of East Feliciana; that he had originally come down to the city to engage the services of some young physician of talent as his assistant, and finally, that he would be delighted, enraptured if "his deliverer, his friend, his son," would accept the post.
Now Traverse particularly wished to study the various phases of mental derangement, a department of his professional education that had hitherto been opened to him only through books.
He explained this to his old friend, the French physician, who immediately went off into ecstatic exclamations of joy as, "Good! Great! Grand!" and "I shall now repay my good child! my dear son! for his so excellent skill!"
The terms of the engagement were soon arranged, and Traverse prepared to accompany his new friend to his "beautiful retreat," the private madhouse. But Traverse wrote to his mother and to Clara in Virginia, and also to Herbert Greyson in Mexico, to apprise them of his good fortune.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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26
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THE MYSTERIOUS MANIAC.
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Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe; She is not mad, who kneels to thee, For what I am, full well I know, And what I was, and what should be; I'll rave no more in proud despair-- My language shall be calm tho' sad; But yet I'll truly, firmly swear, I am not mad! no, no, not mad!
--M. G. Lewis.
It was at the close of a beautiful day in early spring that Traverse Rocke, accompanying the old doctor and the old sister, reached the grove on the borders of the beautiful lake upon the banks of which was situated the "Calm Retreat."
A large, low, white building surrounded with piazzas and shaded by fragrant and flowering southern trees, it looked like the luxurious country seat of some wealthy merchant or planter rather than a prison for the insane.
Doctor St. Jean conducted his young assistant into a broad and cool hall on each side of which doors opened into spacious rooms, occupied by the proprietor and his household. The cells of the patients, as it appeared were up-stairs. The country doctor and the matron who had been in charge during the absence of the proprietor and his sister now came forward to welcome the party and report the state of the institution and its inmates.
All were as usual, the country doctor said, except "Mademoiselle."
"And what of her--how is Mademoiselle----?"
"A patient most interesting, Doctor Rocke," said the old Frenchman, alternately questioning his substitute and addressing Traverse.
"She has stopped her violent ravings, and seems to me to be sinking into a state of stupid despair," replied the substitute.
"A patient most interesting, my young friend! A history most pathetic! You shall hear of it some time. But come into the parlor, and you, Angele, my sister, ring and order coffee," said the old Frenchman, leading the way into a pleasant apartment on the right of the hall, furnished with straw matting upon the floor and bamboo settees and chairs around the walls.
Here coffee was presently served to the travelers, who soon after retired for the night.
Traverse's room was a large, pleasant apartment at the end of a wide, long hall, on each side of which were the doors opening into the cells of the patients.
Fatigued by his journey, Traverse slept soundly through the night; but early in the morning he was rudely awakened by the sounds of maniac voices from the cells. Some were crying, some laughing aloud some groaning and howling and some holding forth in fancied exhortations.
He dressed himself quickly and left his room to walk down the length of the long hall and observe the cells on each side. The doors were at regular intervals, and each door had in its center a small opening to enable the proprietor to look in upon the patients.
As these were all women, and some of them delicate and refined even in their insanity, Traverse felt shocked at this necessary, if it were necessary, exposure of their sanctuary.
The cells were, in fact, small bedrooms that with their white-washed walls and white-curtained beds and windows looked excessively neat, clean and cool, but also, it must be confessed, very bare, dreary and cheerless.
"Even a looking-glass would be a great benefit to those poor girls, for I remember that even Clara, in her violent grief, and mother in her lifelong sorrow, never neglected their looking-glass and personal appearance," said Traverse to himself, as he passed down the hall and resolved that this little indulgence should be afforded the patients.
And except those first involuntary glances he scrupulously avoided looking in through the gratings upon those helpless women who had no means of secluding themselves.
But as he turned to go down the stairs his eyes went full into an opposite cell and fell upon a vision of beauty and sorrow that immediately riveted his gaze.
It was a small and graceful female figure, clothed in deep black, seated by the window, with her elbow resting upon the sill and her chin supported on her hand. Her eyes were cast down until her eyelashes lay like inky lines upon her snow-white cheek. Her face, of classic regularity and marble whiteness, bore a ghastly contrast to the long eyelashes, arched eyebrows and silken ringlets black as midnight. She might have been a statue or a picture, so motionless she sat.
Conscious of the wrong of gazing upon this solitary woman, Traverse forced his looks away and passed on down-stairs, where he again met the old doctor and Mademoiselle Angele at breakfast.
After breakfast Doctor St. Jean invited his young assistant to accompany him on a round of visits to the patients, and they went immediately up to the hall, at the end of which Traverse had slept.
"There are our incurables, but they are not violent; incurables never are! Poor Mademoiselle! She has just been conveyed to this ward," said the doctor, opening the door of the first cell on the right at the head of the stairs and admitting Traverse at once into the presence of the beautiful, black-haired, snow-faced woman, who had so much interested him.
"This is my friend, Doctor Rocke, Mademoiselle; Doctor, this is my friend, Mademoiselle Mont de St. Pierre!"
Traverse bowed profoundly, and the lady arose, curtsied and resumed her seat, saying, coldly: "I have told you, Monsieur, never to address me as Mademoiselle; you persist in doing so, and I shall never notice the insult again."
"Ten thousand pardons, madame! But if madame will always look so young, so beautiful, can I ever remember that she is a widow?"
The classic lip of the woman curled in scorn, and she disdained a reply.
"I take an appeal to Monsieur Le Docteur--is not madame young and beautiful?" asked the Frenchman, turning to Traverse, while the splendid, black eyes of the stranger passed from the one to the other.
Traverse caught the glance of the lady and bowed gravely. It was the most delicate and proper reply.
She smiled almost as gravely, and with a much kinder expression than any she had bestowed upon the Frenchman.
"And how has madame fared during my absence so long? The servants--have they been respectful? Have they been observant? Have they been obedient to the will of madame? Madame has but to speak!" said the doctor, bowing politely.
"Why should I speak when every word I utter you believe, or affect to believe, to be the ravings of a maniac? I will speak no more," said the lady, turning away her superb dark eyes and looking out of the window.
"Ah, madame will not so punish her friend, her servant, her slave!"
A gesture of fierce impatience and disgust was the only reply deigned by the lady.
"Come away; she is angry and may become dangerously excited," said the old doctor, leading the way from the cell.
"Did you tell me this lady is one of the incurables?" inquired Traverse, when they had left her apartment.
"Bah! yes, poor girl, vera incurable, as my sister would say."
"Yet she appears to me to be perfectly sane, as well as exceedingly beautiful and interesting."
"Ah, bah; my excellent, my admirable, my inexperienced young friend, that is all you know of lunatics! With more or less violence of assertion, they every one insist upon their sanity, just as criminals protest their innocence. Ah, bah! you shall go into every cell in this ward and find not one lunatic among them," sneered the old doctor, as he led the way into the next little room.
It was indeed as he had foretold, and Traverse Rocke found himself deeply affected by the melancholy, the earnest and sometimes the violent manner in which the poor unfortunates protested their sanity and implored or demanded to be restored to home and friends.
"You perceive," said the doctor, with a dry laugh, "that they are none of them crazy?"
"I see," said Traverse, "but I also detect a very great difference between that lovely woman in the south cell and these other inmates."
"Bah! bah! bah! She is more beautiful, more accomplished, more refined than the others, and she is in one of her lucid intervals! That is all; but as to a difference between her insanity and that of the other patients, it lies in this, that she is the most hopelessly mad of the whole lot! She has been mad eighteen years!"
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Traverse, incredulously.
"She lost her reason at the age of sixteen, and she is now thirty-four; you can calculate!"
"It is amazing and very sorrowful! How beautiful she is!"
"Yes; her beauty was a fatal gift. It is a sad story. Ah, it is a sad story. You shall hear it when we get through."
"I can connect no idea of woman's frailty with that refined and intellectual face," said Traverse coldly.
"Ah, bah! you are young! you know not the world! you, my innocent, my pious young friend!" said the old doctor, as they crossed the hall to go into the next wing of the building, in which were situated the men's wards.
Traverse found nothing that particularly interested him in this department, and when they had concluded their round of visits and were seated together in the old doctor's study, Traverse asked him for the story of his beautiful patient.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"It is a story miserable, as I told you before. A gentleman, illustrious, from Virginia, an officer high in the army, and distinguished in the war, he brought this woman to me nearly three years ago. He informed me that--oh, bien! I had better tell you the story in my own manner. This young lady, Mademoiselle Mont de St. Pierre, is of a family noble and distinguished--a relative of this officer, illustrious and brave. At fifteen Mademoiselle met a man, handsome and without honor. Ah, bah! you understand! at sixteen the child became a fallen angel! She lost her reason through sorrow and shame. This relative--this gentleman, illustrious and noble, tender and compassionate--took her to the seclusion of his country house, where she lived in elegance, luxury and honor. But as the years passed her malady increased; her presence became dangerous; in a word, the gentleman, distinguished and noble, saw the advertisement of my 'Calm Retreat,' my institution incomparable, and he wrote to me. In a word, he liked my terms and brought to me his young relative, so lovely and so unfortunate. Ah! he is a good man, this officer, so gallant, so chivalrous; but she is ungrateful!"
"Ungrateful!"
"Ah, bah! yes; it is the way of lunatics! They ever imagine their best friends to be their worst enemies. The poor, crazed creature fancies that she is the sister-in-law of this officer illustrious! She thinks that she is the widow of his elder brother, whom she imagines he murdered, and that she is the mother of children, whom she says he has abducted or destroyed, so that he may enjoy the estate that is her widow's dower and their orphans' patrimony. That is the reason why she insists on being called madame instead of mademoiselle, and we indulge her when we think of it!"
"But all this is very singular!"
"Ah, bah! who can account for a lunatic's fancies? She is the maddest of the whole lot. Sometimes she used to become so violent that we would have to restrain her. But lately, Doctor Wood tells me, she is quite still; that we consider a bad sign; there is always hope for a lunatic until they begin to sink into this state," said the doctor, with an air of competency.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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27
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THE MANIAC'S STORY.
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A scheming villain forged the tale That chains me in this dreary cell, My fate unknown, my friends bewail, Oh, doctor, haste that fate to tell! Oh, haste my daughter's heart to cheer, Her heart, at once, 'twill grieve and glad To know, tho' chained and captive here, I am not mad! I am not mad!
--M. G. Lewis.
There is some advantage in having imagination, since that visionary faculty opens the mental eyes to facts that more practical and duller intellects could never see.
Traverse was young and romantic, and deeply interested in the doctor's beautiful patient. He, therefore, did not yield his full credulity to the tale told by the "relative illustrious" to the old doctor, as to the history and cause of the lady's madness, or even take it for granted that she was mad. He thought it quite possible that the distinguished officer's story might be a wicked fabrication, to conceal a crime, and that the lady's "crazy fancy" might be the pure truth.
And Traverse had heard to what heinous uses private mad-houses were sometimes put by some unscrupulous men, who wished to get certain women out of their way, yet who shrank from bloodshed.
And he thought it not impossible that this "gentleman so noble, so compassionate and tender," might be just such a man, and this "fallen angel" such a victim. And he determined to watch and observe. And he further resolved to treat the interesting patient with all the studious delicacy and respect due to a refined and accomplished woman in the full possession of her faculties. If she were really mad, this demeanor would not hurt her, and if she were not mad it was the only proper conduct to be observed toward her, as any other must be equally cruel and offensive. Her bodily health certainly required the attendance of a physician, and Traverse had therefore a fair excuse for his daily visits to her cell.
His respectful manners, his grave bow, and his reverential tone in saying-- "I hope I find you stronger to-day, Madam," seemed to gratify one who had few sources of pleasure.
"I thank you," she would answer, with a softened tone and look, adding, "Yes" or "No," as the truth might be.
One day, after looking at the young physician some time, she suddenly said: "You never forget. You always address me by my proper title of Madam, and without the touch of irony which others indulge in when 'humoring' me, as they call it! Now, pray explain to me why, in sober earnest, you give me this title?"
"Because, Madam, I have heard you lay claim to that title, and I think that you yourself, of all the world, have the best right to know how you should be addressed," said Traverse, respectfully.
The lady looked wistfully at him and said: "But my next-door neighbor asserts that she is a queen; she insists upon being called 'your majesty.' Has she, then, the best right to know how she should be addressed?"
"Alas! no, Madam, and I am pained that you should do yourself the great wrong to draw such comparisons."
"Why? Am not I and the 'queen' inmates of the same ward of incurables, in the same lunatic asylum?"
"Yes, but not with equal justice of cause. The 'queen' is a hopelessly deranged, but happy lunatic. You, Madam, are a lady who has retained the full possession of your faculties amid circumstances and surroundings that must have overwhelmed the reason of a weaker mind."
The lady looked at him in wonder and almost in joy.
"Ah! it was not the strength of my mind; it was the strength of the Almighty upon whom my mind was stayed, for time and for eternity, that has saved my reason in all these many years! But how did you know that I was not mad? How do you know that this is anything more than a lucid interval of longer duration than usual?" she asked.
"Madam, you will forgive me for having looked at you so closely, and watched you so constantly, but I am your physician, you know----" "I have nothing to forgive and much to thank you for, young man. You have an honest, truthful, frank, young face! the only one such that I have seen in eighteen years of sorrow! But why, then, did you not believe the doctor? Why did you not take the fact of my insanity upon trust, as others did?" she asked, fixing her glorious, dark eyes inquiringly upon his face.
"Madam, from the first moment in which I saw you, I disbelieved the story of your insanity, and mentioned my doubts to Doctor St. Jean----" "Who ridiculed your doubts, of course. I can readily believe that he did. Doctor St. Jean is not a very bad man, but he is a charlatan and a dullard; he received the story of my reported insanity as he received me, as an advantage to his institution, and he never gave himself the unprofitable trouble to investigate the circumstances. I told him the truth about myself as calmly as I now speak to you, but somebody else had told him that this truth was the fiction of a deranged imagination, and he found it more convenient and profitable to believe somebody else. But again I ask you, why were not you, also, so discreetly obtuse?"
"Madam," said Traverse, blushing ingenuously, "I hope you will forgive me for saying that it is impossible any one could see you without becoming deeply interested in your fate. Your face, Madam, speaks equally of profound sorrows and of saintly resignation. I saw no sign of madness there. In the calm depths of those sad eyes, lady, I knew that the fires of insanity never could have burned. Pardon me that I looked at you so closely; I was your physician, and was most deeply anxious concerning my patient."
"I thank you; may the Lord bless you! Perhaps he has sent you here for my relief, for you are right, young friend--you are altogether right; I have been wild with grief, frantic with despair, but never for one hour in the whole course of my life have I been insane."
"I believe you, Madam, on my sacred honor I do!" said Traverse, fervently.
"And yet you could get no one about this place to believe you! They have taken my brother-in-law's false story, indorsed as it is by the doctor-proprietor, for granted. And just so long as I persist in telling my true story, they will consider me a monomaniac, and so often as the thought of my many wrongs and sorrows combines with the nervous irritability to which every woman is occasionally subject, and makes me rave with impatience and excitement, they will report me a dangerous lunatic, subject to periodical attacks of violent frenzy; but, young man, even at my worst, I am no more mad than any other woman, wild with grief and hysterical through nervous irritation, might at any time become without having her sanity called in question."
"I am sure that you are not, nor ever could have been, Madam. The nervous excitement of which you speak is entirely within the control of medicine, which mania proper is not. You will use the means that I prescribe and your continued calmness will go far to convince even these dullards that they have been wrong."
"I will do everything you recommend; indeed, for some weeks before you came, I had put a constraint upon myself and forced myself to be very still; but the effect of that was, that acting upon their theory they said that I was sinking into the last or 'melancholy-mad' state of mania, and they put me in here with the incurables."
"Lady," said Traverse, respectfully taking her hand, "now that I am acquainted in some slight degree with the story of your heavy wrongs, do not suppose that I will ever leave you until I see you restored to your friends."
"Friends! ah, young man, do you really suppose that if I had had friends I should have been left thus long unsought? I have no friends, Doctor Rocke, except yourself, newly sent me by the Lord; nor any relatives except a young daughter whom I have seen but twice in my life! --once upon the dreadful night when she was born and torn away from my sight and once about two years ago, when she must have been sixteen years of age. My little daughter does not know that she has a poor mother living, and I have no friend upon earth but you, whom the Lord has sent."
"And not in vain!" said Traverse, fervently, "though you have no other friends, yet you have the law to protect you. I will make your case known and restore you to liberty. Then, lady, listen: I have a good mother, to whom suffering has taught sympathy with the unfortunate, and I have a lovely betrothed bride, whom you will forgive her lover for thinking an angel in woman's form; and we have a beautiful home among the hills of Virginia, and you shall add to our happiness by living with us."
The lady looked at Traverse Rocke with astonishment and incredulity.
"Boy," she said, "do you know what you are promising--to assume the whole burthen of the support of a useless woman for her whole life? What would your mother or your promised wife say to such a proposition?"
"Ah! you do not know my dear mother nor my Clara--no, nor even me. I tell you the truth when I say that your coming among us would make us happier. Oh, Madam, I myself owe so much to the Lord and to His instruments, the benevolent of this world, for all that has been done for me. I seize with gratitude the chance to serve in my turn any of His suffering children. Pray believe me!"
"I do! I do, Doctor Rocke! I see that life has not deprived you of a generous, youthful enthusiasm," said the lady, with the tears welling up into her glorious black eyes.
After a little, with a smile, she held out her hand to him, saying: "Young friend, if you should succeed in freeing me from this prison and establishing my sanity before a court of justice, I and my daughter will come into the immediate possession of one of the largest estates in your native Virginia! Sit you down, Doctor Rocke, while I tell you my true story, and much, very much more of it than I have ever confided to any human being."
"Lady, I am very impatient to hear your history, but I am your physician, and must first consider your health. You have been sufficiently excited for one day; it is late; take your tea and retire early to bed. To-morrow morning, after I have visited the wards and you have taken your breakfast, I will come, and you shall tell me the story of your life."
"I will do whatever you think best," said the lady.
Traverse lifted her hand to his lips, bowed, and retreated from the cell.
That same night Traverse wrote to his friend, Herbert Greyson, in Mexico, and to his mother and Clara, describing his interesting patient, though as yet he could tell but little of her, not even in fact her real name, but promising fuller particulars next time, and declaring his intention of bringing her home for the present to their house.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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28
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END OF THE LADY'S STORY.
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Of the present naught is bright, But in the coming years I see A brilliant and a cheerful light, Which burns before thee constantly.
--W. D. Gallagher.
At the appointed hour the next morning Traverse Rocke repaired to the cell of his mysterious patient.
He was pleased to find her up, dressed with more than usual care and taste and looking, upon the whole, much better in health and spirits than upon the preceding day.
"Ah, my young hero, it is you; you see that I am ready for you," she said, holding out her hand.
"You are looking very well this morning," said Traverse, smiling.
"Yes, hope is a fine tonic, Doctor Rocke."
She was seated by the same window at which Traverse had first seen her, and she now beckoned the young doctor to come and take a seat near her.
"My story is almost as melodramatic as a modern romance, Doctor Rocke," she said.
Traverse bowed gravely and waited.
"My father was a French patriot, who suffered death in the cause of liberty when I, his only child, was but fourteen years of age. My mother, broken-hearted by his loss, followed him within a few months. I was left an orphan and penniless, for our estate was confiscated."
"Ah, your sorrows came early and heavily indeed," said Traverse.
"Yes; well, a former servant of my father held an humble situation of porter on the ground floor of a house, the several floors of which were let out to different lodgers. This poor man and his wife gave me a temporary home with themselves. Among the lodgers of the house there was a young Virginian gentleman of fortune, traveling for pleasure and improvement; his name was Mr. Eugene Le Noir."
"Le Noir!" cried Traverse, with a violent start.
"Yes--what is the matter?"
"It is a familiar Virginia name, Madam, that is all; pray go on."
"Mr. Le Noir was as good and kind as he was wise and cultivated. He used to stop to gossip with old Cliquot every time he stopped at the porter's room to take or to leave his key. There he heard of the poor little orphan of the guillotine, who had no friend in the world but her father's old servant. He pitied me, and after many consultations with Father and Mother Cliquot, he assumed the position of guardian to me, and placed me at one of the best schools in Paris. He lingered in the city and came to see me very often; but always saw me in the presence of Madame, the directress. I clung to him with affection as to a father or an elder brother, and I knew he loved me with the tender, protecting affection that he would have given a younger sister, had he possessed one. Ah! Doctor Rocke, tell me, besides yourself, are there many other men in your State like him?"
"I knew but one such; but go on, dear Madam."
"When I had been to school some months he came to me one day scarcely able to conceal his woe. He told me that his father was ill and that he should have to sail in the first packet from Havre, and that, in fact, he had then come to take leave of me. I was wild with grief, not only upon his account but upon my own, at the prospect of losing him, my only friend. I was but a child, and a French child to boot. I knew nothing of the world; I regarded this noble gentleman, who was so much my superior in years as in everything else, as a father, guardian or elder brother; so in an agony of grief I threw myself into his arms, sobbing and weeping bitterly and imploring him not to break my heart by leaving me. It was in vain Madame the Directress exclaimed and expostulated at these improprieties. I am sure I did not hear a word until he spoke. Putting me out of his arms, he said: "'I must go, my child; duty calls me.' " 'Then take me with you; take your poor little one with you, and do not pull her out of your warm, good heart, or she will wither and die like a flower torn up by the roots!' I cried, between my sobs and tears.
"He drew me back to his bosom and whispered: "There is but one way in which I can take you with me, my child. Will you be my wife, little Capitolie?"
"Capitola!" cried Traverse, with another great start.
"Yes! Why? What is the matter now?"
"Why, it is such an odd name, that is all! Pray proceed, Madam."
"We were married the same day, and sailed the third morning thereafter from Havre for the United States, where we arrived, alas! only to find the noble gentleman, my Eugene's father, laid in his grave. After Mr. Le Noir's natural grief was over we settled down peaceably to our country life at the Hidden House----" "The Hidden House!" again exclaimed Traverse Rocke.
"Yes! that is another odd name, isn't it? Well, I was very happy. At first when I understood my real position, I had been afraid that my husband had married me only from compassion; but he soon proved to me that his love was as high, as pure and as noble as himself. I was very happy. But one day, in the midst of my exultant joy, a thunderbolt fell and shattered my peace to destruction forever! Oh, Doctor Rocke, my husband was murdered by some unknown hand in his own woods, in open day! I cannot talk of this!" cried the widow, breaking down, overwhelmed with the rush of terrible recollections.
Traverse poured out a glass of water and handed it to her.
She drank it, made an effort at self-control, and resumed: "Thus, scarcely sixteen years of age, I was a widow, helpless, penniless and entirely dependent upon my brother-in-law, Colonel Gabriel Le Noir, for by the terms of their father's will, if Eugene died without issue the whole property descended to his younger brother, Gabriel. To speak the truth, Colonel Le Noir was exceedingly kind to me after my awful bereavement, until a circumstance was discovered that changed all our relations. It was two months after my husband's death that I discovered, with mingled emotions of joy and sorrow, that heaven had certainly destined me to become a mother! I kept my cherished secret to myself as long as it was possible, but it could not indeed be long concealed from the household. I believe that my brother-in-law was the first to suspect it. He called me into his study one day, and I obeyed like a child. And there he rudely questioned me upon the subject of my sacred mother-mystery. He learned the truth more from my silence than from my replies, for I could not answer him."
"The brute! the miserable hound!" ejaculated Traverse.
"Oh, Doctor Rocke, I could not tell you the avalanche of abuse, insult and invective that he hurled upon my defenseless head. He accused me of more crimes than I had ever heard talk of. He told me that my condition was an impossible one unless I had been false to the memory of his brother; that I had dishonored his name, disgraced his house and brought myself to shame; that I should leave the roof, leave the neighborhood and die as I deserved to die, in a ditch! I made no reply. I was crushed into silence under the weight of his reproaches."
"The caitiff! The poltroon! Ah, poor stranger, why did you not leave the house at once and throw yourself upon the protection of the minister of your parish or some other kind neighbor?"
"Alas! I was a child, a widow and a foreigner all in one! I did not know your land or your laws or your people. I was not hopeful or confident; I had suffered so cruelly and I was overwhelmed by his abuse."
"But did you not know, dear lady, that all his rage was aroused only by the fact that the birth of your child would disinherit him?"
"Ah, no! I was not aware, at that time, that Gabriel Le Noir was a villain. I thought his anger honest, though unjust, and I was as ignorant as a child. I had no mother nor matronly friend to instruct me. I knew that I had broken no command of God or man; that I had been a faithful wife, but when Gabriel Le Noir accused me with such bitter earnestness I feared that some strange departure from the usual course of nature had occurred for my destruction. And I was overwhelmed by mortification, terror and despair!"
"Ah, the villain!" exclaimed Traverse, between his teeth.
"He told me at last that to save the memory of his dead brother he would hide my dishonor, and he ordered me to seclude myself from the sight of all persons. I obeyed him like a slave, grateful even for the shelter of his roof."
"A roof that was your own, as he very well knew. And he knew, also, the caitiff! that if the circumstance became known the whole State would have protected you in your rights, and ejected him like a cur."
"Nay, even in that case no harm should have reached him on my account. He was my husband's brother."
"And worst enemy! But proceed, dear lady."
"Well, I secluded myself as he commanded. For four months I never left the attic to which he had ordered me to retreat. At the end of that time I became the mother of twins--a boy and a girl. The boy only opened his eyes on this world to close them again directly. The girl was living and healthy. The old nurse who attended me had an honest and compassionate face; I persuaded her to secrete and save the living child, and to present the dead babe to Colonel Le Noir as the only one, for the suspicions that had never been awakened for myself were alarmed for my child. I instinctively felt that he would have destroyed it."
"The mother's instinct is like inspiration," said Traverse.
"It may be so. Well, the old woman pitied me and did as I desired. She took the dead child to Colonel Le Noir, who carried it off, and afterward buried it as the sole heir of his elder brother. The old woman carried off my living child and my wedding ring, concealed under her ample shawl. Anxiety for the fate of my child caused me to do what nothing else on earth would have tempted me to do--to creep about the halls and passages on tiptoe and under cover of the night and listen at keyholes," said the lady, blushing deeply at the recollection.
"You--you were perfectly right, Mrs. Le Noir! In a den of robbers, where your life and honor were always at stake, you could have done no otherwise!" exclaimed Traverse, warmly.
"I learned by this means that my poor old nurse had paid with her liberty for her kindness to me. She had been abducted and forced from her native country together with a child found in her possession, which they evidently suspected, and I knew, to be mine. Oh, heaven! the agony then of thinking of what might be her unknown fate, worse than death, perhaps! I felt that I had only succeeded in saving her life--doubtful good!"
Here Mrs. Le Noir paused in thought for a few moments and then resumed.
"It is the memory of a long, dreary and hopeless imprisonment, my recollection of my residence in that house! In the same manner in which I gained all my information, I learned that it was reported in the neighborhood that I had gone mad with grief for the loss of my husband and that I was an inmate of a madhouse in the North! It was altogether false; I never left the Hidden House in all those years until about two years ago. My life there was dreary beyond all conception. I was forbidden to go out or to appear at a window. I had the whole attic, containing some eight or ten rooms, to rove over, but I was forbidden to descend. An ill-looking woman called Dorcas Knight, between whom and the elder Le Noir there seemed to have been some sinful bond was engaged ostensibly as my attendant, but really as my jailer. Nevertheless, when the sense of confinement grew intolerable I sometimes eluded her vigilance and wandered about the house at night."
"Thence, no doubt," said Traverse, "giving rise to the report that the house was haunted."
Mrs. Le Noir smiled, saying: "I believe the Le Noirs secretly encouraged that report. I'll tell you why. They gave me a chamber lamp inclosed in an intense blue shade, that cast a strange, unearthly light around. Their ostensible reason was to insure my safety from fire. Their real reason was that this light might be seen from without in what was reputed to be an uninhabited portion of the house, and give color to its bad reputation among the ignorant of being haunted."
"So much for the origin of one authenticated ghost story," said Traverse.
"Yes, and there was still more circumstantial evidence to support this ghostly reputation of the house. As the years passed I had, even in my confined state, gathered knowledge in one way and another--picking up stray books and hearing stray conversation; and so, in the end I learned how gross a deception and how great a wrong had been practised upon me. I was not wise or cunning. I betrayed constantly to my attendant my knowledge of these things. In consequence of which my confinement became still more restricted."
"Yes, they were afraid of you, and fear is always the mother of cruelty," said Traverse.
"Well, from the time that I became enlightened as to my real position, all my faculties were upon the alert to find means of escaping and making my condition known to the authorities. One night they had a guest, Colonel Eglen, of the army, Old Dorcas had her hands full, and forgot her prisoner. My door was left unlocked. So, long after Colonel Eglen had retired to rest, and when all the household were buried in repose, I left my attic and crept down to the chamber of the guest, with no other purpose than to make known my wrongs and appeal to his compassion. I entered his chamber, approached his bed to speak to him, when this hero of a hundred fields started up in a panic, and at the sight of the pale woman who drew his curtains in the dead of the night, he shrieked, violently rang his bell and fainted prone away."
"Ha! ha! ha! he could brave an army or march into a cannon's mouth easier than meet a supposed denizen of another world! Well, Doctor Johnson believed in ghosts," laughed Traverse.
"It remained for me to retreat as fast as possible to my room to avoid the Le Noirs, who were hurrying with headlong speed to the guest-chamber. They knew of course, that I was the ghost, although they affected to treat their visitor's story as a dream. After that my confinement was so strict that for years I had no opportunity of leaving my attic. At last the strict espionage was relaxed. Sometimes my door would be left unlocked. Upon one such occasion, in creeping about in the dark, I learned, by overhearing a conversation between Le Noir and his housekeeper, that my long lost daughter, Capitola, had been found and was living at Hurricane Hall! This was enough to comfort me for years. About three years ago the surveillance over me was so modified that I was left again to roam about the upper rooms of the house at will, until I learned that they had a new inmate, young Clara Day, a ward of Le Noir! Oh, how I longed to warn that child to fly! But I could not; alas, again I was restricted to my own room, lest I should be seen by her. But again, upon one occasion, old Dorcas forgot to lock my door at night. I stole forth from my room and learned that a young girl, caught out in the storm, was to stay all night at the Hidden House. Young girls were not plentiful in that neighborhood, I knew. Besides, some secret instinct told me that this was my daughter: I knew that she would sleep in the chamber under mine, because that was the only habitable guest-room in the whole house. In the dead of night I left my room and went below and entered the chamber of the young girl. I went first to the toilet table to see if among her little girlish ornaments, I could find any clue to her identity. I found it in a plain, gold ring--the same that I had intrusted to the old nurse. Some strange impulse caused me to slip the ring upon my finger. Then I went to the bed and threw aside the curtains to gaze upon the sleeper. My girl--my own girl! With what strange sensations I first looked upon her face! Her eyes were open and fixed upon mine in a panic of terror. I stooped to press my lips to her's and she closed her eyes in mortal fear, I carried nothing but terror with me! I withdrew from the room and went back, sobbing, to my chamber. My poor girl next morning unconsciously betrayed her mother. It had nearly cost me my life."
"When the Le Noirs came home, the first night of their arrival they entered my room, seized me in my bed and dragged me shrieking from it!"
"Good heaven! What punishment is sufficient for such wretches!" exclaimed Traverse, starting up and pacing the narrow limits of the cell.
"Listen! They soon stopped both my shrieks and my breath at once. I lost consciousness for a time, and when I awoke I found myself in a close carriage, rattling over a mountain road, through the night. Late the next morning we reached an uninhabited country house, where I was again imprisoned, in charge of an old dumb woman, whom Le Noir called Mrs. Raven. This I afterwards understood to be Willow Heights, the property of the orphan heiress, Clara Day. And here, also, for the term of my stay, the presence of the unknown inmate got the house the reputation of being haunted.
"The old dumb woman was a shade kinder to me than Dorcas Knight had been, but I did not stay in her charge very long. One night the Le Noirs came in hot haste. The young heiress had been delivered from their charge by a degree of the Orphans' Court, and they had to give up her house. I was drugged and hurried away. Some narcotic sedative must have been insinuated into all my food, for I was in a state of semi-sensibility and mild delirium during the whole course of a long journey by land and sea, which passed to me like a dream, and at the end of which I found myself here. No doubt, from the excessive use of narcotics, there was some thing wild and stupid in my manner and appearance that justified the charge of madness. And when I found that I was a prisoner in a lunatic asylum, far, far away from the neighborhood where at least I had once been known I gave way to the wilder grief that further confirmed the story of my madness. I have been here two years, occasionally giving way to outbursts of wild despair, that the doctor calls frenzy. I was sinking into an apathy, when one day I opened the little Bible that lay upon the table of my cell. I fixed upon the last chapters in the gospel of John. That narrative of meek patience and divine love. It did for me what no power under that of God could have done. It saved me! It saved me from madness! It saved me from despair! There is a time for the second birth of every soul; that time had come for me. From that hour, this book has been my constant companion and comfort. I have learned from its pages how little it matters how or where this fleeting, mortal life is passed, so that it answers its purpose of preparing the soul for another. I have learned patience with sinners, forgiveness of enemies, and confidence in God. In a word, I trust I have learned the way of salvation, and in that have learned everything. Your coming and your words, young friend, have stirred within my heart the desire to be free, to mingle again on equal terms with my fellow beings, and above all, to find and to embrace my child. But not wildly anxious am I even for these earthly blessings. These, as well as all things else, I desire to leave to the Lord, praying that His will may be mine. Young friend, my story is told."
"Madam," said Traverse, after a thoughtful pause, "our fates have been more nearly connected than you could have imagined. Those Le Noirs have been my enemies as they are yours. That young orphan heiress, who appealed from their cruelty to the Orphans' Court, was my own betrothed. Willow Heights was her patrimony and is now her quiet home where she lives with my mother, and where in their names I invited you to come. And take this comfort also; your enemy no longer lives: months ago I left him ill with a mortal wound. This morning the papers announce his death. There remains, therefore, but little for me to do, but to take legal measures to free you from this place, and restore you to your home. Within an hour I shall set out for New Orleans, for the purpose of taking the initiatory steps. Until my return then, dear lady," said Traverse, respectfully taking her hand--"farewell, and be of good cheer!"
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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29
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PROSPECTS BRIGHTEN.
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Thus far our fortune keeps an onward course, And we are graced with wreaths of victory.
--Shakespeare.
Leaving Mrs. Le Noir, Traverse went down to the stable, saddled the horse that had been allotted to his use, and set off for a long day's journey to New Orleans, where late at night he arrived, and put up at the St. Charles.
He slept deeply from fatigue until late the next morning, when he was awakened by the sounds of trumpets, drums and fifes, and by general rejoicing.
He arose and looked from his windows to ascertain the cause, and saw the square full of people in a state of the highest excitement, watching for a military procession coming up the street.
It was the United States troops under their gallant commanders, who had landed from the steamboats that morning and were now marching from the quays up to their quarters at the St. Charles.
As they advanced, Traverse, eagerly upon the lookout, recognized his own regiment.
Traverse withdrew from the window, hurriedly completed his toilet, and hastened down-stairs, where he soon found himself face to face with Herbert, who warmly grasping his hand, exclaimed: "You here, old friend? Why, I thought you were down in East Feliciana, with your interesting patient!"
"It is for the interest of that 'interesting patient' that I am here, Herbert! Did I tell you, she was one of the victims of that demon Le Noir?"
"No: but I know it from another source. I know as much, or more of her, perhaps, than you do!"
"Ah!" exclaimed Traverse, in surprise.
"Yes! I know, for instance, that she is Capitola's mother, the long-lost widow of Eugene Le Noir, the mistress of the Hidden House, and the ghost who drew folks' curtains there at night."
"Then you do know something about her, but how did you arrive at the knowledge?"
"By the 'last dying speech and confession' of Gabriel Le Noir, confided to me to be used in restitution after his decease. But, come! There is the second bell. Our mess are going in to breakfast; join us and afterwards you and I will retire and compare notes," said Herbert, taking the arm of his friend as they followed the moving crowd into the breakfast parlor.
After the morning meal was concluded the friends withdrew together to the chamber occupied by Traverse Rocke, where they sat down for mutual explanations.
Herbert first related to Traverse all that had occurred from the time that the latter left the city of Mexico, including the arrival of Craven Le Noir at the dying bed of his father, the subsequent death and funeral of Colonel Le Noir, and the late emigration of Craven, who to avoid the shame of the approaching revelation, joined a party of explorers bound for the recently discovered gold mines in California.
"The civilized world is then rid of two villains at once," said the uncompromising Traverse.
Herbert took from his pocket the confession of Colonel Le Noir, which he said he was now at liberty to use as he thought proper for the ends of justice. That certain parts of the disclosure intimately concerned Traverse Rocke, to whom he should therefore read the whole. The confession may be briefly summed up as follows: The first item was that he had sought to win the affections of Marah Rocke, the supposed wife of Major Ira Warfield; he had sedulously waylaid and followed her with his suit during the whole summer; she had constantly repulsed and avoided him; he, listening to his own evil passions, had bribed her maid to admit him in the dark to Marah's cabin, upon a certain night when her husband was to be absent; that the unexpected return of Major Warfield, who had tracked him to the house, had prevented the success of his evil purpose, but had not saved the reputation of the innocent wife, whose infuriated husband would not believe her ignorant of the presence of the villain in her house; that he, Gabriel Le Noir, in hatred as well as in shame, had forborne until now to make the explanation, which he hoped might now, late in life as it was, bring the long-severed pair together, and establish Marah Rocke and her son in their legal and social rights.
The second item in the black list of crime was the death of his elder brother, whom he declared he had not intended to kill. He said that, having contracted large debts which he was unable to pay he had returned secretly from his distant quarters to demand the money from his brother, who had often helped him; that, meeting his brother in the woods, he made this request. Eugene reproached him for his extravagance and folly, and refused to aid him; an encounter ensued, in which Eugene fell. He, Gabriel Le Noir, fled pursued by the curse of Cain, and reached his own quarters before even his absence had been suspected. His agency in the death of his brother was not suspected even by his accomplice in other crimes, the outlaw called Black Donald, who, thinking to gain an ascendency over one whom he called his patron, actually pretended to have made way with Eugene Le Noir for the sake of his younger brother.
The third item of confession was the abduction of the nurse and babe of the young widow of Eugene, the circumstances of which are already known to the reader.
The fourth in the dreadful list comprised the deceptions, wrongs and persecutions practised upon Madame Eugene Le Noir, and the final false imprisonment of that lady under the charge of insanity, in the private madhouse kept by Doctor Pierre St. Jean, in East Feliciana.
In conclusion, he spoke of the wrongs done to Clara Day, whose pardon, with that of others, he begged. And he prayed that in consideration of his son, as little publicity as was possible might be given to these crimes.
During the reading of this confession, the eyes of Traverse Rocke were fixed in wonder and half incredulity upon the face of Herbert, and at its conclusion he said: "What a mass of crime! But that we may not dare to question the mercy of the Lord, I should ask if these were sins that he would ever pardon! Herbert, it appalls me to think of it!"
Then, after deep thought, he added: "This, then, was the secret of my dear mother's long unhappiness. She was Major Warfield's forsaken wife. Herbert, I feel as though I never, never could forgive my father!"
"Traverse, if Major Warfield had wilfully and wantonly forsaken your mother, I should say that your resentment was natural and right. Who should be an honorable woman's champion if not her own son? But Major Warfield, as well as his wife, was more sinned against than sinning. Your parents were both victims of a cruel conspiracy, and he suffered as much in his way as she did in hers," said Herbert.
"I always thought, somehow, that my dear mother was a forsaken wife. She never told me so, but there was something about her circumstances and manners, her retired life, her condition, so much below her deserts, her never speaking of her husband's death, which would have been natural for her to do, had she been a widow--all, somehow, went to give me the impression that my father had abandoned us. Lately I had suspected Major Warfield had something to do with the sad affair, though I never once suspected him to be my father. So much for natural instincts," said Traverse, with a melancholy smile.
"Traverse," said Herbert, with the design of drawing him off from sad remembrances of his mother's early trials. "Traverse, this confession, signed and witnessed as it is, will wonderfully simplify your course of action in regard to the deliverance of Madame Le Noir."
"Yes; so it will," said Traverse, with animation. "There will be no need now of applying to law, especially if you will come down with me to East Feliciana and bring the confession with you."
"I will set out with you this very morning, if you wish, as I am on leave. What! To hasten to the release of Capitola's mother, I would set out at midnight and ride straight on for a week!"
"Ah! there is no need of such extravagant feats of travel. It is now ten o'clock; if we start within an hour we can reach the 'Calm Retreat' by eleven o'clock to-night."
"En avant, then," exclaimed Herbert, rising and ringing the bell.
Traverse ordered horses, and in twenty minutes the friends were on the road to East Feliciana.
They reached the "Calm Retreat" so late that night that there was none but the porter awake to admit them.
Traverse took his friend up to his own dormitory, saying, laughingly: "It is an unappreciable distance of time since you and I occupied the same bed, Herbert."
"Yes; but it is not the first, by five hundred times. Do you remember, Traverse, the low attic where we used to sleep, and how on stormy nights we used to listen to the rain pattering on the roof, within two or three inches of our faces, and how we used to be half afraid to turn over for fear that we should bump our heads against the timbers of the ceiling?"
"Yes, indeed," said Traverse.
And thereupon the two friends launched into a discussion of old times, when the two widows and their sons lived together--the two women occupying one bed, and the two boys the other. And this discussion they kept up until long after they retired, and until sleep overtook them.
The next morning Traverse conducted his friend down to the breakfast parlor, to introduce him to Doctor St. Jean, who, as soon as he perceived his young medical assistant, sprang forward exclaiming: "Grand ciel! Is this then you? Have you then returned? What for did you run away with my horse?"
"I went to New Orleans in great haste, upon very important business, sir."
"Grand Dieu! I should think so, when you ride off on my horse without saying a word. If it had been my ambling pony I should have been in despair, I! Your business so hasty and so important was accomplished, I hope."
"Yes; I did my errand with less trouble than I had anticipated, owing to the happy circumstance of meeting my friend here, who has come down hither connected with the same business."
"Ah! vera happy to see your friend. In the medical profession, I suppose?"
"No, sir; in the army. Allow me to present him. Major Herbert Greyson, of the --th Regiment of Cavalry."
"Ou! ay! Grand ciel! This is the brave, the distinguished, the illustrious officer, so honorably mentioned in the dispatches of the invincible Taylor and the mighty Scott!" said the little Frenchman, bowing his night-capped head down to his slippery toes.
Herbert smiled as he returned the bow. And then the little French doctor, turning to Traverse said: "But your business, so important and so hasty, which has brought this officer so illustrious down here--what is it, my friend?"
"We will have the honor of explaining to Monsieur le Docteur, over our coffee, if he will oblige us by ordering the servant to retire," said Traverse, who sometimes adopted, in speaking to the old Frenchman, his own formal style of politeness. "Go, then, John!"
"Oui, oui, certainement! Allez donc, John!"
As soon as the man had gone, Traverse said: "I propose to discuss this business over our coffee, because it will save time without interfering with our morning meal, and I know that immediately afterwards you will go your usual round of visits to your patients."
"Eh bien! proceed, my son! proceed!"
Traverse immediately commenced and related all that was necessary concerning the fraud practised upon the institution by introducing into it an unfortunate woman, represented to be mad, but really only sorrowful, nervous and excitable. And to prove the truth of his words, Traverse desired Herbert to read from the confession the portion relating to this fraud, and to show the doctor the signature of the principal and the witness.
To have seen the old French doctor then! I rejoice in a Frenchman, for the frank abandon with which he gives himself up to his emotions! Our doctor, after staring at the confession, took hold of the top of his blue tasseled night-cap, pulled it off his head and threw it violently upon the floor! Then remembering that he was exposing a cranium as bald as a peeled potato, he suddenly caught it up again, clapped it upon his crown and exclaimed: "Sacre! Diable!" and other ejaculations dreadful to translate, and others again which it would be profane to set down in French or English.
Gabriel Le Noir was no longer an officer illustrious, a gentleman noble and distinguished, compassionate and tender; he was a robber infamous! a villain atrocious, a caitiff ruth, and without remorse!
After breakfast the doctor consented that his young hero, his little knight-errant, his dear son, should go to the distressed lady and open the good news to her, while the great Major Greyson, the warrior invincible, should go around with himself to inspect the institution.
Traverse immediately repaired to the chamber of Mrs. Le Noir, whom he found sitting at the window, engaged in some little trifle of needlework, the same pale, patient woman that she had first appeared to him.
"Ah, you have come! I read good news upon your smiling face, my friend! Tell it! I have borne the worst of sorrows! Shall I not have strength to bear joy?"
Traverse told her all, and then ended by saying: "Now, dear madame, it is necessary that we leave this place within two hours, as Major Greyson's regiment leaves New Orleans for Washington to-morrow, and it is advisable that you go under our protection. We can get you a female attendant from the St. Charles."
"Oh, I can be ready in ten minutes! Bless you, I have no fine lady's wardrobe to pack up!" replied Mrs. Le Noir, with a smile.
Traverse bowed and went out to procure a carriage from the next village. And in half an hour afterwards the whole party took leave of Doctor Pierre St. Jean and his "institution incomparable," and set forth on their journey to New Orleans, whence in two days afterwards they sailed for the North. And now, dear reader, let you and I take the fast boat and get home before them, to see our little Cap, and find out what adventures she is now engaged in, and how she is getting on.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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30
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CAPITOLA A CAPITALIST.
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Plumed victory Is truly painted with a cheerful look, Equally distant from proud insolence And sad dejection.
--Massinger.
How glad I am to get back to my little Cap, for I know very well, reader, just as well as if you had told me, that you have been grumbling for some time for the want of Cap. But I could not help it, for, to tell the truth, I was pining after her myself, which was the reason that I could not do half justice to the scenes of the Mexican War.
Well, now let us see what Cap has been doing--what oppressors she has punished--what victims she has delivered--in a word, what new heroic adventures she has achieved.
Well, the trial of Donald Bayne, alias Black Donald, was over. Cap, of course, had been compelled to appear against him. During the whole course of the trial the court-room was crowded with a curious multitude, "from far and near," eager to get sight of the notorious outlaw.
Black Donald, through the whole ordeal, deported himself with a gallant and joyous dignity, that would have better become a triumph than a trial.
He was indicted upon several distinct counts, the most serious of which--the murder of the solitary widow and her daughter in the forest cabin, and the assassination of Eugene Le Noir in the woods near the Hidden House--were sustained only by circumstantial evidence. But the aggregate weight of all these, together with his very bad reputation, was sufficient to convict him, and Black Donald was sentenced to death.
This dreadful doom, most solemnly pronounced by the judge was received by the prisoner with a loud laugh, and the words: "You're out o' your reckoning now, cap'n! I never was a saint, the Lord knows, but my hands are free from blood guiltiness! There's an honest little girl that believes me--don't you?" he said, turning laughingly to our little heroine.
"Yes, I do!" said Cap, bursting into tears; "and I am sorry for you as ever I can be, Donald Bayne."
"Bother! It was sure to come to this first or last, and I knew it! Now, to prove you do not think this rugged hand of mine stained with blood, give it a friendly shake!" said the condemned man. And before Old Hurricane could prevent her, Capitola had jumped over two or three intervening seats and climbed up to the side of the dock, and reached up her hand to the prisoner, saying: "God help you, Donald Bayne, in your great trouble, and I will do all I can to help you in this world. I will go to the Governor myself, and tell him I know you never did any murder."
"Remove the prisoner," said the judge, peremptorily.
The constables approached and led away Black Donald.
Old Hurricane rushed upon Cap, seized her, and, shaking her fiercely, exclaimed, under his breath: "You--you--you--you New York hurrah boy! You foundling! You vagabond! You vagrant! You brat! You beggar! Will you never be a lady? To go and shake hands with that ruffian!"
"Sure, uncle, that's nothing new; I have shaken hands with you often enough!"
"Demmy, you--you--you New York trash, what do you mean by that?"
"Of course I mean, uncle, that you are as rough a ruffian as ever Donald Bayne was!"
"Demmy, I'll murder you!"
"Don't, uncle; they have an uncivilized way here of hanging murderers," said Cap, shaking herself free of Old Hurricane's grasp, and hastening out of the court-room to mount her horse and ride home.
One night after tea, Capitola and her uncle occupied their usual seats by the little bright wood fire, that the chilly evening and keen mountain air made agreeable, even in May.
Old Hurricane was smoking his pipe and reading his paper.
Cap was sitting with her slender fingers around her throat, which she, with a shudder, occasionally compressed: "Well, that demon Black Donald will be hanged the 26th of July," said Old Hurricane, exultingly, "and we shall get rid of one villain, Cap."
"I pity Black Donald, and I can't bear to think of his being hanged! It quite breaks my heart to think that I was compelled to bring him to such a fate!"
"Oh, that reminds me! The reward offered for the apprehension of Black Donald, to which you were entitled, Cap, was paid over to me for you. I placed it to your account in the Agricultural Bank."
"I don't want it! I won't touch it! The price of blood! It would burn my fingers!" said Cap.
"Oh, very well! A thousand dollars won't go a-begging," said Old Hurricane.
"Uncle, it breaks my heart to think of Black Donald's execution! It just does! It must be dreadful, this hanging! I have put my finger around my throat and squeezed it, to know how it feels, and it is awful. Even a little squeeze makes my head feel as if it would burst, and I have to let go! Oh, it is horrible to think of!"
"Well, Cap, it wasn't intended to be as pleasant as tickling, you know. I wish it was twenty times worse! It would serve him right, the villain! I wish it was lawful to break him on the wheel--I do!"
"Uncle, that is very wicked in you! I declare I won't have it! I'll write a petition to the Governor to commute his sentence, and carry it all around the county myself!"
"You wouldn't get a soul to sign it to save your life, much less his."
"I'll go to the Governor myself, and beg him to pardon Donald Bayne!"
"Ha! ha! ha! the Governor would not do it to save all our lives, and if he were to do such an outrageous thing he might whistle for his reelection!"
"I declare, Donald Bayne shall not be hanged--and so there!" said Cap, passionately.
"Whe-ew! You'll deliver him by the strength of your arm, my little Donna Quixota."
"I'll save him one way or another, now mind I tell you! He sinned more against me than against anybody else, and so I have the best right of anybody in the world to forgive him, and I do forgive him! And he shan't be hanged! I say it!"
"You say it! Ha! ha! ha! Who are you, to turn aside the laws?"
"I, Capitola Black, say that Donald Bayne, not having deserved to be hanged, shall not be hanged! And in one way or another I'll keep my word!"
And Cap did her best to keep it. The next morning she mounted Gyp and rode up to Tip Top, where she employed the village lawyer to draw up a petition to the Governor for the commutation of Donald Bayne's sentence. And then she rode all over the county to try to get signatures to the document. But all in vain. People of every age and condition too thoroughly feared and hated the famous outlaw, and too earnestly wished to be entirely and forever rid of him, to sign any petition for a commutation of his sentence. If a petition for his instant execution had been carried around it would have stood a much better chance of success.
Cap spent many days in her fruitless enterprise, but at last gave it up--but by no means in despair, for-- "I'll save his life, yet! by one means or another! I can't change clothes with him as I did with Clara; he's too big, but one way or other I'll save him," said Cap, to herself. She said it to no one else, for the more difficult the enterprise the more determined she was to succeed, and the more secretive she grew as to her measures.
In the mean time the outlaw, double-ironed, was confined in the condemned cell, the strongest portion of the county jail. All persons were strictly prohibited from visiting him, except certain of the clergy.
They did all they could to bring the outlaw to a sense of his condition, to prepare him to meet his fate and to induce him to make a confession and give up the retreat of his band.
And Donald listened to them with respect, acknowledged himself a great sinner, and knelt with them when they knelt to pray for him.
But he denied that he was guilty of the murders for which he had been doomed to die, and he utterly refused to give up his old companions, replying to the ministers in something like these words: "Poor wretches! They are no more fit to die than I am, and a condemned cell, with the thought of the scaffold before him, are not exactly the most favorable circumstances under which a man might experience sincere repentance, my masters!"
And so, while the convict listened with docility to all that the ministers had to say, he steadily persisted in asserting his own innocence of the crimes for which he was condemned, and in his refusal to deliver up his companions.
Meantime, Capitola, at Hurricane Hall, was doing all she could to discover or invent means to save the life of Black Donald. But still she said no more about it even to Old Hurricane.
One evening, while Cap was sitting by the fire with her thoughts busy with this subject, her uncle came in saying: "Cap, I have got some curiosities to show you!"
"What are they?" said Cap, languidly.
"A set of burglar's tools, supposed to belong to some member of Black Donald's band! One of my negroes found them in the woods in the neighborhood of the Devil's Punch Bowl! I wrote to the sheriff concerning them, and he requested me to take care of them until he should have occasion to call for them. Look! Did you ever see such things?" said Old Hurricane, setting down a canvas bag upon the table and turning out from it all sorts of strange looking instruments--tiny saws, files, punches, screws, picks, etc., etc., etc.
Cap looked at them with the most curious interest, while Old Hurricane explained their supposed uses.
"It must have been an instrument of this sort, Cap, that that blamed demon, Donald, gave to the imprisoned men to file their fetters off with!" he said, showing a thin file of tempered steel.
"That!" said Cap. "Hand it here! Let me see it!" And she examined it with the deepest interest.
"I wonder what they force locks with?" she inquired.
"Why, this, and this, and this!" said Old Hurricane, producing a burglar's pick, saw and chisel.
Cap took them and scrutinized them so attentively that Old Hurricane burst out into a loud laugh, exclaiming: "You'll dream of house-breakers to-night, Cap!" and taking the tools, he put them all back in the little canvas bag, and put the bag up on a high shelf of the parlor closet.
The next morning, while Cap was arranging flowers on the parlor mantelpiece, Old Hurricane burst in upon her with his hands full of letters and newspapers, and his heart full of exultation--throwing up his hat and cutting an alarming caper for a man of his age, he exclaimed: "Hurrah, Cap! Hurrah! Peace is at last proclaimed and our victorious troops are on their way home! It's all in the newspapers, and here are letters from Herbert, dated from New Orleans! Here are letters for you, and here are some for me! I have not opened them yet! Hurrah, Cap! Hurrah!"
"Hurrah, Uncle! Hurrah!" cried Cap, tossing up her flowers and rushing into his arms.
"Don't squeeze me into an apoplexy, you little bear," said Old Hurricane, turning purple in the face, from the savage hug of Cap's joyful arms. "Come along and sit down with me, at this table, and let us see what the letters have brought us."
They took their seats opposite each other at a small table, and Old Hurricane threw the whole mail between them, and began to pick out the letters.
"That's for you, Cap. This is for me," he said, pitching out two in the handwriting of Herbert Greyson.
Cap opened hers and commenced reading. It was in fact Herbert's first downright, practical proposal of marriage, in which he begged that their union might take place as soon as he should return, and that as he had written to his uncle by the same mail, upon another subject, which he did not wish to mix up with his own marriage, she would, upon a proper opportunity, let her uncle know of their plans.
"Upon my word, he takes my consent very coolly as a matter of course, and even forces upon me the disagreeable duty of asking myself of my own uncle! Who ever heard of such proceedings? If he were not coming home from the wars, I declare I should get angry; but I won't get upon my dignity with Herbert--dear, darling, sweet Herbert. If it were anybody else, shouldn't they know the difference between their liege lady and Tom Trotter? However, as it's Herbert, here goes! Now, I suppose the best way to ask myself of uncle, for Herbert, will be just to hand him over this letter. The dear knows it isn't so over and above affectionate that I should hesitate. Uncle," said Cap, pulling Old Hurricane's coat sleeve.
"Don't bother me, Cap," exclaimed Major Warfield, who sat there holding a large, closely written document in his hand, with his great round eyes strained from their sockets, as they passed along the lies with devouring interest.
"Well, I do declare! I do believe he has received a proposal of marriage himself," cried Cap, shooting much nearer the truth than she knew.
Old Hurricane did not hear her. Starting up with the document in his hand, he rushed from the room and went and shut himself up in his own study.
"I vow, some widow has offered to marry him," said Cap, to herself.
Old Hurricane did not come to dinner, nor to supper. But after supper, when Capitola's wonder was at its climax, and while she was sitting by the little wood fire that that chilly evening required, Old Hurricane came in, looking very unlike himself, in an humble, confused, deprecating, yet happy manner, like one who had at once a mortifying confession to make, a happy secret to tell.
"Cap," he said, trying to suppress a smile, and growing purple in the face.
--"Oh, yes! You've come to tell me, I suppose, that you're going to put a step-aunt-in-law over my head, only you don't know how to announce it," answered Capitola, little knowing how closely she had come to the truth; when, to her unbounded astonishment, Old Hurricane answered: "Yes, my dear, that's just it!"
"What! My eyes! Oh, crickey!" cried Cap, breaking into her newsboy's slang, from mere consternation.
"Yes, my dear, it is perfectly true!" replied the old man, growing furiously red, and rubbing his face.
"Oh! oh! oh! Hold me! I'm 'kilt!'" cried Cap, falling back in her chair in an inextinguishable fit of laughter, that shook her whole frame. She laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes and looked at Old Hurricane, and every time she saw his confused and happy face she burst into a fresh paroxysm that seemed to threaten her life or her reason.
"Who is the happy---- Oh, I can't speak! Oh, I'm 'kilt' entirely!" she cried, breaking off in the midst of her question and falling into fresh convulsions.
"It's no new love, Cap; it's my old wife!" said Old Hurricane, wiping his face.
This brought Capitola up with a jerk! She sat bolt upright, gazing at him with her eyes fixed as if in death.
"Cap," said Old Hurricane, growing more and more confused, "I've been a married man more years than I like to think of! Cap, I've--I've a wife and grown-up son! Why do you sit there staring at me, you little demon? Why don't you say something to encourage me, you little wretch?"
"Go on!" said Cap, without removing her eyes.
"Cap, I was--a jealous passionate--Demmy, confession isn't in my line. A diabolical villain made me believe that my poor little wife wasn't good!"
"There! I knew you'd lay it on somebody else. Men always do that," said Cap, to herself.
"He was mortally wounded in Mexico. He made a confession and confided it to Herbert, who has just sent me an attested copy. It was Le Noir. My poor wife lived under her girlhood's name of Marah Rocke." Old Hurricane made a gulp, and his voice broke down.
Cap understood all now, as well as if she had known it as long as Old Hurricane had. She comprehended his extreme agitation upon a certain evening, years ago, when Herbert Greyson had mentioned Marah Rocke's name, and his later and more lasting disturbance upon accidentally meeting Marah Rocke at the Orphans' Court.
This revelation filled her with strange and contradictory emotions. She was glad; she was angry with him; she was sorry for him; she was divided between divers impulses to hug and kiss him, to cry over him, and to seize him and give him a good shaking! And between them she did nothing at all.
Old Hurricane was again the first to speak.
"What was that you wished to say to me, Cap, when I ran away from you this morning?"
"Why, uncle, that Herbert wants to follow your example, and--and--and----" Cap blushed and broke down.
"I thought as much. Getting married at his age! A boy of twenty-five!" said the veteran in contempt.
"Taking a wife at your age, uncle, an infant of sixty-six!"
"Bother, Cap! Let me see that fellow's letter to you."
Cap handed it to him and the old man read it.
"If I were to object, you'd get married all the same! Demmy! you're both of age. Do as you please!"
"Thank you, sir," said Cap, demurely.
"And now, Cap, one thing is to be noticed. Herbert says, both in your letter and in mine, that they were to start to return the day after these letters were posted. These letters have been delayed in the mail. Consequently we may expect our hero here every day. But Cap, my dear, you must receive them. For to-morrow morning, please the Lord, I shall set out for Staunton and Willow Heights, and go and kneel down at the feet of my wife, and ask her pardon on my knees!"
Cap was no longer divided between the wish to pull Old Hurricane's gray beard and to cry over him. She threw herself at once into his arms and exclaimed: "Oh, uncle! God bless you! God bless you! God bless you! It has come very late in life, but may you be happy with her through all the ages of eternity!"
Old Hurricane was deeply moved by the sympathy of his little madcap, and pressed her to his bosom, saying: "Cap, my dear, if you had not set your heart upon Herbert, I would marry you to my son Traverse, and you two should inherit all that I have in the world! But never mind, Cap, you have an inheritance of your own. Cap, Cap, my dear, did it ever occur to you that you might have had a father and mother?"
"Yes! often! But I used to think you were my father, and that my mother was dead."
"I wish to the Lord that I had been your father, Cap, and that Marah Rocke had been your mother! But Cap, your father was a better man than I, and your mother as good a woman as Marah. And Cap, my dear, you vagabond, you vagrant, you brat, you beggar, you are the sole heiress of the Hidden House estate and all its enormous wealth! What do you think of that, now? What do you think of that, you beggar?" cried Old Hurricane.
A shriek pierced the air, and Capitola starting up, stood before Old Hurricane, crying in an impassioned voice: "Uncle! Uncle! Don't mock me! Don't overwhelm me! I do not care for wealth or power; but tell me of the parents who possessing both, cast off their unfortunate child--a girl, too! to meet the sufferings and perils of such a life as mine had been, if I had not met you!"
"Cap, my dear, hush! Your parents were no more to blame for their seeming abandonment of you, than I was to blame for the desertion of my poor wife. We are all the victims of one villain, who has now gone to his account, Capitola. I mean Gabriel Le Noir. Sit down, my dear, and I will read the copy of his whole confession, and afterwards, in addition, tell you all I know upon the subject!"
Capitola resumed her seat, Major Warfield read the confession of Gabriel Le Noir, and afterwards continued the subject by relating the events of that memorable Hallowe'en when he was called out in a snow storm to take the dying deposition of the nurse who had been abducted with the infant Capitola.
And at the end of his narrative Cap knew as much of her own history as the reader has known all along.
"And I have a mother, and I shall even see her soon! You told me she was coming home with the party--did you not, Uncle?" said Capitola.
"Yes, my child. Only think of it! I saved the daughter from the streets of New York, and my son saved the mother from her prison at the madhouse! And now, my dear Cap, I must bid you good night and go to bed, for I intend to rise to-morrow morning long before daylight, to ride to Tip Top to meet the Staunton stage," said the old man, kissing Capitola.
Just as he was about to leave the room he was arrested by a loud ringing and knocking at the door.
Wool was heard running along the front hall to answer the summons.
"Cap, I shouldn't wonder much if that was our party. I wish it may be, for I should like to welcome them before I leave home to fetch my wife," said Old Hurricane, in a voice of agitation.
And while they were still eagerly listening, the door was thrown open by Wool, who announced: "Marse Herbert, which I mean to say, Major Herbert Greyson;" and Herbert entered and was grasped by the two hands of Old Hurricane, who exclaimed: "Ah, Herbert, my lad! I have got your letters. It is all right, Herbert, or going to be so. You shall marry Cap when you like. And I am going to-morrow morning to throw myself at the feet of my wife."
"No need of your going so far, dear sir, no need. Let me speak to my own dear girl a moment, and then I shall have something to say to you," said Herbert, leaving the old man in suspense, and going to salute Capitola, who returned his fervent embrace by an honest, downright frank kiss, that made no secret of itself.
"Capitola! My uncle has told you all?"
"Every single bit! So don't lose time by telling it all over again! Is my mother with you?"
"Yes! and I will bring her in, in one moment; but first I must bring in some one else," said Herbert, kissing the hand of Capitola and turning to Old Hurricane, to whom he said: "You need not travel far to find Marah. We took Staunton in our way and brought her and Clara along--Traverse!" he said going to the door--"bring in your mother."
And the next instant Traverse entered with the wife of Major Warfield upon his arm.
Old Hurricane started forward to meet her, exclaiming in a broken voice: "Marah, my dear Marah, God may forgive me, but can you--can you ever do so?" And he would have sunk at her feet, but that she prevented, by meeting him and silently placing both her hands in his. And so quietly Marah's forgiveness was expressed, and the reconciliation sealed.
Meanwhile Herbert went out and brought in Mrs. Le Noir and Clara. Mrs. Le Noir, with a Frenchwoman's impetuosity, hurried to her daughter and clasped her to her heart.
Cap gave one hurried glance at the beautiful pale woman that claimed from her a daughter's love and then, returning the caress, she said: "Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma! If I were only a boy instead of a girl, I would thrash that Le Noir within an inch of his life! But I forgot! He has gone to his account."
Old Hurricane was at this moment shaking hands with his son, Traverse, who presently took occasion to lead up and introduce his betrothed wife, Clara Day, to her destined father-in-law.
Major Warfield received her with all a soldier's gallantry, a gentleman's courtesy and a father's tenderness.
He next shook hands with his old acquaintance, Mrs. Le Noir.
And then supper was ordered and the evening was passed in general and comparative reminiscences and cheerful conversation.
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"THERE SHALL BE LIGHT AT THE EVENTIDE." --_Holy Bible. _ They shall be blessed exceedingly, their store Grow daily, weekly more and more, And peace so multiply around, Their very hearth seems holy ground.
--Mary Howitt.
The marriage of Capitola and of Herbert and that of Clara and of Traverse was fixed to take place upon the first of August, which was the twenty-first birthday of the doctor's daughter, and also the twenty-fifth anniversary of the wedding of Ira Warfield and Marah Rocke.
German husbands and wives have a beautiful custom of keeping the twenty-fifth anniversary of their marriage by a festival, which they call the "Silver Wedding." And thus Major Warfield and Marah resolved to keep this first of August, and further to honor the occasion by uniting the hands of their young people.
There was but one cloud upon the happiness of Capitola; this was the approaching execution of Black Donald.
No one else seemed to care about the matter, until a circumstance occurred which painfully aroused their interest.
This was the fact that the Governor, through the solicitation of certain ministers of the gospel who represented the condemned as utterly unprepared to meet his fate, had respited him until the first of August, at which time he wished the prisoner to be made to understand that his sentence would certainly, without further delay, be carried into effect.
This carried a sort of consternation into the heart of every member of the Hurricane Hall household!
The idea of Black Donald being hanged in their immediate neighborhood upon their wedding day was appalling!
Yet there was no help for it, unless their wedding was postponed to another occasion than that upon which Old Hurricane had set his heart. No one knew what to do.
Cap fretted herself almost sick. She had cudgeled her brains to no purpose. She had not been able to think of any plan by which she could deliver Black Donald. Meantime the last days of July were rapidly passing away.
Black Donald in the condemned cell maintained his firmness, resolutely asserting his innocence of any capital crime, and persistently refusing to give up his band. As a last motive of confession, the paper written by Gabriel Le Noir upon his death-bed was shown him. He laughed a loud, crackling laugh, and said that was all true, but that he, for his part, never had intended to harm a hair of Capitola's head; that he had taken a fancy to the girl when he had first seen her, and had only wanted to carry her off and force her into a marriage with himself; that he had pretended to consent to her death only for the purpose of saving her life.
When Cap heard this she burst into tears and said she believed it was true.
The night before the wedding of Capitola and Herbert, and Clara and Traverse, and of the execution of Black Donald, came.
At Hurricane Hall the two prospective bridegrooms were busy with Old Hurricane over some papers that had to be prepared in the library.
The two intended brides were engaged, under the direction of Mrs. Warfield, in her dressing-room, consulting over certain proprieties of the approaching festival. But Capitola could give only a half attention to the discussion. Her thoughts were with the poor condemned man who was to die the next day.
And suddenly she flew out of the room, summoned her groom, mounted her horse, and rode away.
In his condemned cell Black Donald was bitterly realizing how unprepared he was to die, and how utterly impossible it was for him to prepare in the short hours left him. He tried to pray, but could form no other petition than that he might be allowed, if possible, a little longer to fit himself to meet his Creator. From his cell he could hear the striking of the great clock in the prison hall. And as every hour struck it seemed "a nail driven in his coffin."
At eight o'clock that night the warden sat in his little office, consulting the sheriff about some details of the approaching execution. While they were still in discussion, a turnkey opened the door, saying: "A lady to see the warden."
And Capitola stood before them!
"Miss Black!" exclaimed both sheriff and warden, rising in surprise, gazing upon our heroine, and addressing her by the name under which they had first known her.
"Yes, gentlemen, it is I. The truth is, I cannot rest to-night without saying a few words of comfort to the poor man who is to die to-morrow. So I came hither, attended by my groom, to know if I may see him for a few minutes."
"Miss Black, here is the sheriff. It is just as he pleases. My orders were so strict that had you come to me alone I should have been obliged to refuse you."
"Mr. Keepe, you will not refuse me," said Capitola, turning to the sheriff.
"Miss Black, my rule is to admit no one but the officers of the prison and the ministers of the gospel, to see the condemned! This we have been obliged to observe as a measure of safety. This convict, as you are aware, is a man of consummate cunning, so that it is really wonderful he has not found means to make his escape, closely as he has been watched and strongly as he has been guarded."
"Ah, but Mr. Keepe, his cunning was no match for mine, you know!" said Capitola, smiling.
"Ha-ha-ha! so it was not! You took him very cleverly! Very cleverly, indeed! In fact, if it had not been for you, I doubt if ever we should have captured Black Donald at all. The authorities are entirely indebted to you for the capture of this notorious outlaw. And really that being the case, I do think it would be straining a point to refuse you admittance to see him. So, Miss Black, you have my authority for visiting the condemned man in his cell and giving him all the comfort you can. I would attend you thither myself, but I have got to go to see the captain of a militia company to be on the scene of action to-morrow," said the sheriff, who soon after took leave of the warden and departed.
The warden then called a turnkey and ordered him to attend Miss Black to the condemned cell.
The young turnkey took up a lamp and a great key and walked before, leading the way down-stairs to a cell in the interior of the basement, occupied by Black Donald.
He unlocked the door, admitted Capitola, and then walked off to the extremity of the lobby, as he was accustomed to do when he let in the preachers.
Capitola thanked heaven for this chance, for had he not done so she would have to invent some excuse for getting rid of him.
She entered the cell. It was very dimly lighted from the great lamp that hung in the lobby, nearly opposite the cell door.
By its light she saw Black Donald, not only doubly ironed but confined by a chain and staple to the wall. He was very pale and haggard from long imprisonment and great anxiety.
Cap's heart bled for the poor banned and blighted outlaw, who had not a friend in the world to speak a kind word to him in his trouble.
He also recognized her, and rising and coming to meet her as far as the length of the chain would permit, he held out his hand and said: "I am very glad you have come, little one; it is very kind of you to come and see a poor fellow in his extremity! You are the first female that has been in this cell since my imprisonment. Think of that, child! I wanted to see you, too, I wanted to say to you yourself again, that I was never guilty of murder, and that I only seemed to consent to your death to save your life! Do you believe this? On the word of a dying man it is truth!"
"I do believe you, Donald Bayne," said Capitola, in a broken voice.
"I hear that you have come into your estate. I am glad of it. And they tell me that you are going to be married to-morrow! Well! God bless you, little one!"
"Oh, Donald Bayne! Can you say God bless me, when it was I who put you here?"
"Tut, child, we outlaws bear no malice. Spite is a civilized vice. It was a fair contest, child, and you conquered. It's well you did. Give me your hand in good will, since I must die to-morrow!"
Capitola gave her hand, and whilst he held it, she stooped and said: "Donald, I have done everything in the world I could to save your life!"
"I know you have, child. May yours be long and happy."
"Donald, may your life be longer and better than you think. I have tried all other means of saving you in vain; there is but one means left!"
The outlaw started violently, exclaiming: "Is there one?"
"Donald, yes! There is! I bring you the means of deliverance and escape. Heaven knows whether I am doing right--for I do not! I know many people would blame me very much, but I hope that He who forgave the thief upon the cross and the sinful woman at his feet, will not condemn me for following His own compassionate example! For, Donald, as I was the person whom you injured most of all others, so I consider that I of all others have the best right to pardon you and set you free. Oh, Donald! Use well the life I am about to give you, else I shall be chargeable with every future sin you commit!"
"In the name of mercy, girl, do not hold out a false hope. I had nerved myself to die!"
"But you were not prepared to meet your Maker! Oh, Donald! I hold out no false hope! Listen, for I must speak low and quick. I could never be happy again if on my wedding-day you should die a felon's death! Here! here are tools with the use of which you must be acquainted, for they were found in the woods near the Hidden House!" said Capitola, producing from her pockets a burglar's lock-pick, saw, chisel, file, etc.
Black Donald seized them as a famished wolf might seize his prey.
"Will they do?" inquired Capitola, in breathless anxiety.
"Yes--yes--yes! I can file off my irons, pick every lock, drive back every bolt, and dislodge every bar between myself and freedom with these instruments! But, child, there is one thing you have forgotten: suppose a turnkey or a guard should stop me? You have brought me no revolver!"
Capitola turned pale.
"Donald, I could easily have brought you a revolver; but I would not, even to save you from to-morrow's death! No, Donald, no! I give you the means of freeing yourself, if you can do it, as you may, without bloodshed! But, Donald, though your life is not justly forfeited, your liberty is, and so I cannot give you the means of taking any one's life for the sake of saving your own!"
"You are right," said the outlaw.
"Listen further, Donald. Here are a thousand dollars! I thought never to have taken it from the bank, for I would never have used the price of blood! But I drew it to-day for you. Take it--it will help you to live a better life! When you have picked your way out of this place, go to the great elm tree at the back of the old mill, and you will find my horse, Gyp, which I shall have tied there. He is very swift. Mount him and ride for your life to the nearest seaport, and so escape by a vessel to some foreign country. And oh, try to lead a good life, and may God redeem you, Donald Bayne! There--conceal your tools and your money quickly, for I hear the guard coming. Good-by--and again, God redeem you, Donald Bayne!"
"God bless you, brave and tender girl! And God forsake me if I do not heed your advice!" and the outlaw pressed the hand she gave him while the tears rushed to his eyes.
The guard approached; Capitola turned to meet him. They left the cell together and Black Donald was locked in for the last time!
"Oh, I hope, I pray, that he may get off! Oh, what shall I do if he doesn't! How can I enjoy my wedding to-morrow! How can I bear the music and the dancing and the rejoicing, when I know that a fellow creature is in such a strait! Oh, Lord grant that Black Donald may get clear off to-night, for he isn't fit to die!" said Cap to herself, as she hurried out of the prison.
Her young groom was waiting for her and she mounted her horse and rode until they got to the old haunted church at the end of the village, when drawing rein, she said: "Jem, I am very tired. I will wait here and you must just ride back to the village, to Mr. Cassell's livery stable, and get a gig, and put your horse into it, and come back here to drive me home, for I cannot ride."
Jem, who never questioned his imperious little mistress's orders, rode off at once to do her bidding.
Cap immediately dismounted from her pony and led him under the deep shadows of the elm tree, where she fastened him. Then taking his face between her hands, and looking him in the eyes, she said: "Gyp, my son, you and I have had many a frolic together, but we've got to part now! It almost breaks my heart, Gyp, but it is to save a fellow creature's life, and it can't be helped! He'll treat you well, for my sake, dear Gyp. Gyp, he'll part with his life sooner than sell you! Good-by, dear, dear Gyp."
Gyp took all these caresses in a very nonchalant manner, only snorting and pawing in reply.
Presently the boy came back, bringing the gig. Cap once more hugged Gyp about the neck, pressed her cheek against his mane, and with a whispered "Good-by, dear Gyp," sprang into the gig and ordered the boy to drive home.
"An' leab the pony, miss?"
"Oh, yes, for the present; everybody knows Gyp--no one will steal him. I have left him length of line enough to move around a little and eat grass, drink from the brook, or lie down. You can come after him early to-morrow morning."
The little groom thought this a queer arrangement, but he was not in the habit of criticising his young mistress's actions.
Capitola got home to a late supper and to the anxious inquiries of her friends she replied that she had been to the prison to take leave of Black Donald, and begged that they would not pursue so painful a subject.
And, in respect to Cap's sympathies, they changed the conversation.
* * * * * That night the remnant of Black Donald's band were assembled in their first old haunt, the Old Road Inn. They had met for a twofold purpose--to bury their old matron, Mother Raven, who, since the death of her patron and the apprehension of her captain, had returned to the inn to die--and to bewail the fate of their leader, whose execution was expected to come off the next day.
The men laid the poor old woman in her woodland grave, and assembled in the kitchen to keep a death watch in sympathy with their "unfortunate" captain. They gathered around the table, and foaming mugs of ale were freely quaffed for "sorrow's dry," they said. But neither laugh, song nor jest attended their draughts. They were to keep that night's vigil in honor of their captain, and then were to disband and separate forever.
Suddenly, in the midst of their heavy grief and utter silence a familiar sound was heard--a ringing footstep under the back windows.
And every man leaped to his feet, with looks of wild delight and questioning.
And the next instant the door was flung wide open, and the outlaw chief stood among them!
Steve stopped rolling and curled himself around Black Donald's neck, exclaiming: "It's you--it's you--it's you! --my dear, my darling--my adored--my sweetheart--my prince! --my lord! --my king! --my dear, dear captain!"
Steve, the lazy mulatto, rolled down upon the floor at his master's feet, and embraced him in silence.
While Demon Dick growled forth: "How the foul fiend did you get out?"
And the anxious faces of all the other men silently repeated the question.
"Not by any help of yours, boys! But don't think I reproach you, lads! Well I know that you could do nothing on earth to save me! No one on earth could have helped me except the one who really freed me--Capitola!"
"That girl again!" exclaimed Hal, in the extremity of wonder.
Steve stopped rolling, and curled himself around the feet of his master and gazed up in stupid astonishment.
"It's to be hoped, then, you've got her at last, captain," said Demon Dick.
"No--heaven bless her! --she's in better hands. Now listen, lads, for I must talk fast! I have already lost a great deal too much time. I went first to the cave in the Punch Bowl, and, not finding you there, came here at a venture, where I am happy to meet you for the last time--for to-night we disband forever!" " 'Twas our intention, captain," said Hal, in a melancholy voice.
Black Donald then threw himself into a seat at the head of the table, poured out a mug of ale, and invited his band to pledge him. They gathered around the table, filled their mugs, pledged him standing, and then resumed their seats to listen to the last words of their chief.
Black Donald commenced and related the manner of his deliverance by Capitola; and then, taking from his bosom a bag of gold, he poured it upon the table and divided it into two equal portions, one of which he handed to "Headlong Hal," saying: "There, Hal, take that and divide it among your companions, and scatter to distant parts of the country, where you may yet have a chance of earning an honest livelihood! As for me, I shall have to quit the country altogether, and it will take nearly half this sum to enable me to do it. Now I have not a minute more to give you! So once more pledge your captain and away!"
The men filled their mugs, rose to their feet, and pledged their leader in a parting toast and then: "Good luck to you all!" exclaimed Black Donald, waving his hat thrice above his head with a valedictory hurrah. And the next moment he was gone!
That night, if any watchman had been on guard near the stables of Hurricane Hall, he might have seen a tall man mounted upon Capitola's pony, ride up in hot haste, dismount and pick the stable lock, take Gyp by the bridle and lead him in, and presently return leading out Fleetfoot, Old Hurricane's racer, upon which he mounted and rode away.
The next morning, while Capitola was dressing, her groom rapped at the door and, in great dismay, begged that he might speak to Miss Cap one minute.
"Well, what is it, Jem?" said Capitola.
"Oh, Miss Cap, you'll kill me! I done been got up long afore day and gone to Tip-Top arter Gyp, but somebody done been stole him away afore I got there!"
"Thank heaven!" cried Capitola, to little Jem's unspeakable amazement. For to Capitola the absence of her horse meant just the escape of Black Donald!
The next minute Cap sighed and said: "Poor Gyp! I shall never see you again!"
That was all she knew of the future!
That morning while they were all at breakfast a groom from the stables came in with a little canvas bag in his hand, which he laid, with a bow, before his master.
Major Warfield took it up; it was full of gold, and upon its side was written, in red chalk: "Three hundred dollars, to pay for Fleetfoot. --Black Donald, Reformed Robber."
While Old Hurricane was reading this inscription, the groom said that Fleetfoot was missing from his stall, and that Miss Cap's pony, that was supposed to have been stolen, was found in his place, with this bag of gold tied around his neck!
"It is Black Donald--he has escaped!" cried Old Hurricane, about to fling himself into a rage, when his furious eyes encountered the gentle gaze of Marah, that fell like oil on the waves of his rising passion.
"Let him go! I'll not storm on my silver wedding day," said Major Warfield.
As for Cap, her eyes danced with delight--the only little clouds upon her bright sky were removed. Black Donald had escaped, to commence a better life, and Gyp was restored!
That evening a magnificent old-fashioned wedding came off at Hurricane Hall.
The double ceremony was performed by the bishop of the diocese (then on a visit to the neighborhood) in the great salon of Hurricane Hall, in the presence of as large and splendid an assembly as could be gathered together from that remote neighborhood.
The two brides, of course, were lovely in white satin, Honiton lace, pearls and orange flowers. "Equally," of course, the bridegrooms were handsome and elegant, proud and happy.
To this old-fashioned wedding succeeded a round of dinners and evening parties, given by the wedding guests. And when all these old-time customs had been observed for the satisfaction of old friends, the bridal party went upon the new-fashioned tour, for their own delight. They spent a year in traveling over the eastern continent, and then returned home to settle upon their patrimonial estates.
Major Warfield and Marah lived at Hurricane Hall and as his heart is satisfied and at rest, his temper is gradually improving. As the lion shall be led by the little child, Old Hurricane is led by the gentlest woman that ever loved or suffered, and she is leading him in his old age to the Saviour's feet.
Clara and Traverse live at Willow Heights, which has been repaired, enlarged and improved, and where Traverse has already an extensive practice, and where both endeavor to emulate the enlightened goodness of the sainted Doctor Day.
Cap and Herbert, with Mrs. Le Noir, live at the Hidden House, which has been turned by wealth and taste into a dwelling of light and beauty. As the bravest are always the gentlest, so the most high-spirited are always the most forgiving. And thus the weak or wicked old Dorcas Knight finds still a home under the roof of Mrs. Le Noir. Her only retribution being the very mild one of having her relations changed in the fact that her temporary prisoner is now her mistress and sovereign lady.
I wish I could say "they all lived happy ever after." But the truth is I have reason to suppose that even Clara had sometimes occasion to administer to Doctor Rocke dignified curtain lectures, which no doubt did him good. And I know for a positive fact that our Cap sometimes gives her "dear, darling, sweet Herbert," the benefit of the sharp edge of her tongue, which, of course, he deserves.
But notwithstanding all this, I am happy to say that all enjoy a fair amount of human felicity.
THE END.
Good Fiction Worth Reading.
A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the field of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.
* * * * * A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE. A story of American Colonial Times. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after chapter, until the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love story is a singularly charming idyl.
THE TOWER OF LONDON. A Historical Romance of the Times of Lady Jane Grey and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00 This romance of the "Tower of London" depicts the Tower as palace, prison and fortress, with many historical associations. The era is the middle of the sixteenth century.
The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey, and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable characters of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the reader in the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably over a half a century.
IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING. A Romance of the American Revolution. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery, and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a part in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so absorbing that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a love romance it is charming.
GARTHOWEN. A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
"This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid bare before us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some strong points of Welsh character--the pride, the hasty temper, the quick dying out of wrath.... We call this a well-written story, interesting alike through its romance and its glimpses into another life than ours. A delightful and clever picture of Welsh village life. The result is excellent." --Detroit Free Press.
MIFANWY. The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
"This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it is apparent at once, are as true to life as though the author had known them all personally. Simple in all its situations, the story is worked up in that touching and quaint strain which never grows wearisome, no matter how often the lights and shadows of love are introduced. It rings true, and does not tax the imagination." --Boston Herald.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.
Good Fiction Worth Reading.
A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the field of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.
* * * * * DARNLEY. A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. By G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
In point of publication, "Darnley" is that work by Mr. James which follows "Richelieu," and, if rumor can be credited, it was owing to the advice and insistence of our own Washington Irving that we are indebted primarily for the story, the young author questioning whether he could properly paint the difference in the characters of the two great cardinals. And it is not surprising that James should have hesitated; he had been eminently successful in giving to the world the portrait of Richelieu as a man, and by attempting a similar task with Wolsey as the theme, was much like tempting fortune. Irving insisted that "Darnley" came naturally in sequence, and this opinion being supported by Sir Walter Scott, the author set about the work.
As a historical romance "Darnley" is a book that can be taken up pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm which those who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James have claimed was only to be imparted by Dumas.
If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial attention, the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic "field of the cloth of gold" would entitle the story to the most favorable consideration of every reader.
There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author has taken care to imagine love passages only between those whom history has credited with having entertained the tender passion one for another, and he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world must love.
CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE. By Lieut. Henry A. Wise, U.S.N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come through the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea and those "who go down in ships" been written by one more familiar with the scenes depicted.
The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is "Captain Brand," who, as the author states on his title page, was a "pirate of eminence in the West Indies." As a sea story pure and simple, "Captain Brand" has never been excelled, and as a story of piratical life, told without the usual embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no equal.
NICK OF THE WOODS. A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long out of print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic presentation of Indian and frontier life in the early days of settlement in the South, narrated in the tale with all the art of a practiced writer. A very charming love romance runs through the story. This new and tasteful edition of "Nick of the Woods" will be certain to make many new admirers for this enchanting story from Dr. Bird's clever and versatile pen.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.
Good Fiction Worth Reading.
A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the field of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.
* * * * * GUY FAWKES. A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.
The "Gunpowder Plot" was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, the King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, was weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits concluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were arrested, and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other prisoners with royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through the entire romance.
THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER. A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
A book rather out of the ordinary is this "Spirit of the Border." The main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian missionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given details of the frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the wilderness for the planting of this great nation. Chief among these, as a matter of course, is Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and at the same time the most admirable of all the brave men who spent their lives battling with the savage foe, that others might dwell in comparative security.
Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian "Village of Peace" are given at some length, and with minute description. The efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have been before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders of the several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be of interest to the student.
By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.
It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by it, perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly braved every privation and danger that the westward progress of the star of empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story, simple and tender, runs through the book.
RICHELIEU. A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, "Richelieu," and was recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft.
In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great cardinal's life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it was yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic outbursts which overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost wave of prosperity. One of the most striking portions of the story is that of Cinq Mar's conspiracy; the method of conducting criminal cases, and the political trickery resorted to by royal favorites, affording a better insight into the state-craft of that day than can be had even by an exhaustive study of history. It is a powerful romance of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling and absorbing interest has never been excelled.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.
Good Fiction Worth Reading.
A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the field of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.
* * * * * WINDSOR CASTLE. A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII., Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.
"Windsor Castle" is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne Boleyn. "Bluff King Hal," although a well-loved monarch, was none too good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable acts, none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and his marriage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King's love was as brief as it was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen, attracted him, and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room for her successor. This romance is one of extreme interest to all readers.
HORSESHOE ROBINSON. A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina in 1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical fiction, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans than Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which depicts with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists in South Carolina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression of the British under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton.
The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread of the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning those times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is never overdrawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared neither time nor labor in his efforts to present in this charming love story all that price in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as their share in the winning of the republic.
Take it all in all, "Horseshoe Robinson" is a work which should be found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning the colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once more, well illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to thousands who have long desired an opportunity to read the story again, and to the many who have tried vainly in these latter days to procure a copy that they might read it for the first time.
THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND. A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.
Written prior to 1862, the "Pearl of Orr's Island" is ever new; a book filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew each time one reads them. One sees the "sea like an unbroken mirror all around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr's Island," and straightway comes "the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach, like the wild angry howl of some savage animal."
Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel's wings, without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud blossomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the character of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid the angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother's breast.
There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that which Mrs. Stowe gives in "The Pearl of Orr's Island."
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.
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{
"id": "24337"
}
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1
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A SLOW JOURNEY
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Again two carriages stood at the front door of the house at Petrovskoe. In one of them sat Mimi, the two girls, and their maid, with the bailiff, Jakoff, on the box, while in the other--a britchka--sat Woloda, myself, and our servant Vassili. Papa, who was to follow us to Moscow in a few days, was standing bareheaded on the entrance-steps. He made the sign of the cross at the windows of the carriages, and said: “Christ go with you! Good-bye.”
Jakoff and our coachman (for we had our own horses) lifted their caps in answer, and also made the sign of the cross.
“Amen. God go with us!”
The carriages began to roll away, and the birch-trees of the great avenue filed out of sight.
I was not in the least depressed on this occasion, for my mind was not so much turned upon what I had left as upon what was awaiting me. In proportion as the various objects connected with the sad recollections which had recently filled my imagination receded behind me, those recollections lost their power, and gave place to a consolatory feeling of life, youthful vigour, freshness, and hope.
Seldom have I spent four days more--well, I will not say gaily, since I should still have shrunk from appearing gay--but more agreeably and pleasantly than those occupied by our journey.
No longer were my eyes confronted with the closed door of Mamma’s room (which I had never been able to pass without a pang), nor with the covered piano (which nobody opened now, and at which I could never look without trembling), nor with mourning dresses (we had each of us on our ordinary travelling clothes), nor with all those other objects which recalled to me so vividly our irreparable loss, and forced me to abstain from any manifestation of merriment lest I should unwittingly offend against HER memory.
On the contrary, a continual succession of new and exciting objects and places now caught and held my attention, and the charms of spring awakened in my soul a soothing sense of satisfaction with the present and of blissful hope for the future.
Very early next morning the merciless Vassili (who had only just entered our service, and was therefore, like most people in such a position, zealous to a fault) came and stripped off my counterpane, affirming that it was time for me to get up, since everything was in readiness for us to continue our journey. Though I felt inclined to stretch myself and rebel--though I would gladly have spent another quarter of an hour in sweet enjoyment of my morning slumber--Vassili’s inexorable face showed that he would grant me no respite, but that he was ready to tear away the counterpane twenty times more if necessary. Accordingly I submitted myself to the inevitable and ran down into the courtyard to wash myself at the fountain.
In the coffee-room, a tea-kettle was already surmounting the fire which Milka the ostler, as red in the face as a crab, was blowing with a pair of bellows. All was grey and misty in the courtyard, like steam from a smoking dunghill, but in the eastern sky the sun was diffusing a clear, cheerful radiance, and making the straw roofs of the sheds around the courtyard sparkle with the night dew. Beneath them stood our horses, tied to mangers, and I could hear the ceaseless sound of their chewing. A curly-haired dog which had been spending the night on a dry dunghill now rose in lazy fashion and, wagging its tail, walked slowly across the courtyard.
The bustling landlady opened the creaking gates, turned her meditative cows into the street (whence came the lowing and bellowing of other cattle), and exchanged a word or two with a sleepy neighbour. Philip, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, was working the windlass of a draw-well, and sending sparkling fresh water coursing into an oaken trough, while in the pool beneath it some early-rising ducks were taking a bath. It gave me pleasure to watch his strongly-marked, bearded face, and the veins and muscles as they stood out upon his great powerful hands whenever he made an extra effort. In the room behind the partition-wall where Mimi and the girls had slept (yet so near to ourselves that we had exchanged confidences overnight) movements now became audible, their maid kept passing in and out with clothes, and, at last the door opened and we were summoned to breakfast. Woloda, however, remained in a state of bustle throughout as he ran to fetch first one article and then another and urged the maid to hasten her preparations.
The horses were put to, and showed their impatience by tinkling their bells. Parcels, trunks, dressing-cases, and boxes were replaced, and we set about taking our seats. Yet, every time that we got in, the mountain of luggage in the britchka seemed to have grown larger than before, and we had much ado to understand how things had been arranged yesterday, and how we should sit now. A tea-chest, in particular, greatly inconvenienced me, but Vassili declared that “things will soon right themselves,” and I had no choice but to believe him.
The sun was just rising, covered with dense white clouds, and every object around us was standing out in a cheerful, calm sort of radiance. The whole was beautiful to look at, and I felt comfortable and light of heart.
Before us the road ran like a broad, sinuous ribbon through cornfields glittering with dew. Here and there a dark bush or young birch-tree cast a long shadow over the ruts and scattered grass-tufts of the track. Yet even the monotonous din of our carriage-wheels and collar-bells could not drown the joyous song of soaring larks, nor the combined odour of moth-eaten cloth, dust, and sourness peculiar to our britchka overpower the fresh scents of the morning. I felt in my heart that delightful impulse to be up and doing which is a sign of sincere enjoyment.
As I had not been able to say my prayers in the courtyard of the inn, but had nevertheless been assured once that on the very first day when I omitted to perform that ceremony some misfortune would overtake me, I now hastened to rectify the omission. Taking off my cap, and stooping down in a corner of the britchka, I duly recited my orisons, and unobtrusively signed the sign of the cross beneath my coat. Yet all the while a thousand different objects were distracting my attention, and more than once I inadvertently repeated a prayer twice over.
Soon on the little footpath beside the road became visible some slowly moving figures. They were pilgrims. On their heads they had dirty handkerchiefs, on their backs wallets of birch-bark, and on their feet bundles of soiled rags and heavy bast shoes. Moving their staffs in regular rhythm, and scarcely throwing us a glance, they pressed onwards with heavy tread and in single file.
“Where have they come from?” I wondered to myself, “and whither are they bound? Is it a long pilgrimage they are making?” But soon the shadows they cast on the road became indistinguishable from the shadows of the bushes which they passed.
Next a carriage-and-four could be seen approaching us. In two seconds the faces which looked out at us from it with smiling curiosity had vanished. How strange it seemed that those faces should have nothing in common with me, and that in all probability they would never meet my eyes again!
Next came a pair of post-horses, with the traces looped up to their collars. On one of them a young postillion-his lamb’s wool cap cocked to one side-was negligently kicking his booted legs against the flanks of his steed as he sang a melancholy ditty. Yet his face and attitude seemed to me to express such perfect carelessness and indolent ease that I imagined it to be the height of happiness to be a postillion and to sing melancholy songs.
Far off, through a cutting in the road, there soon stood out against the light-blue sky, the green roof of a village church. Presently the village itself became visible, together with the roof of the manor-house and the garden attached to it. Who lived in that house? Children, parents, teachers? Why should we not call there and make the acquaintance of its inmates?
Next we overtook a file of loaded waggons--a procession to which our vehicles had to yield the road.
“What have you got in there?” asked Vassili of one waggoner who was dangling his legs lazily over the splashboard of his conveyance and flicking his whip about as he gazed at us with a stolid, vacant look; but he only made answer when we were too far off to catch what he said.
“And what have YOU got?” asked Vassili of a second waggoner who was lying at full length under a new rug on the driving-seat of his vehicle. The red poll and red face beneath it lifted themselves up for a second from the folds of the rug, measured our britchka with a cold, contemptuous look, and lay down again; whereupon I concluded that the driver was wondering to himself who we were, whence we had come, and whither we were going.
These various objects of interest had absorbed so much of my time that, as yet, I had paid no attention to the crooked figures on the verst posts as we passed them in rapid succession; but in time the sun began to burn my head and back, the road to become increasingly dusty, the impedimenta in the carriage to grow more and more uncomfortable, and myself to feel more and more cramped. Consequently, I relapsed into devoting my whole faculties to the distance-posts and their numerals, and to solving difficult mathematical problems for reckoning the time when we should arrive at the next posting-house.
“Twelve versts are a third of thirty-six, and in all there are forty-one to Lipetz. We have done a third and how much, then?” , and so forth, and so forth.
“Vassili,” was my next remark, on observing that he was beginning to nod on the box-seat, “suppose we change seats? Will you?” Vassili agreed, and had no sooner stretched himself out in the body of the vehicle than he began to snore. To me on my new perch, however, a most interesting spectacle now became visible--namely, our horses, all of which were familiar to me down to the smallest detail.
“Why is Diashak on the right today, Philip, not on the left?” I asked knowingly. “And Nerusinka is not doing her proper share of the pulling.”
“One could not put Diashak on the left,” replied Philip, altogether ignoring my last remark. “He is not the kind of horse to put there at all. A horse like the one on the left now is the right kind of one for the job.”
After this fragment of eloquence, Philip turned towards Diashak and began to do his best to worry the poor animal by jogging at the reins, in spite of the fact that Diashak was doing well and dragging the vehicle almost unaided. This Philip continued to do until he found it convenient to breathe and rest himself awhile and to settle his cap askew, though it had looked well enough before.
I profited by the opportunity to ask him to let me have the reins to hold, until, the whole six in my hand, as well as the whip, I had attained complete happiness. Several times I asked whether I was doing things right, but, as usual, Philip was never satisfied, and soon destroyed my felicity.
The heat increased until a hand showed itself at the carriage window, and waved a bottle and a parcel of eatables; whereupon Vassili leapt briskly from the britchka, and ran forward to get us something to eat and drink.
When we arrived at a steep descent, we all got out and ran down it to a little bridge, while Vassili and Jakoff followed, supporting the carriage on either side, as though to hold it up in the event of its threatening to upset.
After that, Mimi gave permission for a change of seats, and sometimes Woloda or myself would ride in the carriage, and Lubotshka or Katenka in the britchka. This arrangement greatly pleased the girls, since much more fun went on in the britchka. Just when the day was at its hottest, we got out at a wood, and, breaking off a quantity of branches, transformed our vehicle into a bower. This travelling arbour then bustled on to catch the carriage up, and had the effect of exciting Lubotshka to one of those piercing shrieks of delight which she was in the habit of occasionally emitting.
At last we drew near the village where we were to halt and dine. Already we could perceive the smell of the place--the smell of smoke and tar and sheep-and distinguish the sound of voices, footsteps, and carts. The bells on our horses began to ring less clearly than they had done in the open country, and on both sides the road became lined with huts--dwellings with straw roofs, carved porches, and small red or green painted shutters to the windows, through which, here and there, was a woman’s face looking inquisitively out. Peasant children clad in smocks only stood staring open-eyed or, stretching out their arms to us, ran barefooted through the dust to climb on to the luggage behind, despite Philip’s menacing gestures. Likewise, red-haired waiters came darting around the carriages to invite us, with words and signs, to select their several hostelries as our halting-place.
Presently a gate creaked, and we entered a courtyard. Four hours of rest and liberty now awaited us.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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2
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THE THUNDERSTORM
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The sun was sinking towards the west, and his long, hot rays were burning my neck and cheeks beyond endurance, while thick clouds of dust were rising from the road and filling the whole air. Not the slightest wind was there to carry it away. I could not think what to do. Neither the dust-blackened face of Woloda dozing in a corner, nor the motion of Philip’s back, nor the long shadow of our britchka as it came bowling along behind us brought me any relief. I concentrated my whole attention upon the distance-posts ahead and the clouds which, hitherto dispersed over the sky, were now assuming a menacing blackness, and beginning to form themselves into a single solid mass.
From time to time distant thunder could be heard--a circumstance which greatly increased my impatience to arrive at the inn where we were to spend the night. A thunderstorm always communicated to me an inexpressibly oppressive feeling of fear and gloom.
Yet we were still ten versts from the next village, and in the meanwhile the large purple cloudbank--arisen from no one knows where--was advancing steadily towards us. The sun, not yet obscured, was picking out its fuscous shape with dazzling light, and marking its front with grey stripes running right down to the horizon. At intervals, vivid lightning could be seen in the distance, followed by low rumbles which increased steadily in volume until they merged into a prolonged roll which seemed to embrace the entire heavens. At length, Vassili got up and covered over the britchka, the coachman wrapped himself up in his cloak and lifted his cap to make the sign of the cross at each successive thunderclap, and the horses pricked up their ears and snorted as though to drink in the fresh air which the flying clouds were outdistancing. The britchka began to roll more swiftly along the dusty road, and I felt uneasy, and as though the blood were coursing more quickly through my veins. Soon the clouds had veiled the face of the sun, and though he threw a last gleam of light to the dark and terrifying horizon, he had no choice but to disappear behind them.
Suddenly everything around us seemed changed, and assumed a gloomy aspect. A wood of aspen trees which we were passing seemed to be all in a tremble, with its leaves showing white against the dark lilac background of the clouds, murmuring together in an agitated manner. The tops of the larger trees began to bend to and fro, and dried leaves and grass to whirl about in eddies over the road. Swallows and white-breasted swifts came darting around the britchka and even passing in front of the forelegs of the horses. While rooks, despite their outstretched wings, were laid, as it were, on their keels by the wind. Finally, the leather apron which covered us began to flutter about and to beat against the sides of the conveyance.
The lightning flashed right into the britchka as, cleaving the obscurity for a second, it lit up the grey cloth and silk galloon of the lining and Woloda’s figure pressed back into a corner.
Next came a terrible sound which, rising higher and higher, and spreading further and further, increased until it reached its climax in a deafening thunderclap which made us tremble and hold our breaths. “The wrath of God”--what poetry there is in that simple popular conception!
The pace of the vehicle was continually increasing, and from Philip’s and Vassili’s backs (the former was tugging furiously at the reins) I could see that they too were alarmed.
Bowling rapidly down an incline, the britchka cannoned violently against a wooden bridge at the bottom. I dared not stir and expected destruction every moment.
Crack! A trace had given way, and, in spite of the ceaseless, deafening thunderclaps, we had to pull up on the bridge.
Leaning my head despairingly against the side of the britchka, I followed with a beating heart the movements of Philip’s great black fingers as he tied up the broken trace and, with hands and the butt-end of the whip, pushed the harness vigorously back into its place.
My sense of terror was increasing with the violence of the thunder. Indeed, at the moment of supreme silence which generally precedes the greatest intensity of a storm, it mounted to such a height that I felt as though another quarter of an hour of this emotion would kill me.
Just then there appeared from beneath the bridge a human being who, clad in a torn, filthy smock, and supported on a pair of thin shanks bare of muscles, thrust an idiotic face, a tremulous, bare, shaven head, and a pair of red, shining stumps in place of hands into the britchka.
“M-my lord! A copeck for--for God’s sake!” groaned a feeble voice as at each word the wretched being made the sign of the cross and bowed himself to the ground.
I cannot describe the chill feeling of horror which penetrated my heart at that moment. A shudder crept through all my hair, and my eyes stared in vacant terror at the outcast.
Vassili, who was charged with the apportioning of alms during the journey, was busy helping Philip, and only when everything had been put straight and Philip had resumed the reins again had he time to look for his purse. Hardly had the britchka begun to move when a blinding flash filled the welkin with a blaze of light which brought the horses to their haunches. Then, the flash was followed by such an ear-splitting roar that the very vault of heaven seemed to be descending upon our heads. The wind blew harder than ever, and Vassili’s cloak, the manes and tails of the horses, and the carriage-apron were all slanted in one direction as they waved furiously in the violent blast.
Presently, upon the britchka’s top there fell some large drops of rain--“one, two, three:” then suddenly, and as though a roll of drums were being beaten over our heads, the whole countryside resounded with the clatter of the deluge.
From Vassili’s movements, I could see that he had now got his purse open, and that the poor outcast was still bowing and making the sign of the cross as he ran beside the wheels of the vehicle, at the imminent risk of being run over, and reiterated from time to time his plea, “For-for God’s sake!” At last a copeck rolled upon the ground, and the miserable creature--his mutilated arms, with their sleeves wet through and through, held out before him--stopped perplexed in the roadway and vanished from my sight.
The heavy rain, driven before the tempestuous wind, poured down in pailfuls and, dripping from Vassili’s thick cloak, formed a series of pools on the apron. The dust became changed to a paste which clung to the wheels, and the ruts became transformed into muddy rivulets.
At last, however, the lightning grew paler and more diffuse, and the thunderclaps lost some of their terror amid the monotonous rattling of the downpour. Then the rain also abated, and the clouds began to disperse. In the region of the sun, a lightness appeared, and between the white-grey clouds could be caught glimpses of an azure sky.
Finally, a dazzling ray shot across the pools on the road, shot through the threads of rain--now falling thin and straight, as from a sieve--, and fell upon the fresh leaves and blades of grass. The great cloud was still louring black and threatening on the far horizon, but I no longer felt afraid of it--I felt only an inexpressibly pleasant hopefulness in proportion, as trust in life replaced the late burden of fear. Indeed, my heart was smiling like that of refreshed, revivified Nature herself.
Vassili took off his cloak and wrung the water from it. Woloda flung back the apron, and I stood up in the britchka to drink in the new, fresh, balm-laden air. In front of us was the carriage, rolling along and looking as wet and resplendent in the sunlight as though it had just been polished. On one side of the road boundless oatfields, intersected in places by small ravines which now showed bright with their moist earth and greenery, stretched to the far horizon like a checkered carpet, while on the other side of us an aspen wood, intermingled with hazel bushes, and parquetted with wild thyme in joyous profusion, no longer rustled and trembled, but slowly dropped rich, sparkling diamonds from its newly-bathed branches on to the withered leaves of last year.
From above us, from every side, came the happy songs of little birds calling to one another among the dripping brushwood, while clear from the inmost depths of the wood sounded the voice of the cuckoo. So delicious was the wondrous scent of the wood, the scent which follows a thunderstorm in spring, the scent of birch-trees, violets, mushrooms, and thyme, that I could no longer remain in the britchka. Jumping out, I ran to some bushes, and, regardless of the showers of drops discharged upon me, tore off a few sprigs of thyme, and buried my face in them to smell their glorious scent.
Then, despite the mud which had got into my boots, as also the fact that my stockings were soaked, I went skipping through the puddles to the window of the carriage.
“Lubotshka! Katenka!” I shouted as I handed them some of the thyme, “Just look how delicious this is!”
The girls smelt it and cried, “A-ah!” but Mimi shrieked to me to go away, for fear I should be run over by the wheels.
“Oh, but smell how delicious it is!” I persisted.
|
{
"id": "2450"
}
|
3
|
A NEW POINT OF VIEW
|
Katenka was with me in the britchka; her lovely head inclined as she gazed pensively at the roadway. I looked at her in silence and wondered what had brought the unchildlike expression of sadness to her face which I now observed for the first time there.
“We shall soon be in Moscow,” I said at last. “How large do you suppose it is?”
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“Well, but how large do you IMAGINE? As large as Serpukhov?”
“What do you say?”
“Nothing.”
Yet the instinctive feeling which enables one person to guess the thoughts of another and serves as a guiding thread in conversation soon made Katenka feel that her indifference was disagreeable to me; wherefore she raised her head presently, and, turning round, said: “Did your Papa tell you that we girls too were going to live at your Grandmamma’s?”
“Yes, he said that we should ALL live there.”
“ALL live there?”
“Yes, of course. We shall have one half of the upper floor, and you the other half, and Papa the wing; but we shall all of us dine together with Grandmamma downstairs.”
“But Mamma says that your Grandmamma is so very grave and so easily made angry?”
“No, she only SEEMS like that at first. She is grave, but not bad-tempered. On the contrary, she is both kind and cheerful. If you could only have seen the ball at her house!”
“All the same, I am afraid of her. Besides, who knows whether we--” Katenka stopped short, and once again became thoughtful.
“What?” I asked with some anxiety.
“Nothing, I only said that--” “No. You said, ‘Who knows whether we--’” “And YOU said, didn’t you, that once there was ever such a ball at Grandmamma’s?”
“Yes. It is a pity you were not there. There were heaps of guests--about a thousand people, and all of them princes or generals, and there was music, and I danced--But, Katenka” I broke off, “you are not listening to me?”
“Oh yes, I am listening. You said that you danced--?”
“Why are you so serious?”
“Well, one cannot ALWAYS be gay.”
“But you have changed tremendously since Woloda and I first went to Moscow. Tell me the truth, now: why are you so odd?” My tone was resolute.
“AM I so odd?” said Katenka with an animation which showed me that my question had interested her. “I don’t see that I am so at all.”
“Well, you are not the same as you were before,” I continued. “Once upon a time any one could see that you were our equal in everything, and that you loved us like relations, just as we did you; but now you are always serious, and keep yourself apart from us.”
“Oh, not at all.”
“But let me finish, please,” I interrupted, already conscious of a slight tickling in my nose--the precursor of the tears which usually came to my eyes whenever I had to vent any long pent-up feeling. “You avoid us, and talk to no one but Mimi, as though you had no wish for our further acquaintance.”
“But one cannot always remain the same--one must change a little sometimes,” replied Katenka, who had an inveterate habit of pleading some such fatalistic necessity whenever she did not know what else to say.
I recollect that once, when having a quarrel with Lubotshka, who had called her “a stupid girl,” she (Katenka) retorted that EVERYBODY could not be wise, seeing that a certain number of stupid people was a necessity in the world. However, on the present occasion, I was not satisfied that any such inevitable necessity for “changing sometimes” existed, and asked further: “WHY is it necessary?”
“Well, you see, we MAY not always go on living together as we are doing now,” said Katenka, colouring slightly, and regarding Philip’s back with a grave expression on her face. “My Mamma was able to live with your mother because she was her friend; but will a similar arrangement always suit the Countess, who, they say, is so easily offended? Besides, in any case, we shall have to separate SOME day. You are rich--you have Petrovskoe, while we are poor--Mamma has nothing.”
“You are rich,” “we are poor”--both the words and the ideas which they connoted seemed to me extremely strange. Hitherto, I had conceived that only beggars and peasants were poor and could not reconcile in my mind the idea of poverty and the graceful, charming Katenka. I felt that Mimi and her daughter ought to live with us ALWAYS and to share everything that we possessed. Things ought never to be otherwise. Yet, at this moment, a thousand new thoughts with regard to their lonely position came crowding into my head, and I felt so remorseful at the notion that we were rich and they poor, that I coloured up and could not look Katenka in the face.
“Yet what does it matter,” I thought, “that we are well off and they are not? Why should that necessitate a separation? Why should we not share in common what we possess?” Yet, I had a feeling that I could not talk to Katenka on the subject, since a certain practical instinct, opposed to all logical reasoning, warned me that, right though she possibly was, I should do wrong to tell her so.
“It is impossible that you should leave us. How could we ever live apart?”
“Yet what else is there to be done? Certainly I do not WANT to do it; yet, if it HAS to be done, I know what my plan in life will be.”
“Yes, to become an actress! How absurd!” I exclaimed (for I knew that to enter that profession had always been her favourite dream).
“Oh no. I only used to say that when I was a little girl.”
“Well, then? What?”
“To go into a convent and live there. Then I could walk out in a black dress and velvet cap!” cried Katenka.
Has it ever befallen you, my readers, to become suddenly aware that your conception of things has altered--as though every object in life had unexpectedly turned a side towards you of which you had hitherto remained unaware? Such a species of moral change occurred, as regards myself, during this journey, and therefore from it I date the beginning of my boyhood. For the first time in my life, I then envisaged the idea that we--i.e. our family--were not the only persons in the world; that not every conceivable interest was centred in ourselves; and that there existed numbers of people who had nothing in common with us, cared nothing for us, and even knew nothing of our existence. No doubt I had known all this before--only I had not known it then as I knew it now; I had never properly felt or understood it.
Thought merges into conviction through paths of its own, as well as, sometimes, with great suddenness and by methods wholly different from those which have brought other intellects to the same conclusion. For me the conversation with Katenka--striking deeply as it did, and forcing me to reflect on her future position--constituted such a path. As I gazed at the towns and villages through which we passed, and in each house of which lived at least one family like our own, as well as at the women and children who stared with curiosity at our carriages and then became lost to sight for ever, and the peasants and workmen who did not even look at us, much less make us any obeisance, the question arose for the first time in my thoughts, “Whom else do they care for if not for us?” And this question was followed by others, such as, “To what end do they live?” “How do they educate their children?” “Do they teach their children and let them play? What are their names?” and so forth.
|
{
"id": "2450"
}
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4
|
IN MOSCOW
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From the time of our arrival in Moscow, the change in my conception of objects, of persons, and of my connection with them became increasingly perceptible. When at my first meeting with Grandmamma, I saw her thin, wrinkled face and faded eyes, the mingled respect and fear with which she had hitherto inspired me gave place to compassion, and when, laying her cheek against Lubotshka’s head, she sobbed as though she saw before her the corpse of her beloved daughter, my compassion grew to love.
I felt deeply sorry to see her grief at our meeting, even though I knew that in ourselves we represented nothing in her eyes, but were dear to her only as reminders of our mother--that every kiss which she imprinted upon my cheeks expressed the one thought, “She is no more--she is dead, and I shall never see her again.”
Papa, who took little notice of us here in Moscow, and whose face was perpetually preoccupied on the rare occasions when he came in his black dress-coat to take formal dinner with us, lost much in my eyes at this period, in spite of his turned-up ruffles, robes de chambre, overseers, bailiffs, expeditions to the estate, and hunting exploits.
Karl Ivanitch--whom Grandmamma always called “Uncle,” and who (Heaven knows why!) had taken it into his head to adorn the bald pate of my childhood’s days with a red wig parted in the middle--now looked to me so strange and ridiculous that I wondered how I could ever have failed to observe the fact before. Even between the girls and ourselves there seemed to have sprung up an invisible barrier. They, too, began to have secrets among themselves, as well as to evince a desire to show off their ever-lengthening skirts even as we boys did our trousers and ankle-straps. As for Mimi, she appeared at luncheon, the first Sunday, in such a gorgeous dress and with so many ribbons in her cap that it was clear that we were no longer en campagne, and that everything was now going to be different.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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5
|
MY ELDER BROTHER
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I was only a year and some odd months younger than Woloda, and from the first we had grown up and studied and played together. Hitherto, the difference between elder and younger brother had never been felt between us, but at the period of which I am speaking, I began to have a notion that I was not Woloda’s equal either in years, in tastes, or in capabilities. I even began to fancy that Woloda himself was aware of his superiority and that he was proud of it, and, though, perhaps, I was wrong, the idea wounded my conceit--already suffering from frequent comparison with him. He was my superior in everything--in games, in studies, in quarrels, and in deportment. All this brought about an estrangement between us and occasioned me moral sufferings which I had never hitherto experienced.
When for the first time Woloda wore Dutch pleated shirts, I at once said that I was greatly put out at not being given similar ones, and each time that he arranged his collar, I felt that he was doing so on purpose to offend me. But, what tormented me most of all was the idea that Woloda could see through me, yet did not choose to show it.
Who has not known those secret, wordless communications which spring from some barely perceptible smile or movement--from a casual glance between two persons who live as constantly together as do brothers, friends, man and wife, or master and servant--particularly if those two persons do not in all things cultivate mutual frankness? How many half-expressed wishes, thoughts, and meanings which one shrinks from revealing are made plain by a single accidental glance which timidly and irresolutely meets the eye!
However, in my own case I may have been deceived by my excessive capacity for, and love of, analysis. Possibly Woloda did not feel at all as I did. Passionate and frank, but unstable in his likings, he was attracted by the most diverse things, and always surrendered himself wholly to such attraction. For instance, he suddenly conceived a passion for pictures, spent all his money on their purchase, begged Papa, Grandmamma, and his drawing master to add to their number, and applied himself with enthusiasm to art. Next came a sudden rage for curios, with which he covered his table, and for which he ransacked the whole house. Following upon that, he took to violent novel-reading--procuring such works by stealth, and devouring them day and night. Involuntarily I was influenced by his whims, for, though too proud to imitate him, I was also too young and too lacking in independence to choose my own way. Above all, I envied Woloda his happy, nobly frank character, which showed itself most strikingly when we quarrelled. I always felt that he was in the right, yet could not imitate him. For instance, on one occasion when his passion for curios was at its height, I went to his table and accidentally broke an empty many-coloured smelling-bottle.
“Who gave you leave to touch my things?” asked Woloda, chancing to enter the room at that moment and at once perceiving the disorder which I had occasioned in the orderly arrangement of the treasures on his table. “And where is that smelling bottle? Perhaps you--?”
“I let it fall, and it smashed to pieces; but what does that matter?”
“Well, please do me the favour never to DARE to touch my things again,” he said as he gathered up the broken fragments and looked at them vexedly.
“And will YOU please do me the favour never to ORDER me to do anything whatever,” I retorted. “When a thing’s broken, it’s broken, and there is no more to be said.” Then I smiled, though I hardly felt like smiling.
“Oh, it may mean nothing to you, but to me it means a good deal,” said Woloda, shrugging his shoulders (a habit he had caught from Papa). “First of all you go and break my things, and then you laugh. What a nuisance a little boy can be!”
“LITTLE boy, indeed? Then YOU, I suppose, are a man, and ever so wise?”
“I do not intend to quarrel with you,” said Woloda, giving me a slight push. “Go away.”
“Don’t you push me!”
“Go away.”
“I say again--don’t you push me!”
Woloda took me by the hand and tried to drag me away from the table, but I was excited to the last degree, and gave the table such a push with my foot that I upset the whole concern, and brought china and crystal ornaments and everything else with a crash to the floor.
“You disgusting little brute!” exclaimed Woloda, trying to save some of his falling treasures.
“At last all is over between us,” I thought to myself as I strode from the room. “We are separated now for ever.”
It was not until evening that we again exchanged a word. Yet I felt guilty, and was afraid to look at him, and remained at a loose end all day.
Woloda, on the contrary, did his lessons as diligently as ever, and passed the time after luncheon in talking and laughing with the girls. As soon, again, as afternoon lessons were over I left the room, for it would have been terribly embarrassing for me to be alone with my brother. When, too, the evening class in history was ended I took my notebook and moved towards the door. Just as I passed Woloda, I pouted and pulled an angry face, though in reality I should have liked to have made my peace with him. At the same moment he lifted his head, and with a barely perceptible and good-humouredly satirical smile looked me full in the face. Our eyes met, and I saw that he understood me, while he, for his part, saw that I knew that he understood me; yet a feeling stronger than myself obliged me to turn away from him.
“Nicolinka,” he said in a perfectly simple and anything but mock-pathetic way, “you have been angry with me long enough. I am sorry if I offended you,” and he tendered me his hand.
It was as though something welled up from my heart and nearly choked me. Presently it passed away, the tears rushed to my eyes, and I felt immensely relieved.
“I too am so-rry, Wo-lo-da,” I said, taking his hand. Yet he only looked at me with an expression as though he could not understand why there should be tears in my eyes.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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6
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MASHA
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None of the changes produced in my conception of things were so striking as the one which led me to cease to see in one of our chambermaids a mere servant of the female sex, but, on the contrary, a WOMAN upon whom depended, to a certain extent, my peace of mind and happiness. From the time of my earliest recollection I can remember Masha an inmate of our house, yet never until the occurrence of which I am going to speak--an occurrence which entirely altered my impression of her--had I bestowed the smallest attention upon her. She was twenty-five years old, while I was but fourteen. Also, she was very beautiful. But I hesitate to give a further description of her lest my imagination should once more picture the bewitching, though deceptive, conception of her which filled my mind during the period of my passion. To be frank, I will only say that she was extraordinarily handsome, magnificently developed, and a woman--as also that I was but fourteen.
At one of those moments when, lesson-book in hand, I would pace the room, and try to keep strictly to one particular crack in the floor as I hummed a fragment of some tune or repeated some vague formula--in short, at one of those moments when the mind leaves off thinking and the imagination gains the upper hand and yearns for new impressions--I left the schoolroom, and turned, with no definite purpose in view, towards the head of the staircase.
Somebody in slippers was ascending the second flight of stairs. Of course I felt curious to see who it was, but the footsteps ceased abruptly, and then I heard Masha’s voice say: “Go away! What nonsense! What would Maria Ivanovna think if she were to come now?”
“Oh, but she will not come,” answered Woloda’s voice in a whisper.
“Well, go away, you silly boy,” and Masha came running up, and fled past me.
I cannot describe the way in which this discovery confounded me. Nevertheless the feeling of amazement soon gave place to a kind of sympathy with Woloda’s conduct. I found myself wondering less at the conduct itself than at his ability to behave so agreeably. Also, I found myself involuntarily desiring to imitate him.
Sometimes I would pace the landing for an hour at a time, with no other thought in my head than to watch for movements from above. Yet, although I longed beyond all things to do as Woloda had done, I could not bring myself to the point. At other times, filled with a sense of envious jealousy, I would conceal myself behind a door and listen to the sounds which came from the maidservants’ room, until the thought would occur to my mind, “How if I were to go in now and, like Woloda, kiss Masha? What should I say when she asked me--ME with the huge nose and the tuft on the top of my head--what I wanted?” Sometimes, too, I could hear her saying to Woloda, “That serves you right! Go away! Nicolas Petrovitch never comes in here with such nonsense.” Alas! she did not know that Nicolas Petrovitch was sitting on the staircase just below and feeling that he would give all he possessed to be in “that bold fellow Woloda’s” place! I was shy by nature, and rendered worse in that respect by a consciousness of my own ugliness. I am certain that nothing so much influences the development of a man as his exterior--though the exterior itself less than his belief in its plainness or beauty.
Yet I was too conceited altogether to resign myself to my fate. I tried to comfort myself much as the fox did when he declared that the grapes were sour. That is to say, I tried to make light of the satisfaction to be gained from making such use of a pleasing exterior as I believed Woloda to employ (satisfaction which I nevertheless envied him from my heart), and endeavoured with every faculty of my intellect and imagination to console myself with a pride in my isolation.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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7
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SMALL SHOT
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“Good gracious! Powder!” exclaimed Mimi in a voice trembling with alarm. “Whatever are you doing? You will set the house on fire in a moment, and be the death of us all!” Upon that, with an indescribable expression of firmness, Mimi ordered every one to stand aside, and, regardless of all possible danger from a premature explosion, strode with long and resolute steps to where some small shot was scattered about the floor, and began to trample upon it.
When, in her opinion, the peril was at least lessened, she called for Michael and commanded him to throw the “powder” away into some remote spot, or, better still, to immerse it in water; after which she adjusted her cap and returned proudly to the drawing-room, murmuring as she went, “At least I can say that they are well looked after.”
When Papa issued from his room and took us to see Grandmamma we found Mimi sitting by the window and glancing with a grave, mysterious, official expression towards the door. In her hand she was holding something carefully wrapped in paper. I guessed that that something was the small shot, and that Grandmamma had been informed of the occurrence. In the room also were the maidservant Gasha (who, to judge by her angry flushed face, was in a state of great irritation) and Doctor Blumenthal--the latter a little man pitted with smallpox, who was endeavouring by tacit, pacificatory signs with his head and eyes to reassure the perturbed Gasha. Grandmamma was sitting a little askew and playing that variety of “patience” which is called “The Traveller”--two unmistakable signs of her displeasure.
“How are you to-day, Mamma?” said Papa as he kissed her hand respectfully. “Have you had a good night?”
“Yes, very good, my dear; you KNOW that I always enjoy sound health,” replied Grandmamma in a tone implying that Papa’s inquiries were out of place and highly offensive. “Please give me a clean pocket-handkerchief,” she added to Gasha.
“I HAVE given you one, madam,” answered Gasha, pointing to the snow-white cambric handkerchief which she had just laid on the arm of Grandmamma’s chair.
“No, no; it’s a nasty, dirty thing. Take it away and bring me a CLEAN one, my dear.”
Gasha went to a cupboard and slammed the door of it back so violently that every window rattled. Grandmamma glared angrily at each of us, and then turned her attention to following the movements of the servant. After the latter had presented her with what I suspected to be the same handkerchief as before, Grandmamma continued: “And when do you mean to cut me some snuff, my dear?”
“When I have time.”
“What do you say?”
“To-day.”
“If you don’t want to continue in my service you had better say so at once. I would have sent you away long ago had I known that you wished it.”
“It wouldn’t have broken my heart if you had!” muttered the woman in an undertone.
Here the doctor winked at her again, but she returned his gaze so firmly and wrathfully that he soon lowered it and went on playing with his watch-key.
“You see, my dear, how people speak to me in my own house!” said Grandmamma to Papa when Gasha had left the room grumbling.
“Well, Mamma, I will cut you some snuff myself,” replied Papa, though evidently at a loss how to proceed now that he had made this rash promise.
“No, no, I thank you. Probably she is cross because she knows that no one except herself can cut the snuff just as I like it. Do you know, my dear,” she went on after a pause, “that your children very nearly set the house on fire this morning?”
Papa gazed at Grandmamma with respectful astonishment.
“Yes, they were playing with something or another. Tell him the story,” she added to Mimi.
Papa could not help smiling as he took the shot in his hand.
“This is only small shot, Mamma,” he remarked, “and could never be dangerous.”
“I thank you, my dear, for your instruction, but I am rather too old for that sort of thing.”
“Nerves, nerves!” whispered the doctor.
Papa turned to us and asked us where we had got the stuff, and how we could dare to play with it.
“Don’t ask THEM, ask that useless ‘Uncle,’ rather,” put in Grandmamma, laying a peculiar stress upon the word “UNCLE.” “What else is he for?”
“Woloda says that Karl Ivanitch gave him the powder himself,” declared Mimi.
“Then you can see for yourself what use he is,” continued Grandmamma. “And where IS he--this precious ‘Uncle’? How is one to get hold of him? Send him here.”
“He has gone an errand for me,” said Papa.
“That is not at all right,” rejoined Grandmamma. “He ought ALWAYS to be here. True, the children are yours, not mine, and I have nothing to do with them, seeing that you are so much cleverer than I am; yet all the same I think it is time we had a regular tutor for them, and not this ‘Uncle’ of a German--a stupid fellow who knows only how to teach them rude manners and Tyrolean songs! Is it necessary, I ask you, that they should learn Tyrolean songs? However, there is no one for me to consult about it, and you must do just as you like.”
The word “NOW” meant “NOW THAT THEY HAVE NO MOTHER,” and suddenly awakened sad recollections in Grandmamma’s heart. She threw a glance at the snuff-box bearing Mamma’s portrait and sighed.
“I thought of all this long ago,” said Papa eagerly, “as well as taking your advice on the subject. How would you like St. Jerome to superintend their lessons?”
“Oh, I think he would do excellently, my friend,” said Grandmamma in a mollified tone, “He is at least a tutor comme il faut, and knows how to instruct des enfants de bonne maison. He is not a mere ‘Uncle’ who is good only for taking them out walking.”
“Very well; I will talk to him to-morrow,” said Papa. And, sure enough, two days later saw Karl Ivanitch forced to retire in favour of the young Frenchman referred to.
|
{
"id": "2450"
}
|
8
|
KARL IVANITCH’S HISTORY
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THE evening before the day when Karl was to leave us for ever, he was standing (clad, as usual, in his wadded dressing-gown and red cap) near the bed in his room, and bending down over a trunk as he carefully packed his belongings.
His behaviour towards us had been very cool of late, and he had seemed to shrink from all contact with us. Consequently, when I entered his room on the present occasion, he only glanced at me for a second and then went on with his occupation. Even though I proceeded to jump on to his bed (a thing hitherto always forbidden me to do), he said not a word; and the idea that he would soon be scolding or forgiving us no longer--no longer having anything to do with us--reminded me vividly of the impending separation. I felt grieved to think that he had ceased to love us and wanted to show him my grief.
“Will you let me help you?” I said, approaching him.
He looked at me for a moment and turned away again. Yet the expression of pain in his eyes showed that his coldness was not the result of indifference, but rather of sincere and concentrated sorrow.
“God sees and knows everything,” he said at length, raising himself to his full height and drawing a deep sigh. “Yes, Nicolinka,” he went on, observing, the expression of sincere pity on my face, “my fate has been an unhappy one from the cradle, and will continue so to the grave. The good that I have done to people has always been repaid with evil; yet, though I shall receive no reward here, I shall find one THERE” (he pointed upwards). “Ah, if only you knew my whole story, and all that I have endured in this life! --I who have been a bootmaker, a soldier, a deserter, a factory hand, and a teacher! Yet now--now I am nothing, and, like the Son of Man, have nowhere to lay my head.” Sitting down upon a chair, he covered his eyes with his hand.
Seeing that he was in the introspective mood in which a man pays no attention to his listener as he cons over his secret thoughts, I remained silent, and, seating myself upon the bed, continued to watch his kind face.
“You are no longer a child. You can understand things now, and I will tell you my whole story and all that I have undergone. Some day, my children, you may remember the old friend who loved you so much--” He leant his elbow upon the table by his side, took a pinch of snuff, and, in the peculiarly measured, guttural tone in which he used to dictate us our lessons, began the story of his career.
Since he many times in later years repeated the whole to me again--always in the same order, and with the same expressions and the same unvarying intonation--I will try to render it literally, and without omitting the innumerable grammatical errors into which he always strayed when speaking in Russian. Whether it was really the history of his life, or whether it was the mere product of his imagination--that is to say, some narrative which he had conceived during his lonely residence in our house, and had at last, from endless repetition, come to believe in himself--or whether he was adorning with imaginary facts the true record of his career, I have never quite been able to make out. On the one hand, there was too much depth of feeling and practical consistency in its recital for it to be wholly incredible, while, on the other hand, the abundance of poetical beauty which it contained tended to raise doubts in the mind of the listener.
“Me vere very unhappy from ze time of my birth,” he began with a profound sigh. “Ze noble blot of ze Countess of Zomerblat flows in my veins. Me vere born six veek after ze vetting. Ze man of my Mutter (I called him ‘Papa’) vere farmer to ze Count von Zomerblat. He coult not forget my Mutter’s shame, ant loaft me not. I had a youngster broser Johann ant two sister, pot me vere strange petween my own family. Ven Johann mate several silly trick Papa sayt, ‘Wit sis chilt Karl I am never to have one moment tranquil!’ and zen he scoltet and ponishet me. Ven ze sister quarrellet among zemselves Papa sayt, ‘Karl vill never be one opedient poy,’ ant still scoltet ant ponishet me. My goot Mamma alone loaft ant tenteret me. Often she sayt to me, ‘Karl, come in my room,’ ant zere she kisset me secretly. ‘Poorly, poorly Karl!’ she sayt. ‘Nopoty loaf you, pot I will not exchange you for somepoty in ze worlt, One zing your Mutter pegs you, to rememper,’ sayt she to me, ‘learn vell, ant be efer one honest man; zen Got will not forsake you.’ Ant I triet so to become. Ven my fourteen year hat expiret, ant me coult partake of ze Holy Sopper, my Mutter sayt to my Vater, ‘Karl is one pig poy now, Kustaf. Vat shall we do wis him?’ Ant Papa sayt, ‘Me ton’t know.’ Zen Mamma sayt, ‘Let us give him to town at Mister Schultzen’s, and he may pea Schumacher,’ ant my Vater sayt, ‘Goot!’ Six year ant seven mons livet I in town wis ze Mister Shoemaker, ant he loaft me. He sayt, ‘Karl are one goot vorkman, ant shall soon become my Geselle.’ Pot-man makes ze proposition, ant Got ze deposition. In ze year 1796 one conscription took place, ant each which vas serviceable, from ze eighteens to ze twenty-first year, hat to go to town.
“My Fater and my broser Johann come to town, ant ve go togezer to throw ze lot for which shoult pe Soldat. Johann drew ze fatal nomper, and me vas not necessary to pe Soldat. Ant Papa sayt, ‘I have only vun son, ant wis him I must now separate!’
“Den I take his hant, ant says, ‘Why say you so, Papa? Come wis me, ant I will say you somesing.’ Ant Papa come, ant we seat togezer at ze publics-house, ant me sayt, ‘Vaiter, give us one Bierkrug,’ ant he gives us one. We trink altogezer, and broser Johann also trink. ‘Papa,’ sayt me, ‘ton’t say zat you have only one son, ant wis it you must separate, My heart was breaking ven you say sis. Broser Johann must not serve; ME shall pe Soldat. Karl is for nopoty necessary, and Karl shall pe Soldat.’
“‘You is one honest man, Karl,’ sayt Papa, ant kiss me. Ant me was Soldat.”
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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9
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CONTINUATION OF KARL’S NARRATIVE
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“Zat was a terrible time, Nicolinka,” continued Karl Ivanitch, “ze time of Napoleon. He vanted to conquer Germany, ant we protected our Vaterland to ze last trop of plot. Me vere at Ulm, me vere at Austerlitz, me vere at Wagram.”
“Did you really fight?” I asked with a gaze of astonishment “Did you really kill anybody?”
Karl instantly reassured me on this point, “Vonce one French grenadier was left behint, ant fell to ze grount. I sprang forvarts wis my gon, ant vere about to kill him, aber der Franzose warf sein Gewehr hin und rief, ‘Pardon’--ant I let him loose.
“At Wagram, Napoleon cut us open, ant surrountet us in such a way as zere vas no helping. Sree days hat we no provisions, ant stoot in ze vater op to ze knees. Ze evil Napoleon neiser let us go loose nor catchet us.
“On ze fours day zey took us prisoners--zank Got! ant sent us to one fortress. Upon me vas one blue trousers, uniforms of very goot clos, fifteen of Thalers, ant one silver clock which my Vater hat given me, Ze Frans Soldaten took from me everysing. For my happiness zere vas sree tucats on me which my Mamma hat sewn in my shirt of flannel. Nopoty fount zem.
“I liket not long to stay in ze fortresses, ant resoluted to ron away. Von day, von pig holitay, says I to the sergeant which hat to look after us, ‘Mister Sergeant, to-day is a pig holitay, ant me vants to celeprate it. Pring here, if you please, two pottle Mateira, ant we shall trink zem wis each oser.’ Ant ze sergeant says, ‘Goot!’ Ven ze sergeant pring ze Mateira ant we trink it out to ze last trop, I taket his hant ant says, ‘Mister Sergeant, perhaps you have still one Vater and one Mutter?’ He says, ‘So I have, Mister Mayer.’ ‘My Vater ant Mutter not seen me eight year,’ I goes on to him, ‘ant zey know not if I am yet alive or if my bones be reposing in ze grave. Oh, Mister Sergeant, I have two tucats which is in my shirt of flannel. Take zem, ant let me loose! You will pe my penefactor, ant my Mutter will be praying for you all her life to ze Almighty Got!’
“Ze sergeant emptiet his glass of Mateira, ant says, ‘Mister Mayer, I loaf and pity you very much, pot you is one prisoner, ant I one soldat.’ So I take his hant ant says, ‘Mister Sergeant!’
“Ant ze sergeant says, ‘You is one poor man, ant I will not take your money, pot I will help you. Ven I go to sleep, puy one pail of pranty for ze Soldaten, ant zey will sleep. Me will not look after you.’ Sis was one goot man. I puyet ze pail of pranty, ant ven ze Soldaten was trunken me tresset in one olt coat, ant gang in silence out of ze doon.
“I go to ze wall, ant will leap down, pot zere is vater pelow, ant I will not spoil my last tressing, so I go to ze gate.
“Ze sentry go up and town wis one gon, ant look at me. ‘Who goes zere?’ ant I was silent. ‘Who goes zere ze second time?’ ant I was silent. ‘Who goes zere ze third time?’ ant I ron away, I sprang in ze vater, climp op to ze oser site, ant walk on.
“Ze entire night I ron on ze vay, pot ven taylight came I was afrait zat zey woult catch me, ant I hit myself in ze high corn. Zere I kneelet town, zanket ze Vater in Heaven for my safety, ant fall asleep wis a tranquil feeling.
“I wakenet op in ze evening, ant gang furser. At once one large German carriage, wis two raven-black horse, came alongside me. In ze carriage sit one well-tresset man, smoking pipe, ant look at me. I go slowly, so zat ze carriage shall have time to pass me, pot I go slowly, ant ze carriage go slowly, ant ze man look at me. I go quick, ant ze carriage go quick, ant ze man stop its two horses, ant look at me. ‘Young man,’ says he, ‘where go you so late?’ I says, ‘I go to Frankfort.’ ‘Sit in ze carriage--zere is room enough, ant I will trag you,’ he says. ‘Bot why have you nosing about you? Your boots is dirty, ant your beart not shaven.’ I seated wis him, ant says, ‘Ich bin one poor man, ant I would like to pusy myself wis somesing in a manufactory. My tressing is dirty because I fell in ze mud on ze roat.’
“‘You tell me ontruse, young man,’ says he. ‘Ze roat is kvite dry now.’ I was silent. ‘Tell me ze whole truse,’ goes on ze goot man--‘who you are, ant vere you go to? I like your face, ant ven you is one honest man, so I will help you.’ Ant I tell all.
“‘Goot, young man!’ he says. ‘Come to my manufactory of rope, ant I will give you work ant tress ant money, ant you can live wis os.’ I says, ‘Goot!’
“I go to ze manufactory of rope, ant ze goot man says to his voman, ‘Here is one yong man who defented his Vaterland, ant ron away from prisons. He has not house nor tresses nor preat. He will live wis os. Give him clean linen, ant norish him.’
“I livet one ant a half year in ze manufactory of rope, ant my lantlort loaft me so much zat he would not let me loose. Ant I felt very goot.
“I were zen handsome man--yong, of pig stature, with blue eyes and romische nose--ant Missis L-- (I like not to say her name--she was ze voman of my lantlort) was yong ant handsome laty. Ant she fell in loaf wis me.”
Here Karl Ivanitch made a long pause, lowered his kindly blue eyes, shook his head quietly, and smiled as people always do under the influence of a pleasing recollection.
“Yes,” he resumed as he leant back in his arm-chair and adjusted his dressing-gown, “I have experiencet many sings in my life, pot zere is my witness,”--here he pointed to an image of the Saviour, embroidered on wool, which was hanging over his bed--“zat nopoty in ze worlt can say zat Karl Ivanitch has been one dishonest man, I would not repay black ingratitude for ze goot which Mister L-- dit me, ant I resoluted to ron away. So in ze evening, ven all were asleep, I writet one letter to my lantlort, ant laid it on ze table in his room. Zen I taket my tresses, tree Thaler of money, ant go mysteriously into ze street. Nopoty have seen me, ant I go on ze roat.”
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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10
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CONCLUSION OF KARL’S NARRATIVE
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“I had not seen my Mamma for nine year, ant I know not whether she lived or whether her bones had long since lain in ze dark grave. Ven I come to my own country and go to ze town I ask, ‘Where live Kustaf Mayer who was farmer to ze Count von Zomerblat?’ ant zey answer me, ‘Graf Zomerblat is deat, ant Kustaf Mayer live now in ze pig street, ant keep a public-house.’ So I tress in my new waistcoat and one noble coat which ze manufacturist presented me, arranged my hairs nice, ant go to ze public-house of my Papa. Sister Mariechen vas sitting on a pench, and she ask me what I want. I says, ‘Might I trink one glass of pranty?’ ant she says, ‘Vater, here is a yong man who wish to trink one glass of pranty.’ Ant Papa says, ‘Give him ze glass.’ I set to ze table, trink my glass of pranty, smoke my pipe, ant look at Papa, Mariechen, ant Johann (who also come into ze shop). In ze conversation Papa says, ‘You know, perhaps, yong man, where stants our army?’ and I say, ‘I myself am come from ze army, ant it stants now at Wien.’ ‘Our son,’ says Papa, ‘is a Soldat, ant now is it nine years since he wrote never one wort, and we know not whether he is alive or dead. My voman cry continually for him.’ I still fumigate the pipe, ant say, ‘What was your son’s name, and where servet he? Perhaps I may know him.’ ‘His name was Karl Mayer, ant he servet in ze Austrian Jagers.’ ‘He were of pig stature, ant a handsome man like yourself,’ puts in Mariechen. I say, ‘I know your Karl.’ ‘Amalia,’ exclaimet my Vater. ‘Come here! Here is yong man which knows our Karl!’ --ant my dear Mutter comes out from a back door. I knew her directly. ‘You know our Karl?’ says she, ant looks at me, ant, white all over, trembles. ‘Yes, I haf seen him,’ I says, without ze corage to look at her, for my heart did almost burst. ‘My Karl is alive?’ she cry. ‘Zen tank Got! Vere is he, my Karl? I woult die in peace if I coult see him once more--my darling son! Bot Got will not haf it so.’ Then she cried, and I coult no longer stant it. ‘Darling Mamma!’ I say, ‘I am your son, I am your Karl!’ --and she fell into my arms.”
Karl Ivanitch covered his eyes, and his lips were quivering.
“‘Mutter,’ sagte ich, ‘ich bin ihr Sohn, ich bin ihr Karl!’ --und sie sturtzte mir in die Arme! ’” he repeated, recovering a little and wiping the tears from his eyes.
“Bot Got did not wish me to finish my tays in my own town. I were pursuet by fate. I livet in my own town only sree mons. One Suntay I sit in a coffee-house, ant trinket one pint of Pier, ant fumigated my pipe, ant speaket wis some frients of Politik, of ze Emperor Franz, of Napoleon, of ze war--ant anypoty might say his opinion. But next to us sits a strange chentleman in a grey Uberrock, who trink coffee, fumigate the pipe, ant says nosing. Ven the night watchman shoutet ten o’clock I taket my hat, paid ze money, and go home. At ze middle of ze night some one knock at ze door. I rise ant says, ‘Who is zere?’ ‘Open!’ says someone. I shout again, ‘First say who is zere, ant I will open.’ ‘Open in the name of the law!’ say the someone behint the door. I now do so. Two Soldaten wis gons stant at ze door, ant into ze room steps ze man in ze grey Uberrock, who had sat with us in ze coffeehouse. He were Spion! ‘Come wis me,’ says ze Spion, ‘Very goot!’ say I. I dresset myself in boots, trousers, ant coat, ant go srough ze room. Ven I come to ze wall where my gon hangs I take it, ant says, ‘You are a Spion, so defent you!’ I give one stroke left, one right, ant one on ze head. Ze Spion lay precipitated on ze floor! Zen I taket my cloak-bag ant money, ant jompet out of ze vintow. I vent to Ems, where I was acquainted wis one General Sasin, who loaft me, givet me a passport from ze Embassy, ant taket me to Russland to learn his chiltren. Ven General Sasin tiet, your Mamma callet for me, ant says, ‘Karl Ivanitch, I gif you my children. Loaf them, ant I will never leave you, ant will take care for your olt age.’ Now is she teat, ant all is forgotten! For my twenty year full of service I most now go into ze street ant seek for a try crust of preat for my olt age! Got sees all sis, ant knows all sis. His holy will be done! Only-only, I yearn for you, my children!” --and Karl drew me to him, and kissed me on the forehead.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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11
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ONE MARK ONLY
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The year of mourning over, Grandmamma recovered a little from her grief, and once more took to receiving occasional guests, especially children of the same age as ourselves.
On the 13th of December--Lubotshka’s birthday--the Princess Kornakoff and her daughters, with Madame Valakhin, Sonetchka, Ilinka Grap, and the two younger Iwins, arrived at our house before luncheon.
Though we could hear the sounds of talking, laughter, and movements going on in the drawing-room, we could not join the party until our morning lessons were finished. The table of studies in the schoolroom said, “Lundi, de 2 a 3, maitre d’Histoire et de Geographie,” and this infernal maitre d’Histoire we must await, listen to, and see the back of before we could gain our liberty. Already it was twenty minutes past two, and nothing was to be heard of the tutor, nor yet anything to be seen of him in the street, although I kept looking up and down it with the greatest impatience and with an emphatic longing never to see the maitre again.
“I believe he is not coming to-day,” said Woloda, looking up for a moment from his lesson-book.
“I hope he is not, please the Lord!” I answered, but in a despondent tone. “Yet there he DOES come, I believe, all the same!”
“Not he! Why, that is a GENTLEMAN,” said Woloda, likewise looking out of the window, “Let us wait till half-past two, and then ask St. Jerome if we may put away our books.”
“Yes, and wish them au revoir,” I added, stretching my arms, with the book clasped in my hands, over my head. Having hitherto idled away my time, I now opened the book at the place where the lesson was to begin, and started to learn it. It was long and difficult, and, moreover, I was in the mood when one’s thoughts refuse to be arrested by anything at all. Consequently I made no progress. After our last lesson in history (which always seemed to me a peculiarly arduous and wearisome subject) the history master had complained to St. Jerome of me because only two good marks stood to my credit in the register--a very small total. St. Jerome had then told me that if I failed to gain less than THREE marks at the next lesson I should be severely punished. The next lesson was now imminent, and I confess that I felt a little nervous.
So absorbed, however, did I become in my reading that the sound of goloshes being taken off in the ante-room came upon me almost as a shock. I had just time to look up when there appeared in the doorway the servile and (to me) very disgusting face and form of the master, clad in a blue frockcoat with brass buttons.
Slowly he set down his hat and books and adjusted the folds of his coat (as though such a thing were necessary!) , and seated himself in his place.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, rubbing his hands, “let us first of all repeat the general contents of the last lesson: after which I will proceed to narrate the succeeding events of the middle ages.”
This meant “Say over the last lesson.” While Woloda was answering the master with the entire ease and confidence which come of knowing a subject well, I went aimlessly out on to the landing, and, since I was not allowed to go downstairs, what more natural than that I should involuntarily turn towards the alcove on the landing? Yet before I had time to establish myself in my usual coign of vantage behind the door I found myself pounced upon by Mimi--always the cause of my misfortunes!
“YOU here?” she said, looking severely, first at myself, and then at the maidservants’ door, and then at myself again.
I felt thoroughly guilty, firstly, because I was not in the schoolroom, and secondly, because I was in a forbidden place. So I remained silent, and, dropping my head, assumed a touching expression of contrition.
“Indeed, this is TOO bad!” Mimi went on, “What are you doing here?”
Still I said nothing.
“Well, it shall not rest where it is,” she added, tapping the banister with her yellow fingers. “I shall inform the Countess.”
It was five minutes to three when I re-entered the schoolroom. The master, as though oblivious of my presence or absence, was explaining the new lesson to Woloda. When he had finished doing this, and had put his books together (while Woloda went into the other room to fetch his ticket), the comforting idea occurred to me that perhaps the whole thing was over now, and that the master had forgotten me.
But suddenly he turned in my direction with a malicious smile, and said as he rubbed his hands anew, “I hope you have learnt your lesson?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Would you be so kind, then, as to tell me something about St. Louis’ Crusade?” he went on, balancing himself on his chair and looking gravely at his feet. “Firstly, tell me something about the reasons which induced the French king to assume the cross” (here he raised his eyebrows and pointed to the inkstand); “then explain to me the general characteristics of the Crusade” (here he made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as though to seize hold of something with it); “and lastly, expound to me the influence of this Crusade upon the European states in general” (drawing the copy books to the left side of the table) “and upon the French state in particular” (drawing one of them to the right, and inclining his head in the same direction).
I swallowed a few times, coughed, bent forward, and was silent. Then, taking a pen from the table, I began to pick it to pieces, yet still said nothing.
“Allow me the pen--I shall want it,” said the master. “Well?”
“Louis the-er-Saint was-was-a very good and wise king.”
“What?”
“King, He took it into his head to go to Jerusalem, and handed over the reins of government to his mother.”
“What was her name?
“B-b-b-lanka.”
“What? Belanka?”
I laughed in a rather forced manner.
“Well, is that all you know?” he asked again, smiling.
I had nothing to lose now, so I began chattering the first thing that came into my head. The master remained silent as he gathered together the remains of the pen which I had left strewn about the table, looked gravely past my ear at the wall, and repeated from time to time, “Very well, very well.” Though I was conscious that I knew nothing whatever and was expressing myself all wrong, I felt much hurt at the fact that he never either corrected or interrupted me.
“What made him think of going to Jerusalem?” he asked at last, repeating some words of my own.
“Because--because--that is to say--” My confusion was complete, and I relapsed into silence, I felt that, even if this disgusting history master were to go on putting questions to me, and gazing inquiringly into my face, for a year, I should never be able to enunciate another syllable. After staring at me for some three minutes, he suddenly assumed a mournful cast of countenance, and said in an agitated voice to Woloda (who was just re-entering the room): “Allow me the register. I will write my remarks.”
He opened the book thoughtfully, and in his fine caligraphy marked FIVE for Woloda for diligence, and the same for good behaviour. Then, resting his pen on the line where my report was to go, he looked at me and reflected. Suddenly his hand made a decisive movement and, behold, against my name stood a clearly-marked ONE, with a full stop after it! Another movement and in the behaviour column there stood another one and another full stop! Quietly closing the book, the master then rose, and moved towards the door as though unconscious of my look of entreaty, despair, and reproach.
“Michael Lavionitch!” I said.
“No!” he replied, as though knowing beforehand what I was about to say. “It is impossible for you to learn in that way. I am not going to earn my money for nothing.”
He put on his goloshes and cloak, and then slowly tied a scarf about his neck. To think that he could care about such trifles after what had just happened to me! To him it was all a mere stroke of the pen, but to me it meant the direst misfortune.
“Is the lesson over?” asked St. Jerome, entering.
“Yes.”
“And was the master pleased with you?”
“Yes.”
“How many marks did he give you?”
“Five.”
“And to Nicholas?”
I was silent.
“I think four,” said Woloda. His idea was to save me for at least today. If punishment there must be, it need not be awarded while we had guests.
“Voyons, Messieurs!” (St. Jerome was forever saying “Voyons!”) “Faites votre toilette, et descendons.”
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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12
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THE KEY
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We had hardly descended and greeted our guests when luncheon was announced. Papa was in the highest of spirits since for some time past he had been winning. He had presented Lubotshka with a silver tea service, and suddenly remembered, after luncheon, that he had forgotten a box of bonbons which she was to have too.
“Why send a servant for it? YOU had better go, Koko,” he said to me jestingly. “The keys are in the tray on the table, you know. Take them, and with the largest one open the second drawer on the right. There you will find the box of bonbons. Bring it here.”
“Shall I get you some cigars as well?” said I, knowing that he always smoked after luncheon.
“Yes, do; but don’t touch anything else.”
I found the keys, and was about to carry out my orders, when I was seized with a desire to know what the smallest of the keys on the bunch belonged to.
On the table I saw, among many other things, a padlocked portfolio, and at once felt curious to see if that was what the key fitted. My experiment was crowned with success. The portfolio opened and disclosed a number of papers. Curiosity so strongly urged me also to ascertain what those papers contained that the voice of conscience was stilled, and I began to read their contents. . . .
My childish feeling of unlimited respect for my elders, especially for Papa, was so strong within me that my intellect involuntarily refused to draw any conclusions from what I had seen. I felt that Papa was living in a sphere completely apart from, incomprehensible by, and unattainable for, me, as well as one that was in every way excellent, and that any attempt on my part to criticise the secrets of his life would constitute something like sacrilege.
For this reason, the discovery which I made from Papa’s portfolio left no clear impression upon my mind, but only a dim consciousness that I had done wrong. I felt ashamed and confused.
The feeling made me eager to shut the portfolio again as quickly as possible, but it seemed as though on this unlucky day I was destined to experience every possible kind of adversity. I put the key back into the padlock and turned it round, but not in the right direction. Thinking that the portfolio was now locked, I pulled at the key and, oh horror! found my hand come away with only the top half of the key in it! In vain did I try to put the two halves together, and to extract the portion that was sticking in the padlock. At last I had to resign myself to the dreadful thought that I had committed a new crime--one which would be discovered to-day as soon as ever Papa returned to his study! First of all, Mimi’s accusation on the staircase, and then that one mark, and then this key! Nothing worse could happen now. This very evening I should be assailed successively by Grandmamma (because of Mimi’s denunciation), by St. Jerome (because of the solitary mark), and by Papa (because of the matter of this key)--yes, all in one evening!
“What on earth is to become of me? What have I done?” I exclaimed as I paced the soft carpet. “Well,” I went on with sudden determination, “what MUST come, MUST--that’s all;” and, taking up the bonbons and the cigars, I ran back to the other part of the house.
The fatalistic formula with which I had concluded (and which was one that I often heard Nicola utter during my childhood) always produced in me, at the more difficult crises of my life, a momentarily soothing, beneficial effect. Consequently, when I re-entered the drawing-room, I was in a rather excited, unnatural mood, yet one that was perfectly cheerful.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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13
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THE TRAITRESS
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After luncheon we began to play at round games, in which I took a lively part. While indulging in “cat and mouse”, I happened to cannon rather awkwardly against the Kornakoffs’ governess, who was playing with us, and, stepping on her dress, tore a large hole in it. Seeing that the girls--particularly Sonetchka--were anything but displeased at the spectacle of the governess angrily departing to the maidservants’ room to have her dress mended, I resolved to procure them the satisfaction a second time. Accordingly, in pursuance of this amiable resolution, I waited until my victim returned, and then began to gallop madly round her, until a favourable moment occurred for once more planting my heel upon her dress and reopening the rent. Sonetchka and the young princesses had much ado to restrain their laughter, which excited my conceit the more, but St. Jerome, who had probably divined my tricks, came up to me with the frown which I could never abide in him, and said that, since I seemed disposed to mischief, he would have to send me away if I did not moderate my behaviour.
However, I was in the desperate position of a person who, having staked more than he has in his pocket, and feeling that he can never make up his account, continues to plunge on unlucky cards--not because he hopes to regain his losses, but because it will not do for him to stop and consider. So, I merely laughed in an impudent fashion and flung away from my monitor.
After “cat and mouse”, another game followed in which the gentlemen sit on one row of chairs and the ladies on another, and choose each other for partners. The youngest princess always chose the younger Iwin, Katenka either Woloda or Ilinka, and Sonetchka Seriosha--nor, to my extreme astonishment, did Sonetchka seem at all embarrassed when her cavalier went and sat down beside her. On the contrary, she only laughed her sweet, musical laugh, and made a sign with her head that he had chosen right. Since nobody chose me, I always had the mortification of finding myself left over, and of hearing them say, “Who has been left out? Oh, Nicolinka. Well, DO take him, somebody.” Consequently, whenever it came to my turn to guess who had chosen me, I had to go either to my sister or to one of the ugly elder princesses. Sonetchka seemed so absorbed in Seriosha that in her eyes I clearly existed no longer. I do not quite know why I called her “the traitress” in my thoughts, since she had never promised to choose me instead of Seriosha, but, for all that, I felt convinced that she was treating me in a very abominable fashion. After the game was finished, I actually saw “the traitress” (from whom I nevertheless could not withdraw my eyes) go with Seriosha and Katenka into a corner, and engage in secret confabulation. Stealing softly round the piano which masked the conclave, I beheld the following: Katenka was holding up a pocket-handkerchief by two of its corners, so as to form a screen for the heads of her two companions. “No, you have lost! You must pay the forfeit!” cried Seriosha at that moment, and Sonetchka, who was standing in front of him, blushed like a criminal as she replied, “No, I have NOT lost! HAVE I, Mademoiselle Katherine?” “Well, I must speak the truth,” answered Katenka, “and say that you HAVE lost, my dear.” Scarcely had she spoken the words when Seriosha embraced Sonetchka, and kissed her right on her rosy lips! And Sonetchka smiled as though it were nothing, but merely something very pleasant!
Horrors! The artful “traitress!”
|
{
"id": "2450"
}
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14
|
THE RETRIBUTION
|
Instantly, I began to feel a strong contempt for the female sex in general and Sonetchka in particular. I began to think that there was nothing at all amusing in these games--that they were only fit for girls, and felt as though I should like to make a great noise, or to do something of such extraordinary boldness that every one would be forced to admire it. The opportunity soon arrived. St. Jerome said something to Mimi, and then left the room, I could hear his footsteps ascending the staircase, and then passing across the schoolroom, and the idea occurred to me that Mimi must have told him her story about my being found on the landing, and thereupon he had gone to look at the register. (In those days, it must be remembered, I believed that St. Jerome’s whole aim in life was to annoy me.) Some where I have read that, not infrequently, children of from twelve to fourteen years of age--that is to say, children just passing from childhood to adolescence--are addicted to incendiarism, or even to murder. As I look back upon my childhood, and particularly upon the mood in which I was on that (for myself) most unlucky day, I can quite understand the possibility of such terrible crimes being committed by children without any real aim in view--without any real wish to do wrong, but merely out of curiosity or under the influence of an unconscious necessity for action. There are moments when the human being sees the future in such lurid colours that he shrinks from fixing his mental eye upon it, puts a check upon all his intellectual activity, and tries to feel convinced that the future will never be, and that the past has never been. At such moments--moments when thought does not shrink from manifestations of will, and the carnal instincts alone constitute the springs of life--I can understand that want of experience (which is a particularly predisposing factor in this connection) might very possibly lead a child, aye, without fear or hesitation, but rather with a smile of curiosity on its face, to set fire to the house in which its parents and brothers and sisters (beings whom it tenderly loves) are lying asleep. It would be under the same influence of momentary absence of thought--almost absence of mind--that a peasant boy of seventeen might catch sight of the edge of a newly-sharpened axe reposing near the bench on which his aged father was lying asleep, face downwards, and suddenly raise the implement in order to observe with unconscious curiosity how the blood would come spurting out upon the floor if he made a wound in the sleeper’s neck. It is under the same influence--the same absence of thought, the same instinctive curiosity--that a man finds delight in standing on the brink of an abyss and thinking to himself, “How if I were to throw myself down?” or in holding to his brow a loaded pistol and wondering, “What if I were to pull the trigger?” or in feeling, when he catches sight of some universally respected personage, that he would like to go up to him, pull his nose hard, and say, “How do you do, old boy?”
Under the spell, then, of this instinctive agitation and lack of reflection I was moved to put out my tongue, and to say that I would not move, when St. Jerome came down and told me that I had behaved so badly that day, as well as done my lessons so ill, that I had no right to be where I was, and must go upstairs directly.
At first, from astonishment and anger, he could not utter a word.
“C’est bien!” he exclaimed eventually as he darted towards me. “Several times have I promised to punish you, and you have been saved from it by your Grandmamma, but now I see that nothing but the cane will teach you obedience, and you shall therefore taste it.”
This was said loud enough for every one to hear. The blood rushed to my heart with such vehemence that I could feel that organ beating violently--could feel the colour rising to my cheeks and my lips trembling. Probably I looked horrible at that moment, for, avoiding my eye, St. Jerome stepped forward and caught me by the hand. Hardly feeling his touch, I pulled away my hand in blind fury, and with all my childish might struck him.
“What are you doing?” said Woloda, who had seen my behaviour, and now approached me in alarm and astonishment.
“Let me alone!” I exclaimed, the tears flowing fast. “Not a single one of you loves me or understands how miserable I am! You are all of you odious and disgusting!” I added bluntly, turning to the company at large.
At this moment St. Jerome--his face pale, but determined--approached me again, and, with a movement too quick to admit of any defence, seized my hands as with a pair of tongs, and dragged me away. My head swam with excitement, and I can only remember that, so long as I had strength to do it, I fought with head and legs; that my nose several times collided with a pair of knees; that my teeth tore some one’s coat; that all around me I could hear the shuffling of feet; and that I could smell dust and the scent of violets with which St. Jerome used to perfume himself.
Five minutes later the door of the store-room closed behind me.
“Basil,” said a triumphant but detestable voice, “bring me the cane.”
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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15
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DREAMS
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Could I at that moment have supposed that I should ever live to survive the misfortunes of that day, or that there would ever come a time when I should be able to look back upon those misfortunes composedly?
As I sat there thinking over what I had done, I could not imagine what the matter had been with me. I only felt with despair that I was for ever lost.
At first the most profound stillness reigned around me--at least, so it appeared to me as compared with the violent internal emotion which I had been experiencing; but by and by I began to distinguish various sounds. Basil brought something downstairs which he laid upon a chest outside. It sounded like a broom-stick. Below me I could hear St. Jerome’s grumbling voice (probably he was speaking of me), and then children’s voices and laughter and footsteps; until in a few moments everything seemed to have regained its normal course in the house, as though nobody knew or cared to know that here was I sitting alone in the dark store-room!
I did not cry, but something lay heavy, like a stone, upon my heart. Ideas and pictures passed with extraordinary rapidity before my troubled imagination, yet through their fantastic sequence broke continually the remembrance of the misfortune which had befallen me as I once again plunged into an interminable labyrinth of conjectures as to the punishment, the fate, and the despair that were awaiting me. The thought occurred to me that there must be some reason for the general dislike--even contempt--which I fancied to be felt for me by others. I was firmly convinced that every one, from Grandmamma down to the coachman Philip, despised me, and found pleasure in my sufferings. Next an idea struck me that perhaps I was not the son of my father and mother at all, nor Woloda’s brother, but only some unfortunate orphan who had been adopted by them out of compassion, and this absurd notion not only afforded me a certain melancholy consolation, but seemed to me quite probable. I found it comforting to think that I was unhappy, not through my own fault, but because I was fated to be so from my birth, and conceived that my destiny was very much like poor Karl Ivanitch’s.
“Why conceal the secret any longer, now that I have discovered it?” I reflected. “To-morrow I will go to Papa and say to him, ‘It is in vain for you to try and conceal from me the mystery of my birth. I know it already.’ And he will answer me, ‘What else could I do, my good fellow? Sooner or later you would have had to know that you are not my son, but were adopted as such. Nevertheless, so long as you remain worthy of my love, I will never cast you out.’ Then I shall say, ‘Papa, though I have no right to call you by that name, and am now doing so for the last time, I have always loved you, and shall always retain that love. At the same time, while I can never forget that you have been my benefactor, I cannot remain longer in your house. Nobody here loves me, and St. Jerome has wrought my ruin. Either he or I must go forth, since I cannot answer for myself. I hate the man so that I could do anything--I could even kill him.’ Papa will begin to entreat me, but I shall make a gesture, and say, ‘No, no, my friend and benefactor! We cannot live together. Let me go’--and for the last time I shall embrace him, and say in French, ‘O mon pere, O mon bienfaiteur, donne moi, pour la derniere fois, ta benediction, et que la volonte de Dieu soit faite! ’” I sobbed bitterly at these thoughts as I sat on a trunk in that dark storeroom. Then, suddenly recollecting the shameful punishment which was awaiting me, I would find myself back again in actuality, and the dreams had fled. Soon, again, I began to fancy myself far away from the house and alone in the world. I enter a hussar regiment and go to war. Surrounded by the foe on every side, I wave my sword, and kill one of them and wound another--then a third,--then a fourth. At last, exhausted with loss of blood and fatigue, I fall to the ground and cry, “Victory!” The general comes to look for me, asking, “Where is our saviour?” whereupon I am pointed out to him. He embraces me, and, in his turn, exclaims with tears of joy, “Victory!” I recover and, with my arm in a black sling, go to walk on the boulevards. I am a general now. I meet the Emperor, who asks, “Who is this young man who has been wounded?” He is told that it is the famous hero Nicolas; whereupon he approaches me and says, “My thanks to you! Whatsoever you may ask for, I will grant it.” To this I bow respectfully, and, leaning on my sword, reply, “I am happy, most august Emperor, that I have been able to shed my blood for my country. I would gladly have died for it. Yet, since you are so generous as to grant any wish of mine, I venture to ask of you permission to annihilate my enemy, the foreigner St. Jerome” And then I step fiercely before St. Jerome and say, “YOU were the cause of all my fortunes! Down now on your knees!”
Unfortunately this recalled to my mind the fact that at any moment the REAL St. Jerome might be entering with the cane; so that once more I saw myself, not a general and the saviour of my country, but an unhappy, pitiful creature.
Then the idea of God occurred to me, and I asked Him boldly why He had punished me thus, seeing that I had never forgotten to say my prayers, either morning or evening. Indeed, I can positively declare that it was during that hour in the store-room that I took the first step towards the religious doubt which afterwards assailed me during my youth (not that mere misfortune could arouse me to infidelity and murmuring, but that, at moments of utter contrition and solitude, the idea of the injustice of Providence took root in me as readily as bad seed takes root in land well soaked with rain). Also, I imagined that I was going to die there and then, and drew vivid pictures of St. Jerome’s astonishment when he entered the store-room and found a corpse there instead of myself! Likewise, recollecting what Natalia Savishna had told me of the forty days during which the souls of the departed must hover around their earthly home, I imagined myself flying through the rooms of Grandmamma’s house, and seeing Lubotshka’s bitter tears, and hearing Grandmamma’s lamentations, and listening to Papa and St. Jerome talking together. “He was a fine boy,” Papa would say with tears in his eyes. “Yes,” St. Jerome would reply, “but a sad scapegrace and good-for-nothing.” “But you should respect the dead,” would expostulate Papa. “YOU were the cause of his death; YOU frightened him until he could no longer bear the thought of the humiliation which you were about to inflict upon him. Away from me, criminal!” Upon that St. Jerome would fall upon his knees and implore forgiveness, and when the forty days were ended my soul would fly to Heaven, and see there something wonderfully beautiful, white, and transparent, and know that it was Mamma.
And that something would embrace and caress me. Yet, all at once, I should feel troubled, and not know her. “If it be you,” I should say to her, “show yourself more distinctly, so that I may embrace you in return.” And her voice would answer me, “Do you not feel happy thus?” and I should reply, “Yes, I do, but you cannot REALLY caress me, and I cannot REALLY kiss your hand like this.” “But it is not necessary,” she would say. “There can be happiness here without that,”--and I should feel that it was so, and we should ascend together, ever higher and higher, until--Suddenly I feel as though I am being thrown down again, and find myself sitting on the trunk in the dark store-room (my cheeks wet with tears and my thoughts in a mist), yet still repeating the words, “Let us ascend together, higher and higher.” Indeed, it was a long, long while before I could remember where I was, for at that moment my mind’s eye saw only a dark, dreadful, illimitable void. I tried to renew the happy, consoling dream which had been thus interrupted by the return to reality, but, to my surprise, I found that, as soon as ever I attempted to re-enter former dreams, their continuation became impossible, while--which astonished me even more--they no longer gave me pleasure.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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16
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“KEEP ON GRINDING, AND YOU’LL HAVE FLOUR”
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I PASSED the night in the store-room, and nothing further happened, except that on the following morning--a Sunday--I was removed to a small chamber adjoining the schoolroom, and once more shut up. I began to hope that my punishment was going to be limited to confinement, and found my thoughts growing calmer under the influence of a sound, soft sleep, the clear sunlight playing upon the frost crystals of the windowpanes, and the familiar noises in the street.
Nevertheless, solitude gradually became intolerable. I wanted to move about, and to communicate to some one all that was lying upon my heart, but not a living creature was near me. The position was the more unpleasant because, willy-nilly, I could hear St. Jerome walking about in his room, and softly whistling some hackneyed tune. Somehow, I felt convinced that he was whistling not because he wanted to, but because he knew it annoyed me.
At two o’clock, he and Woloda departed downstairs, and Nicola brought me up some luncheon. When I told him what I had done and what was awaiting me he said: “Pshaw, sir! Don’t be alarmed. ‘Keep on grinding, and you’ll have flour. ’” Although this expression (which also in later days has more than once helped me to preserve my firmness of mind) brought me a little comfort, the fact that I received, not bread and water only, but a whole luncheon, and even dessert, gave me much to think about. If they had sent me no dessert, it would have meant that my punishment was to be limited to confinement; whereas it was now evident that I was looked upon as not yet punished--that I was only being kept away from the others, as an evil-doer, until the due time of punishment. While I was still debating the question, the key of my prison turned, and St. Jerome entered with a severe, official air.
“Come down and see your Grandmamma,” he said without looking at me.
I should have liked first to have brushed my jacket, since it was covered with dust, but St. Jerome said that that was quite unnecessary, since I was in such a deplorable moral condition that my exterior was not worth considering. As he led me through the salon, Katenka, Lubotshka, and Woloda looked at me with much the same expression as we were wont to look at the convicts who on certain days filed past my grandmother’s house. Likewise, when I approached Grandmamma’s arm-chair to kiss her hand, she withdrew it, and thrust it under her mantilla.
“Well, my dear,” she began after a long pause, during which she regarded me from head to foot with the kind of expression which makes one uncertain where to look or what to do, “I must say that you seem to value my love very highly, and afford me great consolation.” Then she went on, with an emphasis on each word, “Monsieur St. Jerome, who, at my request, undertook your education, says that he can no longer remain in the house. And why? Simply because of you.” Another pause ensued. Presently she continued in a tone which clearly showed that her speech had been prepared beforehand, “I had hoped that you would be grateful for all his care, and for all the trouble that he has taken with you, that you would have appreciated his services; but you--you baby, you silly boy! --you actually dare to raise your hand against him! Very well, very good. I am beginning to think that you cannot understand kind treatment, but require to be treated in a very different and humiliating fashion. Go now directly and beg his pardon,” she added in a stern and peremptory tone as she pointed to St. Jerome, “Do you hear me?”
I followed the direction of her finger with my eye, but on that member alighting upon St. Jerome’s coat, I turned my head away, and once more felt my heart beating violently as I remained where I was.
“What? Did you not hear me when I told you what to do?”
I was trembling all over, but I would not stir.
“Koko,” went on my grandmother, probably divining my inward sufferings, “Koko,” she repeated in a voice tender rather than harsh, “is this you?”
“Grandmamma, I cannot beg his pardon for--” and I stopped suddenly, for I felt the next word refuse to come for the tears that were choking me.
“But I ordered you, I begged of you, to do so. What is the matter with you?”
“I-I-I will not--I cannot!” I gasped, and the tears, long pent up and accumulated in my breast, burst forth like a stream which breaks its dikes and goes flowing madly over the country.
“C’est ainsi que vous obeissez a votre seconde mere, c’est ainsi que vous reconnaissez ses bontes!” remarked St. Jerome quietly, “A genoux!”
“Good God! If SHE had seen this!” exclaimed Grandmamma, turning from me and wiping away her tears. “If she had seen this! It may be all for the best, yet she could never have survived such grief--never!” and Grandmamma wept more and more. I too wept, but it never occurred to me to ask for pardon.
“Tranquillisez-vous au nom du ciel, Madame la Comtesse,” said St. Jerome, but Grandmamma heard him not. She covered her face with her hands, and her sobs soon passed to hiccups and hysteria. Mimi and Gasha came running in with frightened faces, salts and spirits were applied, and the whole house was soon in a ferment.
“You may feel pleased at your work,” said St. Jerome to me as he led me from the room.
“Good God! What have I done?” I thought to myself. “What a terribly bad boy I am!”
As soon as St. Jerome, bidding me go into his room, had returned to Grandmamma, I, all unconscious of what I was doing, ran down the grand staircase leading to the front door. Whether I intended to drown myself, or whether merely to run away from home, I do not remember. I only know that I went blindly on, my face covered with my hands that I might see nothing.
“Where are you going to?” asked a well-known voice. “I want you, my boy.”
I would have passed on, but Papa caught hold of me, and said sternly: “Come here, you impudent rascal. How could you dare to do such a thing as to touch the portfolio in my study?” he went on as he dragged me into his room. “Oh! you are silent, eh?” and he pulled my ear.
“Yes, I WAS naughty,” I said. “I don’t know myself what came over me then.”
“So you don’t know what came over you--you don’t know, you don’t know?” he repeated as he pulled my ear harder and harder. “Will you go and put your nose where you ought not to again--will you, will you?”
Although my ear was in great pain, I did not cry, but, on the contrary, felt a sort of morally pleasing sensation. No sooner did he let go of my ear than I seized his hand and covered it with tears and kisses.
“Please whip me!” I cried, sobbing. “Please hurt me the more and more, for I am a wretched, bad, miserable boy!”
“Why, what on earth is the matter with you?” he said, giving me a slight push from him.
“No, I will not go away!” I continued, seizing his coat. “Every one else hates me--I know that, but do YOU listen to me and protect me, or else send me away altogether. I cannot live with HIM. He tries to humiliate me--he tells me to kneel before him, and wants to strike me. I can’t stand it. I’m not a baby. I can’t stand it--I shall die, I shall kill myself. HE told Grandmamma that I was naughty, and now she is ill--she will die through me. It is all his fault. Please let me--W-why should-he-tor-ment me?”
The tears choked my further speech. I sat down on the sofa, and, with my head buried on Papa’s knees, sobbed until I thought I should die of grief.
“Come, come! Why are you such a water-pump?” said Papa compassionately, as he stooped over me.
“He is such a bully! He is murdering me! I shall die! Nobody loves me at all!” I gasped almost inaudibly, and went into convulsions.
Papa lifted me up, and carried me to my bedroom, where I fell asleep.
When I awoke it was late. Only a solitary candle burned in the room, while beside the bed there were seated Mimi, Lubotshka, and our doctor. In their faces I could discern anxiety for my health, so, although I felt so well after my twelve-hours’ sleep that I could have got up directly, I thought it best to let them continue thinking that I was unwell.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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17
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HATRED
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Yes, it was the real feeling of hatred that was mine now--not the hatred of which one reads in novels, and in the existence of which I do not believe--the hatred which finds satisfaction in doing harm to a fellow-creature, but the hatred which consists of an unconquerable aversion to a person who may be wholly deserving of your esteem, yet whose very hair, neck, walk, voice, limbs, movements, and everything else are disgusting to you, while all the while an incomprehensible force attracts you towards him, and compels you to follow his slightest acts with anxious attention.
This was the feeling which I cherished for St. Jerome, who had lived with us now for a year and a half.
Judging coolly of the man at this time of day, I find that he was a true Frenchman, but a Frenchman in the better acceptation of the term. He was fairly well educated, and fulfilled his duties to us conscientiously, but he had the peculiar features of fickle egotism, boastfulness, impertinence, and ignorant self-assurance which are common to all his countrymen, as well as entirely opposed to the Russian character.
All this set me against him, Grandmamma had signified to him her dislike for corporal punishment, and therefore he dared not beat us, but he frequently THREATENED us, particularly myself, with the cane, and would utter the word fouetter as though it were fouatter in an expressive and detestable way which always gave me the idea that to whip me would afford him the greatest possible satisfaction.
I was not in the least afraid of the bodily pain, for I had never experienced it. It was the mere idea that he could beat me that threw me into such paroxysms of wrath and despair.
True, Karl Ivanitch sometimes (in moments of exasperation) had recourse to a ruler or to his braces, but that I can look back upon without anger. Even if he had struck me at the time of which I am now speaking (namely, when I was fourteen years old), I should have submitted quietly to the correction, for I loved him, and had known him all my life, and looked upon him as a member of our family, but St. Jerome was a conceited, opinionated fellow for whom I felt merely the unwilling respect which I entertained for all persons older than myself. Karl Ivanitch was a comical old “Uncle” whom I loved with my whole heart, but who, according to my childish conception of social distinctions, ranked below us, whereas St. Jerome was a well-educated, handsome young dandy who was for showing himself the equal of any one.
Karl Ivanitch had always scolded and punished us coolly, as though he thought it a necessary, but extremely disagreeable, duty. St. Jerome, on the contrary, always liked to emphasise his part as JUDGE when correcting us, and clearly did it as much for his own satisfaction as for our good. He loved authority. Nevertheless, I always found his grandiloquent French phrases (which he pronounced with a strong emphasis on all the final syllables) inexpressibly disgusting, whereas Karl, when angry, had never said anything beyond, “What a foolish puppet-comedy it is!” or “You boys are as irritating as Spanish fly!” (which he always called “Spaniard” fly). St. Jerome, however, had names for us like “mauvais sujet,” “villain,” “garnement,” and so forth--epithets which greatly offended my self-respect. When Karl Ivanitch ordered us to kneel in the corner with our faces to the wall, the punishment consisted merely in the bodily discomfort of the position, whereas St. Jerome, in such cases, always assumed a haughty air, made a grandiose gesture with his hand, and exclaiming in a pseudo-tragic tone, “A genoux, mauvais sujet!” ordered us to kneel with our faces towards him, and to crave his pardon. His punishment consisted in humiliation.
However, on the present occasion the punishment never came, nor was the matter ever referred to again. Yet, I could not forget all that I had gone through--the shame, the fear, and the hatred of those two days. From that time forth, St. Jerome appeared to give me up in despair, and took no further trouble with me, yet I could not bring myself to treat him with indifference. Every time that our eyes met I felt that my look expressed only too plainly my dislike, and, though I tried hard to assume a careless air, he seemed to divine my hypocrisy, until I was forced to blush and turn away.
In short, it was a terrible trial to me to have anything to do with him.
|
{
"id": "2450"
}
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18
|
THE MAIDSERVANTS’ ROOM
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I BEGAN to feel more and more lonely, until my chief solace lay in solitary reflection and observation. Of the favourite subject of my reflections I shall speak in the next chapter. The scene where I indulged in them was, for preference, the maidservants’ room, where a plot suitable for a novel was in progress--a plot which touched and engrossed me to the highest degree. The heroine of the romance was, of course, Masha. She was in love with Basil, who had known her before she had become a servant in our house, and who had promised to marry her some day. Unfortunately, fate, which had separated them five years ago, and afterwards reunited them in Grandmamma’s abode, next proceeded to interpose an obstacle between them in the shape of Masha’s uncle, our man Nicola, who would not hear of his niece marrying that “uneducated and unbearable fellow,” as he called Basil. One effect of the obstacle had been to make the otherwise slightly cool and indifferent Basil fall as passionately in love with Masha as it is possible for a man to be who is only a servant and a tailor, wears a red shirt, and has his hair pomaded. Although his methods of expressing his affection were odd (for instance, whenever he met Masha he always endeavoured to inflict upon her some bodily pain, either by pinching her, giving her a slap with his open hand, or squeezing her so hard that she could scarcely breathe), that affection was sincere enough, and he proved it by the fact that, from the moment when Nicola refused him his niece’s hand, his grief led him to drinking, and to frequenting taverns, until he proved so unruly that more than once he had to be sent to undergo a humiliating chastisement at the police-station.
Nevertheless, these faults of his and their consequences only served to elevate him in Masha’s eyes, and to increase her love for him. Whenever he was in the hands of the police, she would sit crying the whole day, and complain to Gasha of her hard fate (Gasha played an active part in the affairs of these unfortunate lovers). Then, regardless of her uncle’s anger and blows, she would stealthily make her way to the police-station, there to visit and console her swain.
Excuse me, reader, for introducing you to such company. Nevertheless, if the cords of love and compassion have not wholly snapped in your soul, you will find, even in that maidservants’ room, something which may cause them to vibrate again.
So, whether you please to follow me or not, I will return to the alcove on the staircase whence I was able to observe all that passed in that room. From my post I could see the stove-couch, with, upon it, an iron, an old cap-stand with its peg bent crooked, a wash-tub, and a basin. There, too, was the window, with, in fine disorder before it, a piece of black wax, some fragments of silk, a half-eaten cucumber, a box of sweets, and so on. There, too, was the large table at which SHE used to sit in the pink cotton dress which I admired so much and the blue handkerchief which always caught my attention so. She would be sewing-though interrupting her work at intervals to scratch her head a little, to bite the end of her thread, or to snuff the candle--and I would think to myself: “Why was she not born a lady--she with her blue eyes, beautiful fair hair, and magnificent bust? How splendid she would look if she were sitting in a drawing-room and dressed in a cap with pink ribbons and a silk gown--not one like Mimi’s, but one like the gown which I saw the other day on the Tverski Boulevard!” Yes, she would work at the embroidery-frame, and I would sit and look at her in the mirror, and be ready to do whatsoever she wanted--to help her on with her mantle or to hand her food. As for Basil’s drunken face and horrid figure in the scanty coat with the red shirt showing beneath it, well, in his every gesture, in his every movement of his back, I seemed always to see signs of the humiliating chastisements which he had undergone.
“Ah, Basil! AGAIN?” cried Masha on one occasion as she stuck her needle into the pincushion, but without looking up at the person who was entering.
“What is the good of a man like HIM?” was Basil’s first remark.
“Yes. If only he would say something DECISIVE! But I am powerless in the matter--I am all at odds and ends, and through his fault, too.”
“Will you have some tea?” put in Madesha (another servant).
“No, thank you. --But why does he hate me so, that old thief of an uncle of yours? Why? Is it because of the clothes I wear, or of my height, or of my walk, or what? Well, damn and confound him!” finished Basil, snapping his fingers.
“We must be patient,” said Masha, threading her needle.
“You are so--” “It is my nerves that won’t stand it, that’s all.”
At this moment the door of Grandmamma’s room banged, and Gasha’s angry voice could be heard as she came up the stairs.
“There!” she muttered with a gesture of her hands. “Try to please people when even they themselves do not know what they want, and it is a cursed life--sheer hard labour, and nothing else! If only a certain thing would happen! --though God forgive me for thinking it!”
“Good evening, Agatha Michaelovna,” said Basil, rising to greet her.
“You here?” she answered brusquely as she stared at him, “That is not very much to your credit. What do you come here for? Is the maids’ room a proper place for men?”
“I wanted to see how you were,” said Basil soothingly.
“I shall soon be breathing my last--THAT’S how I am!” cried Gasha, still greatly incensed.
Basil laughed.
“Oh, there’s nothing to laugh at when I say that I shall soon be dead. But that’s how it will be, all the same. Just look at the drunkard! Marry her, would he? The fool! Come, get out of here!” and, with a stamp of her foot on the floor, Gasha retreated to her own room, and banged the door behind her until the window rattled again. For a while she could be heard scolding at everything, flinging dresses and other things about, and pulling the ears of her favourite cat. Then the door opened again, and puss, mewing pitifully, was flung forth by the tail.
“I had better come another time for tea,” said Basil in a whisper--“at some better time for our meeting.”
“No, no!” put in Madesha. “I’ll go and fetch the urn at once.”
“I mean to put an end to things soon,” went on Basil, seating himself beside Masha as soon as ever Madesha had left the room. “I had much better go straight to the Countess, and say ‘so-and-so’ or I will throw up my situation and go off into the world. Oh dear, oh dear!”
“And am I to remain here?”
“Ah, there’s the difficulty--that’s what I feel so badly about, You have been my sweetheart so long, you see. Ah, dear me!”
“Why don’t you bring me your shirts to wash, Basil?” asked Masha after a pause, during which she had been inspecting his wrist-bands.
At this moment Grandmamma’s bell rang, and Gasha issued from her room again.
“What do you want with her, you impudent fellow?” she cried as she pushed Basil (who had risen at her entrance) before her towards the door. “First you lead a girl on, and then you want to lead her further still. I suppose it amuses you to see her tears. There’s the door, now. Off you go! We want your room, not your company. And what good can you see in him?” she went on, turning to Masha. “Has not your uncle been walking into you to-day already? No; she must stick to her promise, forsooth! ‘I will have no one but Basil,’ Fool that you are!”
“Yes, I WILL have no one but him! I’ll never love any one else! I could kill myself for him!” poor Masha burst out, the tears suddenly gushing forth.
For a while I stood watching her as she wiped away those tears. Then I fell to contemplating Basil attentively, in the hope of finding out what there was in him that she found so attractive; yet, though I sympathised with her sincerely in her grief, I could not for the life of me understand how such a charming creature as I considered her to be could love a man like him.
“When I become a man,” I thought to myself as I returned to my room, “Petrovskoe shall be mine, and Basil and Masha my servants. Some day, when I am sitting in my study and smoking a pipe, Masha will chance to pass the door on her way to the kitchen with an iron, and I shall say, ‘Masha, come here,’ and she will enter, and there will be no one else in the room. Then suddenly Basil too will enter, and, on seeing her, will cry, ‘My sweetheart is lost to me!’ and Masha will begin to weep, Then I shall say, ‘Basil, I know that you love her, and that she loves you. Here are a thousand roubles for you. Marry her, and may God grant you both happiness!’ Then I shall leave them together.”
Among the countless thoughts and fancies which pass, without logic or sequence, through the mind and the imagination, there are always some which leave behind them a mark so profound that, without remembering their exact subject, we can at least recall that something good has passed through our brain, and try to retain and reproduce its effect. Such was the mark left upon my consciousness by the idea of sacrificing my feelings to Masha’s happiness, seeing that she believed that she could attain it only through a union with Basil.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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19
|
BOYHOOD
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PERHAPS people will scarcely believe me when I tell them what were the dearest, most constant, objects of my reflections during my boyhood, so little did those objects consort with my age and position. Yet, in my opinion, contrast between a man’s actual position and his moral activity constitutes the most reliable sign of his genuineness.
During the period when I was leading a solitary and self-centred moral life, I was much taken up with abstract thoughts on man’s destiny, on a future life, and on the immortality of the soul, and, with all the ardour of inexperience, strove to make my youthful intellect solve those questions--the questions which constitute the highest level of thought to which the human intellect can tend, but a final decision of which the human intellect can never succeed in attaining.
I believe the intellect to take the same course of development in the individual as in the mass, as also that the thoughts which serve as a basis for philosophical theories are an inseparable part of that intellect, and that every man must be more or less conscious of those thoughts before he can know anything of the existence of philosophical theories. To my own mind those thoughts presented themselves with such clarity and force that I tried to apply them to life, in the fond belief that I was the first to have discovered such splendid and invaluable truths.
Sometimes I would suppose that happiness depends, not upon external causes themselves, but only upon our relation to them, and that, provided a man can accustom himself to bearing suffering, he need never be unhappy. To prove the latter hypothesis, I would (despite the horrible pain) hold out a Tatistchev’s dictionary at arm’s length for five minutes at a time, or else go into the store-room and scourge my back with cords until the tears involuntarily came to my eyes!
Another time, suddenly bethinking me that death might find me at any hour or any minute, I came to the conclusion that man could only be happy by using the present to the full and taking no thought for the future. Indeed, I wondered how people had never found that out before. Acting under the influence of the new idea, I laid my lesson-books aside for two or three days, and, reposing on my bed, gave myself up to novel-reading and the eating of gingerbread-and-honey which I had bought with my last remaining coins.
Again, standing one day before the blackboard and smearing figures on it with honey, I was struck with the thought, “Why is symmetry so agreeable to the eye? What is symmetry? Of course it is an innate sense,” I continued; “yet what is its basis? Perhaps everything in life is symmetry? But no. On the contrary, this is life”--and I drew an oblong figure on the board--“and after life the soul passes to eternity”--here I drew a line from one end of the oblong figure to the edge of the board. “Why should there not be a corresponding line on the other side? If there be an eternity on one side, there must surely be a corresponding one on the other? That means that we have existed in a previous life, but have lost the recollection of it.”
This conclusion--which seemed to me at the time both clear and novel, but the arguments for which it would be difficult for me, at this distance of time, to piece together--pleased me extremely, so I took a piece of paper and tried to write it down. But at the first attempt such a rush of other thoughts came whirling though my brain that I was obliged to jump up and pace the room. At the window, my attention was arrested by a driver harnessing a horse to a water-cart, and at once my mind concentrated itself upon the decision of the question, “Into what animal or human being will the spirit of that horse pass at death?” Just at that moment, Woloda passed through the room, and smiled to see me absorbed in speculative thoughts. His smile at once made me feel that all that I had been thinking about was utter nonsense.
I have related all this as I recollect it in order to show the reader the nature of my cogitations. No philosophical theory attracted me so much as scepticism, which at one period brought me to a state of mind verging upon insanity. I took the fancy into my head that no one nor anything really existed in the world except myself--that objects were not objects at all, but that images of them became manifest only so soon as I turned my attention upon them, and vanished again directly that I ceased to think about them. In short, this idea of mine (that real objects do not exist, but only one’s conception of them) brought me to Schelling’s well-known theory. There were moments when the influence of this idea led me to such vagaries as, for instance, turning sharply round, in the hope that by the suddenness of the movement I should come in contact with the void which I believed to be existing where I myself purported to be!
What a pitiful spring of moral activity is the human intellect! My faulty reason could not define the impenetrable. Consequently it shattered one fruitless conviction after another--convictions which, happily for my after life, I never lacked the courage to abandon as soon as they proved inadequate. From all this weary mental struggle I derived only a certain pliancy of mind, a weakening of the will, a habit of perpetual moral analysis, and a diminution both of freshness of sentiment and of clearness of thought. Usually abstract thinking develops man’s capacity for apprehending the bent of his mind at certain moments and laying it to heart, but my inclination for abstract thought developed my consciousness in such a way that often when I began to consider even the simplest matter, I would lose myself in a labyrinthine analysis of my own thoughts concerning the matter in question. That is to say, I no longer thought of the matter itself, but only of what I was thinking about it. If I had then asked myself, “Of what am I thinking?” the true answer would have been, “I am thinking of what I am thinking;” and if I had further asked myself, “What, then, are the thoughts of which I am thinking?” I should have had to reply, “They are attempts to think of what I am thinking concerning my own thoughts”--and so on. Reason, with me, had to yield to excess of reason. Every philosophical discovery which I made so flattered my conceit that I often imagined myself to be a great man discovering new truths for the benefit of humanity. Consequently, I looked down with proud dignity upon my fellow-mortals. Yet, strange to state, no sooner did I come in contact with those fellow-mortals than I became filled with a stupid shyness of them, and, the higher I happened to be standing in my own opinion, the less did I feel capable of making others perceive my consciousness of my own dignity, since I could not rid myself of a sense of diffidence concerning even the simplest of my words and acts.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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20
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WOLODA
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THE further I advance in the recital of this period of my life, the more difficult and onerous does the task become. Too rarely do I find among the reminiscences of that time any moments full of the ardent feeling of sincerity which so often and so cheeringly illumined my childhood. Gladly would I pass in haste over my lonely boyhood, the sooner to arrive at the happy time when once again a tender, sincere, and noble friendship marked with a gleam of light at once the termination of that period and the beginning of a phase of my youth which was full of the charm of poetry. Therefore, I will not pursue my recollections from hour to hour, but only throw a cursory glance at the most prominent of them, from the time to which I have now carried my tale to the moment of my first contact with the exceptional personality that was fated to exercise such a decisive influence upon my character and ideas.
Woloda was about to enter the University. Tutors came to give him lessons independently of myself, and I listened with envy and involuntary respect as he drew boldly on the blackboard with white chalk and talked about “functions,” “sines,” and so forth--all of which seemed to me terms pertaining to unattainable wisdom. At length, one Sunday before luncheon all the tutors--and among them two professors--assembled in Grandmamma’s room, and in the presence of Papa and some friends put Woloda through a rehearsal of his University examination--in which, to Grandmamma’s delight, he gave evidence of no ordinary amount of knowledge.
Questions on different subjects were also put to me, but on all of them I showed complete ignorance, while the fact that the professors manifestly endeavoured to conceal that ignorance from Grandmamma only confused me the more. Yet, after all, I was only fifteen, and so had a year before me in which to prepare for the examinations. Woloda now came downstairs for luncheon only, and spent whole days and evenings over his studies in his own room--to which he kept, not from necessity, but because he preferred its seclusion. He was very ambitious, and meant to pass the examinations, not by halves, but with flying colours.
The first day arrived. Woloda was wearing a new blue frockcoat with brass buttons, a gold watch, and shiny boots. At the door stood Papa’s phaeton, which Nicola duly opened; and presently, when Woloda and St. Jerome set out for the University, the girls--particularly Katenka--could be seen gazing with beaming faces from the window at Woloda’s pleasing figure as it sat in the carriage. Papa said several times, “God go with him!” and Grandmamma, who also had dragged herself to the window, continued to make the sign of the cross as long as the phaeton was visible, as well as to murmur something to herself.
When Woloda returned, every one eagerly crowded round him. “How many marks? Were they good ones?” “Yes.” But his happy face was an answer in itself. He had received five marks-the maximum! The next day, he sped on his way with the same good wishes and the same anxiety for his success, and was welcomed home with the same eagerness and joy.
This lasted for nine days. On the tenth day there was to be the last and most difficult examination of all--the one in divinity.
We all stood at the window, and watched for him with greater impatience than ever. Two o’clock, and yet no Woloda.
“Here they come, Papa! Here they come!” suddenly screamed Lubotshka as she peered through the window.
Sure enough the phaeton was driving up with St. Jerome and Woloda--the latter no longer in his grey cap and blue frockcoat, but in the uniform of a student of the University, with its embroidered blue collar, three-cornered hat, and gilded sword.
“Ah! If only SHE had been alive now!” exclaimed Grandmamma on seeing Woloda in this dress, and swooned away.
Woloda enters the anteroom with a beaming face, and embraces myself, Lubotshka, Mimi, and Katenka--the latter blushing to her ears. He hardly knows himself for joy. And how smart he looks in that uniform! How well the blue collar suits his budding, dark moustache! What a tall, elegant figure is his, and what a distinguished walk!
On that memorable day we all lunched together in Grandmamma’s room. Every face expressed delight, and with the dessert which followed the meal the servants, with grave but gratified faces, brought in bottles of champagne.
Grandmamma, for the first time since Mamma’s death, drank a full glass of the wine to Woloda’s health, and wept for joy as she looked at him.
Henceforth Woloda drove his own turn-out, invited his own friends, smoked, and went to balls. On one occasion, I even saw him sharing a couple of bottles of champagne with some guests in his room, and the whole company drinking a toast, with each glass, to some mysterious being, and then quarrelling as to who should have the bottom of the bottle!
Nevertheless he always lunched at home, and after the meal would stretch himself on a sofa and talk confidentially to Katenka: yet from what I overheard (while pretending, of course, to pay no attention) I gathered that they were only talking of the heroes and heroines of novels which they had read, or else of jealousy and love, and so on. Never could I understand what they found so attractive in these conversations, nor why they smiled so happily and discussed things with such animation.
Altogether I could see that, in addition to the friendship natural to persons who had been companions from childhood, there existed between Woloda and Katenka a relation which differentiated them from us, and united them mysteriously to one another.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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21
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KATENKA AND LUBOTSHKA
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Katenka was now sixteen years old--quite a grown-up girl; and although at that age the angular figures, the bashfulness, and the gaucherie peculiar to girls passing from childhood to youth usually replace the comely freshness and graceful, half-developed bloom of childhood, she had in no way altered. Still the blue eyes with their merry glance were hers, the well-shaped nose with firm nostrils and almost forming a line with the forehead, the little mouth with its charming smile, the dimples in the rosy cheeks, and the small white hands. To her, the epithet of “girl,” pure and simple, was pre-eminently applicable, for in her the only new features were a new and “young-lady-like” arrangement of her thick flaxen hair and a youthful bosom--the latter an addition which at once caused her great joy and made her very bashful.
Although Lubotshka and she had grown up together and received the same education, they were totally unlike one another. Lubotshka was not tall, and the rickets from which she had suffered had shaped her feet in goose fashion and made her figure very bad. The only pretty feature in her face was her eyes, which were indeed wonderful, being large and black, and instinct with such an extremely pleasing expression of mingled gravity and naivete that she was bound to attract attention. In everything she was simple and natural, so that, whereas Katenka always looked as though she were trying to be like some one else, Lubotshka looked people straight in the face, and sometimes fixed them so long with her splendid black eyes that she got blamed for doing what was thought to be improper. Katenka, on the contrary, always cast her eyelids down, blinked, and pretended that she was short-sighted, though I knew very well that her sight was excellent. Lubotshka hated being shown off before strangers, and when a visitor offered to kiss her she invariably grew cross, and said that she hated “affection”; whereas, when strangers were present, Katenka was always particularly endearing to Mimi, and loved to walk about the room arm in arm with another girl. Likewise, though Lubotshka was a terrible giggler, and sometimes ran about the room in convulsions of gesticulating laughter, Katenka always covered her mouth with her hands or her pocket-handkerchief when she wanted to laugh. Lubotshka, again, loved to have grown-up men to talk to, and said that some day she meant to marry a hussar, but Katenka always pretended that all men were horrid, and that she never meant to marry any one of them, while as soon as a male visitor addressed her she changed completely, as though she were nervous of something. Likewise, Lubotshka was continually at loggerheads with Mimi because the latter wanted her to have her stays so tight that she could not breathe or eat or drink in comfort, while Katenka, on the contrary, would often insert her finger into her waistband to show how loose it was, and always ate very little. Lubotshka liked to draw heads; Katenka only flowers and butterflies. The former could play Field’s concertos and Beethoven’s sonatas excellently, whereas the latter indulged in variations and waltzes, retarded the time, and used the pedals continuously--not to mention the fact that, before she began, she invariably struck three chords in arpeggio.
Nevertheless, in those days I thought Katenka much the grander person of the two, and liked her the best.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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22
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PAPA
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Papa had been in a particularly good humour ever since Woloda had passed into the University, and came much oftener to dine with Grandmamma. However, I knew from Nicola that he had won a great deal lately. Occasionally, he would come and sit with us in the evening before going to the club. He used to sit down to the piano and bid us group ourselves around him, after which he would beat time with his thin boots (he detested heels, and never wore them), and make us sing gipsy songs. At such times you should have seen the quaint enthusiasm of his beloved Lubotshka, who adored him!
Sometimes, again, he would come to the schoolroom and listen with a grave face as I said my lessons; yet by the few words which he would let drop when correcting me, I could see that he knew even less about the subject than I did. Not infrequently, too, he would wink at us and make secret signs when Grandmamma was beginning to scold us and find fault with us all round. “So much for us children!” he would say. On the whole, however, the impossible pinnacle upon which my childish imagination had placed him had undergone a certain abasement. I still kissed his large white hand with a certain feeling of love and respect, but I also allowed myself to think about him and to criticise his behaviour until involuntarily thoughts occurred to me which alarmed me by their presence. Never shall I forget one incident in particular which awakened thoughts of this kind, and caused me intense astonishment. Late one evening, he entered the drawing-room in his black dress-coat and white waistcoat, to take Woloda (who was still dressing in his bedroom) to a ball. Grandmamma was also in her bedroom, but had given orders that, before setting out, Woloda was to come and say goodbye to her (it was her invariable custom to inspect him before he went to a ball, and to bless him and direct him as to his behaviour). The room where we were was lighted by a solitary lamp. Mimi and Katenka were walking up and down, and Lubotshka was playing Field’s Second Concerto (Mamma’s favourite piece) at the piano. Never was there such a family likeness as between Mamma and my sister--not so much in the face or the stature as in the hands, the walk, the voice, the favourite expressions, and, above all, the way of playing the piano and the whole demeanour at the instrument. Lubotshka always arranged her dress when sitting down just as Mamma had done, as well as turned the leaves like her, tapped her fingers angrily and said “Dear me!” whenever a difficult passage did not go smoothly, and, in particular, played with the delicacy and exquisite purity of touch which in those days caused the execution of Field’s music to be known characteristically as “jeu perle” and to lie beyond comparison with the humbug of our modern virtuosi.
Papa entered the room with short, soft steps, and approached Lubotshka. On seeing him she stopped playing.
“No, go on, Luba, go on,” he said as he forced her to sit down again. She went on playing, while Papa, his head on his hand, sat near her for a while. Then suddenly he gave his shoulders a shrug, and, rising, began to pace the room. Every time that he approached the piano he halted for a moment and looked fixedly at Lubotshka. By his walk and his every movement, I could see that he was greatly agitated. Once, when he stopped behind Lubotshka, he kissed her black hair, and then, wheeling quickly round, resumed his pacing. The piece finished, Lubotshka went up to him and said, “Was it well played?” whereupon, without answering, he took her head in his two hands, and kissed her forehead and eyes with such tenderness as I had never before seen him display.
“Why, you are crying!” cried Lubotshka suddenly as she ceased to toy with his watch-chain and stared at him with her great black eyes. “Pardon me, darling Papa! I had quite forgotten that it was dear Mamma’s piece which I was playing.”
“No, no, my love; play it often,” he said in a voice trembling with emotion. “Ah, if you only knew how much good it does me to share your tears!”
He kissed her again, and then, mastering his feelings and shrugging his shoulders, went to the door leading to the corridor which ran past Woloda’s room.
“Waldemar, shall you be ready soon?” he cried, halting in the middle of the passage. Just then Masha came along.
“Why, you look prettier every day,” he said to her. She blushed and passed on.
“Waldemar, shall you be ready soon?” he cried again, with a cough and a shake of his shoulders, just as Masha slipped away and he first caught sight of me.
I loved Papa, but the intellect is independent of the heart, and often gives birth to thoughts which offend and are harsh and incomprehensible to the feelings. And it was thoughts of this kind that, for all I strove to put them away, arose at that moment in my mind.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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23
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GRANDMAMMA
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Grandmamma was growing weaker every day. Her bell, Gasha’s grumbling voice, and the slamming of doors in her room were sounds of constant occurrence, and she no longer received us sitting in the Voltairian arm-chair in her boudoir, but lying on the bed in her bedroom, supported on lace-trimmed cushions. One day when she greeted us, I noticed a yellowish-white swelling on her hand, and smelt the same oppressive odour which I had smelt five years ago in Mamma’s room. The doctor came three times a day, and there had been more than one consultation. Yet the character of her haughty, ceremonious bearing towards all who lived with her, and particularly towards Papa, never changed in the least. She went on emphasising certain words, raising her eyebrows, and saying “my dear,” just as she had always done.
Then for a few days we did not see her at all, and one morning St. Jerome proposed to me that Woloda and I should take Katenka and Lubotshka for a drive during the hours generally allotted to study. Although I observed that the street was lined with straw under the windows of Grandmamma’s room, and that some men in blue stockings [Undertaker’s men.] were standing at our gate, the reason never dawned upon me why we were being sent out at that unusual hour. Throughout the drive Lubotshka and I were in that particularly merry mood when the least trifle, the least word or movement, sets one off laughing.
A pedlar went trotting across the road with a tray, and we laughed. Some ragged cabmen, brandishing their reins and driving at full speed, overtook our sledge, and we laughed again. Next, Philip’s whip got caught in the side of the vehicle, and the way in which he said, “Bother the thing!” as he drove to disentangle it almost killed us with mirth. Mimi looked displeased, and said that only silly people laughed for no reason at all, but Lubotshka--her face purple with suppressed merriment--needed but to give me a sly glance, and we again burst out into such Homeric laughter, when our eyes met, that the tears rushed into them and we could not stop our paroxysms, although they nearly choked us. Hardly, again, had we desisted a little when I looked at Lubotshka once more, and gave vent to one of the slang words which we then affected among ourselves--words which always called forth hilarity; and in a moment we were laughing again.
Just as we reached home, I was opening my mouth to make a splendid grimace at Lubotshka when my eye fell upon a black coffin-cover which was leaning against the gate--and my mouth remained fixed in its gaping position.
“Your Grandmamma is dead,” said St. Jerome as he met us. His face was very pale.
Throughout the whole time that Grandmamma’s body was in the house I was oppressed with the fear of death, for the corpse served as a forcible and disagreeable reminder that I too must die some day--a feeling which people often mistake for grief. I had no sincere regret for Grandmamma, nor, I think, had any one else, since, although the house was full of sympathising callers, nobody seemed to mourn for her from their hearts except one mourner whose genuine grief made a great impression upon me, seeing that the mourner in question was--Gasha! She shut herself up in the garret, tore her hair and refused all consolation, saying that, now that her mistress was dead, she only wished to die herself.
I again assert that, in matters of feeling, it is the unexpected effects that constitute the most reliable signs of sincerity.
Though Grandmamma was no longer with us, reminiscences and gossip about her long went on in the house. Such gossip referred mostly to her will, which she had made shortly before her death, and of which, as yet, no one knew the contents except her bosom friend, Prince Ivan Ivanovitch. I could hear the servants talking excitedly together, and making innumerable conjectures as to the amount left and the probable beneficiaries: nor can I deny that the idea that we ourselves were probably the latter greatly pleased me.
Six weeks later, Nicola--who acted as regular news-agent to the house--informed me that Grandmamma had left the whole of her fortune to Lubotshka, with, as her trustee until her majority, not Papa, but Prince Ivan Ivanovitch!
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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24
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MYSELF
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Only a few months remained before I was to matriculate for the University, yet I was making such good progress that I felt no apprehensions, and even took a pleasure in my studies. I kept in good heart, and learnt my lessons fluently and intelligently. The faculty I had selected was the mathematical one--probably, to tell the truth, because the terms “tangent,” “differentials,” “integrals,” and so forth, pleased my fancy.
Though stout and broad-shouldered, I was shorter than Woloda, while my ugliness of face still remained and tormented me as much as ever. By way of compensation, I tried to appear original. Yet one thing comforted me, namely, that Papa had said that I had “an INTELLIGENT face.” I quite believed him.
St. Jerome was not only satisfied with me, but actually had taken to praising me. Consequently, I had now ceased to hate him. In fact, when, one day, he said that, with my “capacities” and my “intellect,” it would be shameful for me not to accomplish this, that, or the other thing, I believe I almost liked him.
I had long ago given up keeping observation on the maidservants’ room, for I was now ashamed to hide behind doors. Likewise, I confess that the knowledge of Masha’s love for Basil had greatly cooled my ardour for her, and that my passion underwent a final cure by their marriage--a consummation to which I myself contributed by, at Basil’s request, asking Papa’s consent to the union.
When the newly-married couple brought trays of cakes and sweetmeats to Papa as a thank-offering, and Masha, in a cap with blue ribbons, kissed each of us on the shoulder in token of her gratitude, I merely noticed the scent of the rose pomade on her hair, but felt no other sensation.
In general, I was beginning to get the better of my youthful defects, with the exception of the principal one--the one of which I shall often again have to speak in relating my life’s history--namely, the tendency to abstract thought.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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25
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WOLODA’S FRIENDS
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Although, when in the society of Woloda’s friends, I had to play a part that hurt my pride, I liked sitting in his room when he had visitors, and silently watching all they did. The two who came most frequently to see him were a military adjutant called Dubkoff and a student named Prince Nechludoff. Dubkoff was a little dark-haired, highly-strung man who, though short of stature and no longer in his first youth, had a pleasing and invariably cheerful air. His was one of those limited natures which are agreeable through their very limitations; natures which cannot regard matters from every point of view, but which are nevertheless attracted by everything. Usually the reasoning of such persons is false and one-sided, yet always genuine and taking; wherefore their narrow egotism seems both amiable and excusable. There were two other reasons why Dubkoff had charms for Woloda and myself--namely, the fact that he was of military appearance, and, secondly (and principally), the fact that he was of a certain age--an age with which young people are apt to associate that quality of “gentlemanliness” which is so highly esteemed at their time of life. However, he was in very truth un homme comme il faut. The only thing which I did not like about it all was that, in his presence, Woloda always seemed ashamed of my innocent behaviour, and still more so of my youthfulness. As for Prince Nechludoff, he was in no way handsome, since neither his small grey eyes, his low, projecting forehead, nor his disproportionately long hands and feet could be called good features. The only good points about him were his unusually tall stature, his delicate colouring, and his splendid teeth. Nevertheless, his face was of such an original, energetic character (owing to his narrow, sparkling eyes and ever-changing expression--now stern, now childlike, now smiling indeterminately) that it was impossible to help noticing it. As a rule he was very shy, and would blush to the ears at the smallest trifle, but it was a shyness altogether different from mine, seeing that, the more he blushed, the more determined-looking he grew, as though he were vexed at his own weakness.
Although he was on very good terms with Woloda and Dubkoff, it was clearly chance which had united them thus, since their tastes were entirely dissimilar. Woloda and Dubkoff seemed to be afraid of anything like serious consideration or emotion, whereas Nechludoff was beyond all things an enthusiast, and would often, despite their sarcastic remarks, plunge into dissertations on philosophical matters or matters of feeling. Again, the two former liked talking about the fair objects of their adoration (these were always numerous, and always shared by the friends in common), whereas Nechludoff invariably grew annoyed when taxed with his love for a certain red-haired lady.
Again, Woloda and Dubkoff often permitted themselves to criticise their relatives, and to find amusement in so doing, but Nechludoff flew into a tremendous rage when on one occasion they referred to some weak points in the character of an aunt of his whom he adored. Finally, after supper Woloda and Dubkoff would usually go off to some place whither Nechludoff would not accompany them; wherefore they called him “a dainty girl.”
The very first time that I ever saw Prince Nechludoff I was struck with his exterior and conversation. Yet, though I could discern a great similarity between his disposition and my own (or perhaps it was because I COULD so discern it), the impression which he produced upon me at first was anything but agreeable. I liked neither his quick glance, his hard voice, his proud bearing, nor (least of all) the utter indifference with which he treated me. Often, when conversing, I burned to contradict him, to punish his pride by confuting him, to show him that I was clever in spite of his disdainful neglect of my presence. But I was invariably prevented from doing so by my shyness.
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{
"id": "2450"
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26
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DISCUSSIONS
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Woloda was lying reading a French novel on the sofa when I paid my usual visit to his room after my evening lessons. He looked up at me for a moment from his book, and then went on reading. This perfectly simple and natural movement, however, offended me. I conceived that the glance implied a question why I had come and a wish to hide his thoughts from me (I may say that at that period a tendency to attach a meaning to the most insignificant of acts formed a prominent feature in my character). So I went to the table and also took up a book to read. Yet, even before I had actually begun reading, the idea struck me how ridiculous it was that, although we had never seen one another all day, we should have not a word to exchange.
“Are you going to stay in to-night, Woloda?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Oh, because--” Seeing that the conversation did not promise to be a success, I took up my book again, and began to read. Yet it was a strange thing that, though we sometimes passed whole hours together without speaking when we were alone, the mere presence of a third--sometimes of a taciturn and wholly uninteresting person--sufficed to plunge us into the most varied and engrossing of discussions. The truth was that we knew one another too well, and to know a person either too well or too little acts as a bar to intimacy.
“Is Woloda at home?” came in Dubkoff’s voice from the ante-room.
“Yes!” shouted Woloda, springing up and throwing aside his book.
Dubkoff and Nechludoff entered.
“Are you coming to the theatre, Woloda?”
“No, I have no time,” he replied with a blush.
“Oh, never mind that. Come along.”
“But I haven’t got a ticket.”
“Tickets, as many as you like, at the entrance.”
“Very well, then; I’ll be back in a minute,” said Woloda evasively as he left the room. I knew very well that he wanted to go, but that he had declined because he had no money, and had now gone to borrow five roubles of one of the servants--to be repaid when he got his next allowance.
“How do you do, DIPLOMAT?” said Dubkoff to me as he shook me by the hand. Woloda’s friends had called me by that nickname since the day when Grandmamma had said at luncheon that Woloda must go into the army, but that she would like to see me in the diplomatic service, dressed in a black frock-coat, and with my hair arranged a la coq (the two essential requirements, in her opinion, of a DIPLOMAT).
“Where has Woloda gone to?” asked Nechludoff.
“I don’t know,” I replied, blushing to think that nevertheless they had probably guessed his errand.
“I suppose he has no money? Yes, I can see I am right, O diplomatist,” he added, taking my smile as an answer in the affirmative. “Well, I have none, either. Have you any, Dubkoff?”
“I’ll see,” replied Dubkoff, feeling for his pocket, and rummaging gingerly about with his squat little fingers among his small change. “Yes, here are five copecks-twenty, but that’s all,” he concluded with a comic gesture of his hand.
At this point Woloda re-entered.
“Are we going?”
“No.”
“What an odd fellow you are!” said Nechludoff. “Why don’t you say that you have no money? Here, take my ticket.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“He can go into his cousin’s box,” said Dubkoff.
“No, I’m not going at all,” replied Nechludoff.
“Why?”
“Because I hate sitting in a box.”
“And for what reason?”
“I don’t know. Somehow I feel uncomfortable there.”
“Always the same! I can’t understand a fellow feeling uncomfortable when he is sitting with people who are fond of him. It is unnatural, mon cher.”
“But what else is there to be done si je suis tant timide? You never blushed in your life, but I do at the least trifle,” and he blushed at that moment.
“Do you know what that nervousness of yours proceeds from?” said Dubkoff in a protecting sort of tone, “D’un exces d’amour propre, mon cher.”
“What do you mean by ‘exces d’amour propre’?” asked Nechludoff, highly offended. “On the contrary, I am shy just because I have TOO LITTLE amour propre. I always feel as though I were being tiresome and disagreeable, and therefore--” “Well, get ready, Woloda,” interrupted Dubkoff, tapping my brother on the shoulder and handing him his cloak. “Ignaz, get your master ready.”
“Therefore,” continued Nechludoff, “it often happens with me that--” But Dubkoff was not listening. “Tra-la-la-la,” and he hummed a popular air.
“Oh, but I’m not going to let you off,” went on Nechludoff. “I mean to prove to you that my shyness is not the result of conceit.”
“You can prove it as we go along.”
“But I have told you that I am NOT going.”
“Well, then, stay here and prove it to the DIPLOMAT, and he can tell us all about it when we return.”
“Yes, that’s what I WILL do,” said Nechludoff with boyish obstinacy, “so hurry up with your return.”
“Well, do you think I am egotistic?” he continued, seating himself beside me.
True, I had a definite opinion on the subject, but I felt so taken aback by this unexpected question that at first I could make no reply.
“Yes, I DO think so,” I said at length in a faltering voice, and colouring at the thought that at last the moment had come when I could show him that I was clever. “I think that EVERYBODY is egotistic, and that everything we do is done out of egotism.”
“But what do you call egotism?” asked Nechludoff--smiling, as I thought, a little contemptuously.
“Egotism is a conviction that we are better and cleverer than any one else,” I replied.
“But how can we ALL be filled with this conviction?” he inquired.
“Well, I don’t know if I am right or not--certainly no one but myself seems to hold the opinion--but I believe that I am wiser than any one else in the world, and that all of you know it.”
“At least I can say for myself,” observed Nechludoff, “that I have met a FEW people whom I believe to excel me in wisdom.”
“It is impossible,” I replied with conviction.
“Do you really think so?” he said, looking at me gravely.
“Yes, really,” I answered, and an idea crossed my mind which I proceeded to expound further. “Let me prove it to you. Why do we love ourselves better than any one else? Because we think ourselves BETTER than any one else--more worthy of our own love. If we THOUGHT others better than ourselves, we should LOVE them better than ourselves: but that is never the case. And even if it were so, I should still be right,” I added with an involuntary smile of complacency.
For a few minutes Nechludoff was silent.
“I never thought you were so clever,” he said with a smile so goodhumoured and charming that I at once felt happy.
Praise exercises an all-potent influence, not only upon the feelings, but also upon the intellect; so that under the influence of that agreeable sensation I straightway felt much cleverer than before, and thoughts began to rush with extraordinary rapidity through my head. From egotism we passed insensibly to the theme of love, which seemed inexhaustible. Although our reasonings might have sounded nonsensical to a listener (so vague and one-sided were they), for ourselves they had a profound significance. Our minds were so perfectly in harmony that not a chord was struck in the one without awakening an echo in the other, and in this harmonious striking of different chords we found the greatest delight. Indeed, we felt as though time and language were insufficient to express the thoughts which seethed within us.
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{
"id": "2450"
}
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27
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THE BEGINNING OF OUR FRIENDSHIP
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From that time forth, a strange, but exceedingly pleasant, relation subsisted between Dimitri Nechludoff and myself. Before other people he paid me scanty attention, but as soon as ever we were alone, we would sit down together in some comfortable corner and, forgetful both of time and of everything around us, fall to reasoning.
We talked of a future life, of art, service, marriage, and education; nor did the idea ever occur to us that very possibly all we said was shocking nonsense. The reason why it never occurred to us was that the nonsense which we talked was good, sensible nonsense, and that, so long as one is young, one can appreciate good nonsense, and believe in it. In youth the powers of the mind are directed wholly to the future, and that future assumes such various, vivid, and alluring forms under the influence of hope--hope based, not upon the experience of the past, but upon an assumed possibility of happiness to come--that such dreams of expected felicity constitute in themselves the true happiness of that period of our life. How I loved those moments in our metaphysical discussions (discussions which formed the major portion of our intercourse) when thoughts came thronging faster and faster, and, succeeding one another at lightning speed, and growing more and more abstract, at length attained such a pitch of elevation that one felt powerless to express them, and said something quite different from what one had intended at first to say! How I liked those moments, too, when, carried higher and higher into the realms of thought, we suddenly felt that we could grasp its substance no longer and go no further!
At carnival time Nechludoff was so much taken up with one festivity and another that, though he came to see us several times a day, he never addressed a single word to me. This offended me so much that once again I found myself thinking him a haughty, disagreeable fellow, and only awaited an opportunity to show him that I no longer valued his company or felt any particular affection for him. Accordingly, the first time that he spoke to me after the carnival, I said that I had lessons to do, and went upstairs, but a quarter of an hour later some one opened the schoolroom door, and Nechludoff entered.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, although I had at first intended to say that I had a great deal to do.
“Then why did you run away just now? It is a long while since we had a talk together, and I have grown so accustomed to these discussions that I feel as though something were wanting.”
My anger had quite gone now, and Dimitri stood before me the same good and lovable being as before.
“You know, perhaps, why I ran away?” I said.
“Perhaps I do,” he answered, taking a seat near me. “However, though it is possible I know why, I cannot say it straight out, whereas YOU can.”
“Then I will do so. I ran away because I was angry with you--well, not angry, but grieved. I always have an idea that you despise me for being so young.”
“Well, do you know why I always feel so attracted towards you?” he replied, meeting my confession with a look of kind understanding, “and why I like you better than any of my other acquaintances or than any of the people among whom I mostly have to live? It is because I found out at once that you have the rare and astonishing gift of sincerity.”
“Yes, I always confess the things of which I am most ashamed--but only to people in whom I trust,” I said.
“Ah, but to trust a man you must be his friend completely, and we are not friends yet, Nicolas. Remember how, when we were speaking of friendship, we agreed that, to be real friends, we ought to trust one another implicitly.”
“I trust you in so far as that I feel convinced that you would never repeat a word of what I might tell you,” I said.
“Yet perhaps the most interesting and important thoughts of all are just those which we never tell one another, while the mean thoughts (the thoughts which, if we only knew that we had to confess them to one another, would probably never have the hardihood to enter our minds)--Well, do you know what I am thinking of, Nicolas?” he broke off, rising and taking my hand with a smile. “I propose (and I feel sure that it would benefit us mutually) that we should pledge our word to one another to tell each other EVERYTHING. We should then really know each other, and never have anything on our consciences. And, to guard against outsiders, let us also agree never to speak of one another to a third person. Suppose we do that?”
“I agree,” I replied. And we did it. What the result was shall be told hereafter.
Kerr has said that every attachment has two sides: one loves, and the other allows himself to be loved; one kisses, and the other surrenders his cheek. That is perfectly true. In the case of our own attachment it was I who kissed, and Dimitri who surrendered his cheek--though he, in his turn, was ready to pay me a similar salute. We loved equally because we knew and appreciated each other thoroughly, but this did not prevent him from exercising an influence over me, nor myself from rendering him adoration.
It will readily be understood that Nechludoff’s influence caused me to adopt his bent of mind, the essence of which lay in an enthusiastic reverence for ideal virtue and a firm belief in man’s vocation to perpetual perfection. To raise mankind, to abolish vice and misery, seemed at that time a task offering no difficulties. To educate oneself to every virtue, and so to achieve happiness, seemed a simple and easy matter.
Only God Himself knows whether those blessed dreams of youth were ridiculous, or whose the fault was that they never became realised.
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{
"id": "2450"
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1
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None
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Were the events of this nether sphere governed by the calculus of probabilities, Count Abel Larinski and Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz would almost unquestionably have arrived at the end of their respective careers without ever having met. Count Larinski lived in Vienna, Austria; Mlle. Moriaz never had been farther from Paris than Cormeilles, where she went every spring to remain throughout the fine weather. Neither at Cormeilles nor at Paris had she ever heard of Count Larinski; and he, on his part, was wholly unaware of the existence of Mlle. Moriaz. His mind was occupied with a gun of his own invention, which should have made his fortune, and which had not made it. He had hoped that this warlike weapon, a true _chef-d’oeuvre_, in his opinion superior in precision and range to any other known, would be appreciated, according to its merits, by competent judges, and would one day be adopted for the equipment of the entire Austro-Hungarian infantry. By means of unremitting perseverance, he had succeeded in obtaining the appointment of an official commission to examine it. The commission decided that the Larinski musket possessed certain advantages, but that it had three defects: it was too heavy, the breech became choked too rapidly with oil from the lubricator, and the cost of manufacture was too high. Count Abel did not lose courage. He gave himself up to study, devoted nearly two years to perfecting his invention, and applied all his increased skill to rendering his gun lighter and less costly. When put under test, the new firearm burst, and this vexatious incident ruined forever the reputation of the Larinski gun. Far from becoming enriched, the inventor had sunk his expenses, his advances of every kind; he had recklessly squandered both revenue and capital, which, to be sure, was not very considerable.
Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz had a more fortunate destiny than Count Larinski. She did not plume herself on having invented a new gun, nor did she depend upon her ingenuity for a livelihood; she had inherited from her mother a yearly income of about a hundred thousand livres, which enabled her to enjoy life and make others happy, for she was very charitable. She loved the world without loving it too much; she knew how to do without it, having abundant resources within herself, and being of a very independent disposition. During the winter she went out a great deal into society, and received freely at home. Her father, member of the Institute and Professor of Chemistry at the College of France, was one of those _savants_ who enjoy dining out; he had a taste also for music and for the theatre. Antoinette accompanied him everywhere; they scarcely ever remained at home except upon their reception evenings; but with the return of the swallows it was a pleasure to Mlle. Moriaz to fly to Cormeilles and there pass seven months, reduced to the society of Mlle. Moiseney, who, after having been her instructress, had become her _demoiselle de compagnie_. She lived pretty much in the open air, walking about in the woods, reading, or painting; and the woods, her books, and her paint-brushes, to say nothing of her poor people, so agreeably occupied her time that she never experienced a quarter of an hour’s _ennui_. She was too content with her lot to have the slightest inclination to change it; therefore she was in no hurry to marry. She had completed twenty-four years of her existence, had refused several desirable offers, and wished nothing better than to retain her maidenhood. It was the sole article concerning which this heiress had discussions with those around her. When her father took it into his head to grow angry and cry, “You must!” she would burst out laughing; whereupon he would laugh also, and say: “I’m not the master here; in fact, I am placed in the position of a ploughman arguing with a priest.”
It is very dangerous to tax one’s brains too much when one dines out frequently. During the winter of 1875, M. Moriaz had undertaken an excess of work; he was overdriven, and his health suffered. He was attacked by one of those anemic disorders of which we hear so much nowadays, and which may be called _la maladie a la mode_. He was obliged to break in upon his daily routine, employ an assistant, and early in July his physician ordered him to set out for Engadine, and try the chalybeate water-cure at Saint Moritz. The trip from Paris to Saint Moritz cannot be made without passing through Chur. It was at Chur that Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz, who accompanied her father, met for the first time Count Abel Larinski. When the decree of Destiny goes forth, the spider and the fly must inevitably meet.
Abel Larinski had arrived at Chur from Vienna, having taken the route through Milan and across the Splugen Pass. Although he was very short of funds, upon reaching the capital of the canton of Grisons he had put up at the Hotel Steinbock, the best and most expensive in the place. It was his opinion that he owed this mark of respect to Count Larinski; such duties he held to be very sacred, and he fulfilled them religiously. He was in a very melancholy mood, and set out for a promenade in order to divert his mind. In crossing the Plessur Bridge, he fixed his troubled eyes on the muddy waters of the stream, and he felt almost tempted to take the fatal leap; but in such a project there is considerable distance between the dream and its fulfilment, and Count Larinski experienced at this juncture that the most melancholy man in the world may find it difficult to conquer his passion for living.
He had no reason to feel very cheerful. He had quitted Vienna in order to betake himself to the Saxon Casino, where _roulette_ and _trente-et-quarante_ are played. His ill-luck would have it that he stopped on the way at Milan, and fell in with a circle of ill repute, where this most imprudent of men played and lost. There remained to him just enough cash to carry him to Saxon; but what can be accomplished in a casino when one has empty pockets? Before crossing the Splugen he had written to a petty Jew banker of his acquaintance for money. He counted but little on the compliance of this Hebrew, and this was why he paused five minutes to contemplate the Plessur, after which he retraced his steps. Twenty minutes later he was crossing a public square, ornamented with a pretty Gothic fountain, and seeing before him a cathedral, he hastened to enter it.
The cathedral of Chur possesses, among other curiosities, a painting by Albert Durer, a St. Lawrence on the gridiron, attributed to Holbein, a piece of the true cross, and some relics of St. Lucius and his sister Ernesta. Count Abel only accorded a wandering attention to either St. Lucius or St. Lawrence. Scarcely had he made his way into the nave of the building, when he beheld something that appeared to him far more interesting than paintings or relics. An English poet has said that at times there is revealed to us a glimpse of paradise in a woman’s face, and it was such a rare blessing that was at this moment vouchsafed unto Count Larinski. He was not a romantic man, and yet he remained for some moments motionless, rooted to the spot in admiration. Was it a premonition of his destiny? The fact is that, in beholding for the first time Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz, for it was none other than she who thus riveted his attention, he experienced an inexplicable surprise, a thrilling of the heart, such as he never before had experienced. In his first impression of this charming girl he made one slight mistake. He divined at once that the man by whom she was accompanied, who had gray hair, a broad, open brow, vivacious eyes, shaded by beautiful, heavy eye-brows, belonged to some learned fraternity; but he imagined that this individual with a white cravat, who had evidently preserved his freshness of heart, although past sixty years of age, was the fortunate suitor of the beautiful girl by his side.
There are some women whom it is impossible not to gaze upon. Wherever Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz appeared she was the object of universal observation: first, because she was charming; and, then, because she had a way of her own of dressing and of arranging her hair, a peculiar movement of the head, a grace of carriage, which inevitably must attract notice. There were those who made so bold as to assert that she assumed certain little peculiarities solely for the purpose of attracting the chance observer. Do not believe a word of it. She was altogether indifferent to public opinion and consulted her own taste alone, which was certainly impregnated with a touch of audacity; but she did not seek to appear audacious--she merely acted according to her natural bent. Observing her from a distance, people were apt to fancy her affected, and somewhat inclined to be fantastic; but on approaching her, their minds were speedily disabused of this fancy. The purity of her countenance, her air of refinement and thorough modesty, speedily dispelled any suspicious thoughts, and those who had for a moment harboured them would say mentally, “Pardon me, mademoiselle, I mistook.” Such, at least, was the mental comment of Count Abel, as she passed close by him on leaving the church. Her father was telling her something that made her smile; this smile was that of a young girl just budding into womanhood, who has nothing yet to conceal from her guardian angel. Count Larinski left the church after her, and followed her with his eyes as she crossed the square. On returning to the hotel he had a curiosity to satisfy. He questioned one of the _garcons_, who pointed out to him in the hotel register for travellers the following entry: “M. Moriaz, member of the Institute of France, and his daughter, from Paris, _en route_ for Saint Moritz.” “And where then?” he asked himself; then dismissed the subject from his mind.
When he had dined, he repaired to the post-office to inquire for a letter he was expecting from Vienna. He found it, and returned to shut himself up in his chamber, where he tore open the envelope with a feverish hand. This letter, written in a more peculiar than felicitous French, was the reply of the Jew banker. It read as follows: “M. LE COMTE: “Although you both write and understand German very well, you do not like to read it, and therefore I write to you in French. It grieves me deeply not to have it in my power to satisfy your honoured demand. Business is very dull. It is impossible for me to advance you another florin, or even to renew your note, which falls due shortly. I am the father of a family; it pains me to be compelled to remind you of this.
“I wish to tell you quite freely what I think. I did believe in your gun, but I believe in it no longer, no one believes in it any more. When strong, it was too heavy; when you made it lighter, it was no longer strong. What came next? You know it burst. Beware how you further perfect it, or it will explode whenever it becomes aware that any one is looking at it. This accursed gun has eaten up the little you had, and some of my savings besides, although I have confidence that you will, at least, pay me the interest due on that. It grieves me to tell you so, M. de Comte, but all inventors are more or less crack-brained, and end in the hospital. For the love of God, leave guns as they are, and invent nothing more, or you will go overboard, and there will be no one to fish you out.”
Abel Larinski paused at this place. He put his letter down on the table, and, turning round in his arm-chair, with a savage air, his eye fixed on a distant corner of the room, he fell to thus soliloquizing in a sepulchral voice: “Do you hear, idiot? This old knave is right. Accursed be the day when the genius of invention thrilled your sublime brain! A grand discovery you have made, forsooth! What have I gained from it? Grand illusions, grand discomfitures! What hath it availed me that I passed whole nights discussing with you breech-loaders, screw-plates, tumbrels, sockets, bridges, ovoid balls, and spring-locks? What fruits have I gained from these refreshing conversations? You foresaw everything, my great man, except that one little thing which great men so often fail to see, that mysterious something, I know not what, which makes success. When you spoke to me, in your slow, monotonous tones, when you fixed upon me your melancholy gaze, I should have been able to read in your eyes that you were only a fool. The devil take thee and thy gun, thy gun and thee; hollow head, head full of chimeras, true Pole, true Larinski!”
To whom was Count Abel speaking? To a phantom? To his double? He alone knew. When he had uttered the last words, he resumed the perusal of his letter, which ended thus: “Will you permit me to give you a piece of advice, M. le Comte, a good little piece of advice? I have known you for three years, and have taken much interest in your welfare. You invent guns, which, when they are strong, lack lightness. I beg your pardon, but I do not comprehend you, M. le Comte. The name you bear is excellent; the head you carry on your shoulders is superb, and it is the general opinion that you resemble _Faust_; but neither name nor head does you any good. Leave the guns as they are, and bestow your attention upon women; they, and they alone, can draw you out of the deep waters where you are now floundering. There is no time to lose. I beg your pardon, but you must be thirty years old, and perhaps a little more. This _diable_ of a gun has made you lose three valuable years.
“It pains me, M. le Comte, to be compelled to remind you that the little note falls due shortly. I have had the value of the bracelet you left with me as a pledge estimated; it is not worth a thousand florins, as you believed; it is a piece of antiquity that has a value to only those who can indulge in a caprice for fancy articles, and such caprices are rare nowadays, the time for such is past.
“I am, M. le Comte, with much respect, your humble and obedient servant, “MOSES GULDENTHAL.”
Abel Larinski turned once more in his chair. He crumpled up between his fingers the letter of M. Moses Guldenthal, saying to himself as he did so, that the Guldenthals are often very clear-sighted folks. “Ay, to be sure,” thought he, “this Hebrew is right, I have lost three valuable years. I have had fever, and my eyes have been clouded; but, Heaven be praised! The charm is broken, the illusion fled, I am cured--saved! Farewell, my chimera, I am no longer thy dupe! Many thanks, my dear friend: I return to you your gun; do with it as it seemeth best to you.”
His eyes suddenly fell on his own reflection in the mirror above the chimney-piece, and he regarded it fixedly for a few moments.
“The semblance truly of an inventor,” he resumed, mournfully smiling. “This pale, emaciated face; these deep-set eyes, with dark circles about them; these hollow, cadaverous cheeks! The three years have indeed left their traces. Bah! a little rest in the Alpine pastures, and _Faust_ will become rejuvenated.”
He seized a pen, and wrote the following reply: “You are truly kind, my dear Guldenthal: you refuse me the miserable florins, but you give me in their stead a little piece of advice that is worth a fortune. Unluckily, I am not capable of following it. Noble souls like ours comprehend each other with half a word, and you are a poet whenever it suits you. When in the course of the day you have transacted a neat little piece of business, after having rubbed your hands until you have almost deprived them of skin, you tune your violin, which you play like an angel, and you draw from it such delightful strains that your ledger and your cash-box fall to weeping with emotion. I, too, am a musician, and my music is the fair sex. But, alas! women never can be for me other than an adorable inutility, a part of the dream of my life. Your dreams yield you a handsome percentage, as I have sorrowfully experienced; my dreams yield me nothing, and therefore it is that they are dear to me.
“I must prohibit--understand me clearly--your disposing of the trinket I left with you; we have the weakness, we Poles, of clinging to our family relics. Set your mind at rest; before the end of the month I shall have returned to Vienna, and will honour the dear little note. One day you will go down on your knees to beg of me to loan you a thousand florins, and I will astonish you with my ingratitude. May the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, have you in his holy keeping, my dear Guldenthal!”
As he finished his letter, he heard the sound of harps and violins. Some itinerant musicians were giving a concert in the hotel-garden, which was lit up as bright as day. Abel opened his window, and leaned on his elbows, looking out. The first object that presented itself to his eyes was Mlle. Moriaz, promenading one of the long garden-walks, leaning on her father’s arm. Many eyes were fixed on her--we have already said it was difficult not to gaze upon her--but no one contemplated her with such close attention as Count Larinski. He never once lost sight of her.
“Is she beautiful? Is she even pretty?” he queried within himself. “I cannot quite make up my mind, but I am very sure that she is charming. Like my bracelet, this is a fancy article. She is a little thin, and her shoulders are too vigorously fashioned for her waist, which is slender and supple as a reed; but, such as she is, she has not her equal. Her walk, her carriage, resemble nothing I ever have seen before. I can well imagine that when she appears in the streets of Paris people turn to look after her, but no one would have the audacity to follow her. How old is she? Twenty-four or twenty-five years, I should say. Why is she not married? Who is this withered, pinched-looking fright of a personage who trots at her side like a poodle-dog? Probably some _demoiselle de compagnie_. And there comes her _femme de chambre_, a very spruce little lass, bringing her a shawl, which the _demoiselle de compagnie_ hastens to put over her shoulders. She allows it to be done with the air of one who is accustomed to being waited upon. Mlle. Moriaz is an heiress. Why, then, is she not married?”
Count Larinski pursued his soliloquy as long as Mlle. Moriaz promenaded in the garden. As soon as she re-entered the hotel, it appeared to him that the garden had become empty, and that the musicians were playing out of tune. He closed his window. He gave up his plan of starting the next day for Saxon. He had decided that he would set out for Saint Moritz, to pass there at least two or three days. He said to himself, “It seems absurd; but who can tell?”
Thereupon he proceeded to investigate the state of his finances, and he weighed and re-weighed his purse, which was very light. Formerly Count Larinski had possessed a very pretty collection of jewellery. He had looked upon this as a reserve fund, to which he would have recourse only in cases of extreme distress. Alas! there remained to him now only two articles of his once considerable store--the bracelet that was in the hands of M. Guldenthal, and a diamond ring that he wore on his finger. He decided that, before quitting Chur, he would borrow money on this ring, or that he would try to sell it.
He remained some time seated at the foot of his bed, dangling his legs to and fro, his eyes closed. He had closed them, in order to better call up a vision of Mlle. Moriaz, and he repeated the words: “It seems absurd; but who can tell? The fact is, we can know nothing of a surety, and anything may happen.” Then he recalled one of Goethe’s poems, entitled “Vanitas! vanitatum vanitas!” and he recited several time in German these two lines: “Nun hab’ ich mein’ Sach’ auf nichts gestellt, Und mein gehort die ganze Welt!”
This literally signifies, “Now that I no longer count on anything, the whole world is mine.” Abel Larinski recited these lines with a purity of accent that would have astonished M. Moses Guldenthal.
M. Moriaz, after wishing his daughter good-night, and imprinting a kiss upon her brow, as was his custom, had retired to his chamber. He was preparing for bed, when there came a knock at his door. Opening this, he saw before him a fair-haired youth, who rushed eagerly towards him, seized both his hands, and pressed them with effusion. M. Moriaz disengaged his hands, and regarded the intruder with a bewildered air.
“How?” cried the latter. “You do not know me? So sure as you are one of the most illustrious chemists of the day, I am Camille Langis, son of your best friend, a young man of great expectations, who admires you truly, who has followed you here, and who is now ready to begin all over again. There, my dear master, do you recognise me?”
“Ay, to be sure I recognise you, my boy,” replied M. Moriaz, “although, to tell the truth, you have greatly changed. When you left us you were a mere youth.”
“And now?”
“And now you have the air of a young man; but, I beg of you, where have you come from? I thought you were in the heart of Transylvania.”
“It is possible to return from there, as you see. Three days ago I arrived in Paris and flew to Maisons-Lafitte. Mme. De Lorcy, who bears the double insignia of honour of being my aunt and the godmother of Antoinette--I beg your pardon, I mean Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz--informed me that you were in ill-health, and that your physician had sent you to Switzerland, to Saint Moritz, to recruit. I hastened after you; this morning I missed you by one hour at Zurich; but I have you now, and you will listen to me.”
“I warn you, my dear child, that I am at this moment a most detestable auditor. We have done to-day one _hotel de ville_, one episcopal palace, one cathedral, and some relics of St. Lucius. To speak plainly, I am overpowered with sleep. Is there any great haste for what you have to say to me?”
“Is there any great haste? Why, I arrive breathless from Hungary to demand your daughter in marriage.”
M. Moriaz threw up his arms; then, seating himself on the edge of his bed, he piteously gasped: “You could not wait until to-morrow? If a judge is desired to take a favourable view of a case, he surely should not be disturbed in his first sleep to consider it.”
“My dear master, I am truly distressed to be compelled to be disagreeable to you, but it is absolutely necessary that you should listen to me. Two years ago, for the first time, I asked of you your daughter’s hand. After having consulted Antoinette--you will permit me to call her Antoinette, will you not? --after having consulted her, you told me that I was too young, that she would not listen seriously to my proposal, and you gave me your permission to try again in two years. I have employed these two mortal years in constructing a railroad and a wire bridge in Hungary, and, believe me, I took infinite pains to forget Antoinette. In vain! She is the romance of my youth, I never can have another. On July 5, 1873, did you not tell me to return in two years? We are now at July 5, 1875, and I return. Am I a punctual man?”
“As punctual as insupportable,” rejoined M. Moriaz, casting a melancholy look at his pillow. “Now, candidly, is it the thing to seek the presence of the President of the Academy of Sciences between eleven o’clock and midnight, to pour such silly stuff into his ear? You are wanting in respect for the Institute. Besides, my dear boy, people change in two years; you are a proof of it. You have developed from boyhood almost into manhood, and you have done well to let your imperial grow; it gives you quite a dashing military air--one would divine at first sight that you were fresh from Hungary. But, while you have changed for the better, are you sure that Antoinette has not changed for the worse? Are you sure that she is still the Antoinette of your romance?”
“I beg your pardon; I saw her just now, without her seeing me. She was promenading on your arm in the hotel-garden, which was lit up in her honour. Formerly she was enchanting, she has become adorable. If you would have the immense goodness to give her to me, I would be capable of doing anything agreeable to you. I would relieve you of all your little troublesome jobs; I would clean your retorts; I would put labels on your bottles and jars; I would sweep out your laboratory. I know German very well--I would read all the large German books it might please you to consult; I would read them, pen in hand; I would make extracts--written extracts--and such extracts! _Grand Dieu! _ they would be like copperplate. My dear master, will you give her to me?”
“The absurd creature! He imagines that it only depends upon me to give him my daughter. I could as easily dispose of the moon. Since she has had teeth, she had made me desire everything she desires.”
“At least you will give me permission to pay my addresses to her to-morrow?”
“Beware, unlucky youth!” cried M. Moriaz. “You will ruin your case forever. Since you have been away she has refused two offers, one of them from a second secretary of legation, Viscount de R---, and at the present moment she holds in holy horror all suitors. She is accompanying me to Saint Moritz in order to gather flowers and paint aquarelle sketches of them. Should you presume to interrupt her in her favourite occupations, should you present yourself before her like a creditor on the day of maturity, I swear to you that your note would be protested, and that you would have nothing better to do than return to Hungary.”
“You are sure of it?”
“As sure as that sulphuric acid will turn litmus red.”
“And you have the heart to sent me back to Paris without having spoken with her?”
“What I have said is for your good, and you know whether I mean you well or not.”
“It is agreed, then, that you will take charge of my interests; that you will plead my cause?”
“It is understood that I will sound the premises, that I will prepare the way--” “And that you will send me tidings shortly, and that these tidings will be good. I shall await them here, at the Hotel Steinbock.”
“As you please; but, for the love of Heaven, let me sleep!”
M. Camille Langis pressed his two arms and said, with much emotion: “I place myself in your hands; take care how you answer for my life!”
“O youth!” murmured M. Moriaz, actually thrusting Camille from the room. “One might search in vain for a more beautiful invention.”
Ten hours later, a post-chaise bore in the direction of Engadine Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz, her father, her _demoiselle de compagnie_, and her _femme de chambre_. They breakfasted tolerably well in a village situated in the lower portion of a notch, called Tiefenkasten, which means, literally, _deep chest_, and certainly a deeper never has been seen. After breakfast they pursued their way farther, and towards four o’clock in the afternoon they reached the entrance of the savage defile of Bergunerstein, which deserves to be compared with that of Via Mala. The road lies between a wall of rocks and a precipice of nearly two hundred metres, at the bottom of which rush the swift waters of the Albula. This wild scenery deeply moved Mlle. Moriaz; she never had seen anything like it at Cormeilles or anywhere about Paris. She alighted, and, moving towards the parapet, leaned over it, contemplating at her ease the depths below, which the foaming torrent beneath filled with its roars.
Her father speedily joined her.
“Do you not find this music charming?” she asked of him.
“Charming, I grant,” he replied; “but more charming still are those brave workmen who, at the risk of their necks, have engineered such a suspended highway as we see here. I think you admire the torrent too much, and the road not enough.” And after a pause he added, “I wish that our friend Camille Langis had had fewer dangers to contend with in constructing his.” Antoinette turned quickly and looked at her father; then she bestowed her attention once more upon the Albula. “To be sure,” resumed M. Moriaz, stroking his whiskers with the head of his cane, “Camille is just the man to make his way through difficulties. He has a youthful air that is very deceptive, but he always has been astonishingly precocious. At twenty years of age he became head of his class at the Central School; but the best thing about him is that, although in possession of a fortune, yet he has a passion for work. The rich man who works accepts voluntary poverty.”
There arose from the precipice a damp, chill breeze; Mlle. Moriaz drew over her head a red hood that she held in her hand, and scraping off with her finger some of the facing of the parapet, which glittered with scales of mica, she asked: “What do you call this?”
“It is gneiss, a sort of sheet-granite; but do not you too admire people who work when they are not compelled to do anything?”
“Then you must admire yourself a great deal.”
“Oh, I! In my early youth I worked from necessity, and then I formed a habit which I cannot now get rid of; while Camille Langis--” “Once more?” she ejaculated, with a gesture of impatience. “What prompts you to speak to me of Camille?”
“Nothing. I often think of him.”
“Do not let us two play at diplomacy. You have had news of him lately?”
“You just remind me that I have, through a letter from Mme. De Lorcy.”
“Mme de Lorcy, my godmother, would do better to meddle with what concerns her. That woman is incorrigible.”
“Of what would you have her correct herself?”
“Simply of her mania for making my happiness after her own fashion. I read in your eyes that Camille has returned to Paris. What is his object?”
“I know nothing about it. How should I know? I only presume--that is, I suppose----” “You do not suppose--you know.”
“Not at all. At the same time, since hypothesis is the road which leads to science, a road we _savants_ travel every day, I--” “You know very well,” she again interposed, “that I promised him nothing.”
“Strictly speaking, I admit; but you requested me to tell him that you found him too young. He has laboured conscientiously since then to correct that fault.” Then playfully pinching her cheeks, he added: “You are a great girl for objections. Soon you will be twenty-five years old, and you have refused five eligible offers. Have you taken a vow to remain unmarried?”
“Ah! you have no mercy,” she cried. “What! you cannot even spare me on the Albula! You know that, of all subjects of conversation, I have most antipathy for this.”
“Come, come; you are slandering me now, my child. I spoke to you of Camille as I might have spoken of the King of Prussia; and you rose in arms at once, taking it wholly to yourself.”
Antoinette was silent for some moments.
“Decidedly, you are very fond of Camille,” she presently said.
“Of all the sons-in-law you could propose to me----” “But I do not propose any.”
“That is precisely what I find fault with.”
“Very good; since you think so much of him, this Camille, suppose you command me to marry him?”
“If I were to command, would you obey?”
“Perhaps, just for the curiosity of the thing,” she rejoined, laughing.
“Naughty girl, to mock at her father!” said he. “If these twenty years I have been in servitude, I can scarcely emancipate myself in a day. However, since the great king deigns to hold parley with his ministers, I am Pomponne--let us argue.”
“Ah, well! you know as well as I that I have a real friendship for Camille, as the playmate of my childhood. I remember him when he was ever so small, and he remembers me, too, when I was a tiny creature. We played hide-and-seek together, and he humoured me in my ten thousand little caprices. Delightful reminiscences these, but unfortunately I think of them too much when I see him.”
“He has passed two years among the Magyars; two years is a good while.”
“Bah! he could never possibly have any authority over me. I intend that my husband shall be my government.”
“So that you may have the pleasure of governing your government?”
“Besides, I know Camille too well. I could only fall in love with a stranger,” said she, heedless of the last sally.
“Was not the Viscount R--- a stranger?”
“At the end of five minutes I knew him by heart. He is precisely like all other second secretaries of legation in the world. You may be sure that there is not a single idea in his head that is really his own. Even his figure does not belong to himself; it is the _chef-d’oeuvre_ of the united efforts of his tailor and his shirt-maker.”
“According to this, a prime requisite in the man whom you could love is to be poorly clad.”
“If ever my heart is touched, it will be because I have met a man who is not like all the other men of my acquaintance. After that I will not positively forbid him to have decent clothing.”
M. Moriaz made a little gesture of impatience, and then set out to regain the chaise, which was some distance in advance. When he had proceeded about twenty steps, he paused, and, turning towards Antoinette, who was engaged in readjusting her hood and rebuttoning her twelve-button gloves, he said: “I have drawn an odd number in the great lottery of this world. In our day there are no romantic girls; the last remaining one is mine.”
“That is it; I am a romantic girl!” she cried, tossing her pretty, curly head with an air of defiance; “and if you are wise you will not urge me to marry, for I never shall make any but an ineligible match.”
“Ah, speak lower!” he exclaimed, casting a hurried glance around him, and adding: “Thank Heaven! there is no one here but the Albula to hear you.”
M. Moriaz mistook. Had he raised his eyes a little higher he would have discovered, above the rock cornice bordering the highway, a foot-path, and in this foot-path a pedestrian tourist, who had paused beneath a fir-tree. This tourist had set out from Chur in the diligence. At the entrance of the defile, leaving his luggage to continue without him to Saint Moritz, he had alighted, and with his haversack on his back had set forward on foot for Bergun, where he proposed passing the night, as did also M. Moriaz. Of the conversation between Antoinette and her father he had caught only one word. This word, however, sped like an arrow into his ear, and from his ear into the innermost recesses of his brain, where it long quivered. It was a treasure, this word; and he did not cease to meditate upon it, to comment on it, to extract from it all its essence, until he had reached the first houses of Bergun, like a mendicant who has picked up in a dusty road a well-filled purse, and who opens it, closes it, opens it again, counts his prize piece by piece, and adds up its value twenty times over. Our tourist dined at the _table d’hote_; he was so preoccupied that he ate the trout caught in the Albula without suspecting that they possessed a marvellous freshness, an exquisite flavour and delicacy, and yet it is notorious that the trout of the Albula are the first trout of the universe.
Mlle. Moiseney, the duties of whose office consisted in serving as chaperon to Mlle. Moriaz, was not a great genius. This worthy and excellent personage had, in fact, rather a circumscribed mind, and she had not the least suspicion of it. Her physiognomy was not pleasing to M. Moriaz; he had several times besought his daughter to part with her. In the goodness of her soul Antoinette always refused; she was not one who could countenance rebuffs to old domestics, old dogs, old horses, or worn-out governesses. Young Candide arrived at the conclusion, as the result of his observations, that the first degree of happiness would be to be Mlle. Gunegonde, and the second to contemplate her throughout life. Mlle. Moiseney believed that it would be the first degree of superhuman felicity to be Mlle. Moriaz, the second to pass one’s life near this queen, who, arbitrary and capricious though she might be, was most thoughtful of the happiness of her subjects, and to be able to say: “It was I that hatched the egg whence arose this phoenix; I did something for this marvel; I taught her English and music.” She had boundless admiration for her queen, amounting actually to idolatry. The English profess that their sovereigns can do nothing amiss: “The king can do no wrong.” Mlle. Moiseney was convinced that Mlle. Moriaz could neither do wrong nor make mistakes about anything. She saw everything with her eyes, espoused her likes and her dislikes, her sentiments, her opinions, her rights, and her wrongs; she lived, as it were, a reflected existence. Every morning she said to her idol, “How beautiful we are to-day!” precisely as the bell-ringer who, puffing out his cheeks, cried: “We are in voice; we have chanted vespers well to-day!” M. Moriaz excused her for finding his daughter charming, but could not so readily approve of her upholding Antoinette’s ideas, her decisions, her prejudices. “This woman is no chaperon,” said he; “she is an admiration-point!” He would have been very glad to have routed her from the field, and to give her place to a person of good sound sense and judgment, one who might gain some influence over Antoinette. It would have greatly surprised Mlle. Moiseney had he represented to her that she lacked good sense. This good creature flattered herself that she had an inexhaustible stock of this commodity; she placed the highest estimate on her own judgment; she believed herself to be well-nigh infallible. She discoursed in the tone of an oracle on future contingencies; she prided herself on being able to divine all things, to foresee all things, to predict all things--in a word, to be in the secret of the gods. As her Christian name was Joan, M. Moriaz, who set little store by his calendar, sometimes called her Pope Joan, which wounded her deeply.
Mlle. Moiseney had two weaknesses; she was a gormand, and she admired handsome men. Let us understand the case: she knew perfectly well that they were not created for her; that she had no attractions to offer them; that they had nothing to give her. She admired them naively and innocently, as a child might admire a beautiful Epinal engraving; she would willingly have cut out their likenesses to hang on a nail on her wall, and contemplate while rereading “Gonzalve de Cordue” and “Le Dernier des Cavaliers,” her two favourite romances. At Bergun, during the repast, her brain had been working, and she had made two reflections. The first was, that the trout of Albula were incomparable, the second that the stranger seated opposite her had a remarkably handsome head, and was altogether a fine-looking man. Several times, with fork halfway to mouth, and nose in the air, she had forgotten herself in her scrutiny of him.
Antoinette, rather weary, had retired early to her chamber. Mlle. Moiseney repaired thither to see if she needed anything, and, as she was about leaving her for the night, candle in hand, she suddenly inquired, “Do not you think, as I do, that this stranger is a remarkable-looking person?”
“Of whom do you speak?” rejoined Antoinette.
“Why, of the traveller who sat opposite me.”
“I confess that I scarcely looked at him.”
“Indeed! He has superb eyes, nearly green, with fawn-coloured tinting.”
“Most astonishing! And his hair, is it green also?”
“Chestnut brown, almost hazel.”
“Pray be more exact; is it hazel or not?”
“You need not laugh at me--his whole appearance is striking, his figure singular, but full of character, full of expression, and as handsome as singular.”
“What enthusiasm! It seemed to me, so far as I noticed, that he was inclined to stoop, and that his head was very badly poised.”
“What do you say?” cried Mlle. Moiseney, greatly scandalized. “How came you to think his head badly poised?”
“There--there! Don’t let us quarrel about it; I am ready to retract. Good-night, mademoiselle. Apropos, did you know that M. Camille Langis had returned to Paris?”
“I did not know it, but I am not surprised. I had surmised it; in fact, I was quite sure that he would be back about this time, perfectly sure. And, of course, you think he has returned with the intention--” “I think,” interrupted Antoinette, “that it costs me more to pain M. Langis than any other man in the world. I think, also, that he possesses most tiresome fidelity; it is always the way, one never loses one’s dog when one wants to lose him; and I think, moreover, that a woman makes a poor bargain when she marries a man for whom she feels friendship; for, if she gains a husband, she is very sure to lose a friend.”
“How true your words are!” exclaimed Mlle. Moiseney. “But you are always right. Has M. Langis forgotten that you thought him too young--only twenty-three?”
“He has so little forgotten it that he has managed, I don’t know how, to be at present twenty-five. How resist such a mark of affection? I shall be compelled to marry him.”
“That will never do. People do not marry for charity,” replied Mlle. Moiseney, deprecatingly.
“Adieu, my dear,” said Antoinette, dismissing her. “Do not dream too much about your unknown charmer. I assure you he had a decided stoop in his shoulders. However, that makes small difference; if your heart speaks, I will see to arranging this affair for you.” And she added, musingly, “How amusing it must be to marry other people!”
The next morning Mlle. Moiseney made the acquaintance of her unknown charmer. Before leaving Bergun Mlle. Moriaz wished to make a sketch, and she had gone out early with her father. Mlle. Moiseney descended to the hotel _salon_, and, espying a piano, she opened it and played a _fantasia_ by Schumann; she was a tolerably good musician. When she had finished, Count Abel Larinski, the man with green eyes, who had entered the _salon_ without her hearing him, approached to thank her for the pleasure he had had in listening to her; but he begged to take the liberty to tell her that she failed to properly observe the movement, and had taken an _andantino_ for an _andante_. At her solicitation he took her place at the instrument, and executed the _andantino_ as few but professional artists could do. Mlle. Moiseney, ever ready with her enthusiasm, declared that he must be a Liszt or a Chopin, and implored him to play her something else, to which he consented with good grace. After this they talked about music and many other things. The man with the green eyes possessed one quality in common with Socrates, he was master in the art of interrogating, and Mlle. Moiseney loved to talk. The subject on which she discoursed most willingly was Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz; when she was started under this heading she became eloquent. At the end of half an hour Count Abel was thoroughly _au fait_ on the character and position of Mlle. Moriaz. He knew that she had a heart of gold, a mind free from all narrow prejudices, a generous soul, and a love for all that was chivalrous and heroic; he knew that two days of every week were devoted by her to visiting the poor, and that she looked upon these as natural creditors to whom it was her duty to make restitution. He knew also that Mlle. Moriaz could all the better satisfy her charitable inclinations, as her mother had left her an income of one hundred thousand livres. He learned that she danced to perfection, that she drew like an angel, and that she read Italian and spoke English. This last seemed of mediocre importance to Count Abel. St. Paul said: “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.” The count was of St. Paul’s opinion, and had Mlle. Moriaz known neither how to speak English, nor to draw, nor yet to dance, it would not in the least have diminished the esteem with which he honoured her. The main essential in his eyes was that she was benevolent to the poor, and that she cherished a little tenderness for heroes.
When he had learned, with an air of indifference, all that he cared to learn, he respectfully bowed himself away from Mlle. Moiseney, to whom he had not mentioned his name, and, buckling his haversack, he put it on his back, paid his bill, and set out on foot to make a hasty ascent of the culminating point of the Albula Pass, which leads into the Engadine Valley. One would have difficulty in finding throughout the Alps a more completely barren, rugged, desolate spot, than this portion of the Albula Pass. The highway lies among masses of rocks, heaped up in terrible disorder. Arrived at the culminating point, Count Abel felt the necessity of taking breath. He clambered up a little hillock, where he seated himself. At his feet were wide open the yawning jaws of a cavern, obstructed by great tufts of aconite (wolf’s-bane), with sombre foliage; one would have said that they kept guard over some crime in which they had been accomplices. Count Abel contemplated the awful silence that surrounded him; everywhere enormous boulders, heaped together, or scattered about in isolated grandeur; some pitched on their sides, others standing erect, still others suspended, as it were, in mid-air. It seemed to him that these boulders had formerly served for the games of bacchanalian Titans, who, after having used them as skittles or jack-stones, had ended by hurling them at one another’s heads. It is most probable that He who constructed the Albula Pass, alarmed and confused by the hideous aspect of his work, did justice to it by breaking it into fragments with his gigantic hammer.
Count Abel heard a tinkling of bells, and, looking up, he saw approaching a post-chaise, making its way from Engadine to Bergun. It was a large, uncovered berlin, and in it sat a woman of about sixty years of age, accompanied by her attendants and her pug-dog. This woman had rather a bulky head, a long face, a snub-nose, high cheek-bones, a keen, bright eye, a large mouth, about which played a smile, at the same time _spirituel_, imperious, and contemptuous. Abel grew pale, and became at once convulsed with terror; he could not withdraw his eyes from this markedly Mongolian physiognomy, which from afar he had recognised. “Ah, yes,” he said, “it is she!” He drew over his face the cape of his mantle, and disappeared as completely as it is possible to disappear when one is perched upon a hillock. It was six years since he had seen this woman, and he had promised himself never to see her again; but man is the plaything of circumstances, and his happiness as well as his pride is at the mercy of a chance encounter. Count Abel was no longer proud; for some moments he had humbled himself, he had ceased to exist.
Happily he discovered that he had not been recognised; that the woman of sixty years of age was not looking his way. She had good taste; discovering the hideous aspect of the country, which is usually known as the Vallee du Diable, she had opened a volume, bound in morocco, which her waiting-woman had placed in her hands. This volume was not a new novel; it was a German book, entitled “The History of Civilization, viewed in Accordance with the Doctrines of Evolution, from the most Remote Period to the Present Day.” She neither had made much progress in the pages of the book nor in the history of civilization; she had not got beyond the age of stone or of bronze; she was still among primitive animal life, among the protozoa, the monads, the infusoria, the vibratiles--in the age of albumen, or gelatinous civilization, as it was called by the author, the sagacity of whose views charmed her. She only interrupted her reading at intervals to lightly stroke the nose of her pug, who lay snoring in her lap, and she was a thousand leagues from suspecting that Count Abel Larinski was at hand, watching her.
The berlin passed by him without stopping, and soon it had begun the descent towards Bergun. Then he felt a great weight roll from his heart, which beat freely once more. The berlin moved rapidly away; the count followed it with his prayers, smoothing its course, removing every stone or other obstacle that might retard its progress. It was just disappearing round one of the curves of the road, when it crossed another post-chaise, making the ascent in a walk, and in it Count Abel perceived something red: it was the hood of Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz. A moment more and the berlin was gone; it seemed to him that the shadow of his sorrowful youth, emerged suddenly from the realm of shades, had been plunged back there forever, and that the fay of hope--she who holds in her keeping the secrets of the future--was ascending toward him, red-hooded, flowers in her hands, sunshine in her eyes. The clouds parted, the deep shadow covering the Vallee du Diable cleared away, and the dismal solitude began to smile. Count Abel arose, picked up his staff, and shook himself. As he passed before the cavern, he discovered, among the tufts of aconite which covered it, a mossy hollow, and he perceived that this hollow was ornamented with beautiful blue campanulas, whose little bells gracefully waved in the gentle breeze which was stirring. He gathered one of these campanulas, carried it to his lips, and found its taste most agreeable. Half an hour later he turned from the highway into a foot-path which led through green pastures and forests of larch-trees.
By the time he had reached the heart of the valley it was nightfall. He traversed the hamlet of Cresta, crossed a bridge, found himself at the entrance of the village of Cellarina, about twenty-five minutes’ walk form Saint Moritz. After taking counsel with himself, he resolved to proceed no farther; and so he put up at a neat, pretty inn, which had just been freshly white-washed.
The air of the Engadine is so keen and bracing that the first nights passed there are apt to be sleepless ones. Count Larinski scarcely slept at all in his new quarters. Would he have slept better on the plains? He became worn out with his thoughts. Of what was he thinking? Of the cathedral at Chur, of the Vallee du Diable, of the tufts of aconite, the campanulas, and the meeting of the two post-chaises, one ascending, the other descending. After that he saw no longer anything but a red hood, and his eyes were open when the first blush of the morning penetrated his modest chamber. Eagles sleep little when they are preparing for the chase.
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The Baths of Saint Moritz are, according to the verdict of a large number of people, by no means an enlivening resort, and here tarry chiefly genuine invalids, who cherish a sincere desire to recover health and strength. The invigorating atmosphere, the chalybeate waters, which are unquestionably wholesome, although they do taste like ink, have wrought more than one actual miracle; nevertheless, it is said to require no little philosophy to tolerate existence there. “I am charmed to have had the experience of visiting the Baths,” we once heard an invalid say, “for I know now that I am capable of enduring anything and everything.” But this, let us hasten to assure the reader, is an exaggeration--the mere babbling of an ingrate.
The Upper Engadine Valley, in which Saint Moritz is situated, has, as well as the Baths, its detractors and its admirers. This narrow valley, throughout whose whole length flows the Inn, shut in by glacier-capped mountains, whose slopes are covered with spruce, pine, and larch trees, lies at an altitude of some five thousand feet above the level of the sea. It often snows there in the month of August, but spring and early summer in the locality are delightful; and dotted about are numerous little romantic green lakes, glittering like emeralds in the sunshine. Those who slander these by comparing them to wash-bowls and cisterns, are simply troubled with the spleen, a malady which neither iron, iodine, nor yet sulphur, can cure.
One thing these discontented folks cannot deny, and that is that it would be difficult, not to say impossible, to find anywhere in the mountains more flowery and highly perfumed mossy banks than those of the Engadine. We do not make this assertion because of the rhododendrons that abound on the borders of the lakes: we are not fond of this showy, pretentious shrub, whose flowers look as if they were moulded in wax for the decoration of some altar; but is it not delightful to walk on a greensward, almost black with rich satyrion and vanilla? And what would you think of a wealth of gentians, large and small; great yellow arnicas; beautiful Martagon lilies; and St.-Bruno lilies; of every variety of daphne; of androsace, with its rose-coloured clusters; of the flame-coloured orchis; of saxifrage; of great, velvety campanulas; of pretty violet asters, wrapped in little, cravat-like tufting, to protect them from the cold? Besides, near the runnels, following whose borders the cattle have tracked out graded paths, there grows that species of immortelle called _Edelweiss_, an object of covetousness to every guest at the Baths. Higher up, near the glacier approach, may be found the white heart’s-ease, the anemone, and the glacial ranunculus (spearwort); higher still, often buried beneath the snow, flourishes that charming little lilac flower, delicately cut, sensitive, quivering, as it were, with a cold, known as the soldanella. To scrape away the snow and find beneath it a flower! Are there often made such delightful discoveries in life?
Having said thus much, we must admit that the Rue de Saint Moritz does not resemble the Rue de la Paix of Paris. We must also admit that the markets of the place are poorly supplied, and that in an atmosphere well calculated to stimulate the appetite the wherewithal to supply this cannot always be obtained. We cannot have everything in this world; but it is by no means our intention to advise any one to take up his residence for life in the Engadine. There must, however, be some charm in this valley, since those of its inhabitants who emigrate from it in their youth are very apt, after they have made some money, to return to pass their old age in their natal place, where they build some very pretty houses.
Mlle. Moriaz did not find Saint Moritz disagreeable; the wildness of the scenery and the rugged pines pleased her. From the terrace of Hotel Badrutt she loved to gaze upon the green lake, slumbering at her feet, and it never occurred to her to grumble because it had the form of a wash-bowl. She loved to see the cows returning at evening from the pasture. The cowherd in charge marshalled home in the most orderly manner his little drove, which announced its coming from afar by the tinkling of the cow-bells. Each one of the creatures stopped of itself at the entrance to its stall and demanded admittance by its lowing. In the morning, when they were turned out again, they awaited the arrival of the entire herd, and fell into rank and file, each in its proper place. The first time Mlle. Moriaz witnessed this ceremony, she found it as interesting as a first presentation at the theatre or opera.
There were several rainy days, which she employed in reading, painting, and making observations on the human animals of both sexes whom she encountered at the _table d’hote_. She soon gained an increase of occupation. With her, mind and heart were so constantly on the alert that it was impossible for her to remain a week in a place without discovering some work of charity to be performed. A woman to whom she had taken a fancy, a little shopkeeper of the place, interested her in her daughter, who was destined to be a governess, and who desired to learn drawing. Antoinette undertook to give her drawing-lessons, making her come every day to the hotel, and often keeping her there several hours. Her pupil was rather dull of comprehension, and caused her to grow a little cross sometimes; but she always made amends to the girl by her caresses and sprightly talk.
The weather became fine again. Antoinette availed herself of the opportunity to take long promenades; she clambered up the mountain-slopes, over slippery turf, in the hope of carrying home some rare plant; but her strength was not equal to her valour--she could not succeed in scaling those heights where flourished the _Edelweiss_. A week after her arrival she had a surprise, we might even say a pleasurable emotion, which was not comprised in the programme of amusements that the proprietor of Hotel Badrutt undertook to procure for his guests. Returning from an excursion to Lake Silvaplana, she found in her chamber a basket containing a veritable sheaf of Alpine flowers, freshly gathered, and among them not only _Edelweiss_ in profusion, but several very rare plants, and the rarest of all a certain bell-flower creeper, which smells like the apricot, and which, except in some districts of the Engadine, is only found now in Siberia. This splendid bouquet was accompanied by a note, thus conceived: “A man who had had enough of life, resolved to hang himself. To execute his dolorous design, he selected a lonely and dismal spot, where there grew a solitary oak, whose sap was nearly exhausted. As he was engaged in securing his cord, a bird alighted on the half-dead tree and began to sing. The man said to himself: ‘Since there is no spot so miserable that a bird will not deign to sing in it, I will have the courage to live.’ And he lived.
“I arrived in this village disgusted with life, sorrowful and so weary that I longed to die. I saw you pass by, and I know not what mysterious virtue entered into me. I will live.
“‘What matters it to me?’ you will say, in reading these lines; and you will be right. My sole excuse for having written them is, that I will leave here in a few days; that you never will see me again, never know who I am!”
The first impression of Antoinette was one of profound astonishment. She would have taken it for granted that there was some mistake had not her name been written in full on the envelope. Her second impulse was to laugh at her adventure. She accorded full justice to Mlle. Moriaz; she knew very well that she did not resemble the first chance comer; but that her beauty would work miracles, resurrections; that a hypochondriac, merely from seeing her pass by, was likely to regain his taste for existence, scarcely appeared admissible to her. So great was her curiosity, that she took the pains to make inquiries; the flowers and the letter had been left by a little peasant, who was not of the place, and who could not be found. Antoinette examined the hotel-register; she did not see there the handwriting of the letter. She studied the faces which surrounded her; there was not in Hotel Badrutt a single romantic-looking person. Very speedily she renounced her search. The bouquet pleased her; she kept it as a present fallen from the skies, and preserved the letter as a curiosity, without long troubling herself to know who had written it. “Do not let us talk about it any more, it is doubtless some lunatic,” she replied one day to Mlle. Moiseney, who kept constantly recurring to the incident whose mystery she burned to fathom. The good demoiselle had been tempted to stop people in the road to ask, “Was it you?” Perchance she might have suspected her Bergun unknown to have a hand in the affair, had she had the least idea that he was at Saint Moritz, where she never had met him. He came there, nevertheless, every day, but at his own time; besides, the hotels were full to overflowing, and it was very easy to lose one’s self in the crowd.
To tell the truth, when Count Abel Larinski came to Saint Moritz he was far less occupied with Mlle. Moriaz than with a certain illustrious chemist. The air of the Engadine and the waters that tasted like ink had worked marvels: in a week M. Moriaz felt like a new man. There had come to him a most formidable appetite, and he could walk for hours at a time without becoming weary. He abused his growing strength by constantly strolling through the mountains without a guide, hammer in hand; and every day, in spite of the remonstrances of his daughter, he increased the length of his excursions. The more people know, the more inquisitive they become; and, when one is inquisitive, one can go to great lengths without feeling fatigue; one only becomes conscious of this after the exertion is over. M. Moriaz never for a moment suspected that he was accompanied, at a respectful distance, on these solitary expeditions, by a stranger, who, with eyes and ears both on the alert, watched over him like a providence. The most peculiar part of the affair was that this providence would gladly have caused him to take a misstep, or thrust him into some quagmire, in order to have the pleasure of drawing him out, and bearing him in his arms to the Hotel Badrutt. “If only he could fall into a hole and break his leg!” Such was the daily wish of Count Abel Larinski; but _savants_ have great license allowed them. Although M. Moriaz was both corpulent and inclined to be absent-minded, he plunged into more than one quagmire without sticking fast, more than one marsh without having his progress impeded.
One morning he conceived the project of climbing up as high as a certain fortress of mountains whose battlements overhang a forest of pine and larch trees. He was not yet sufficiently accustomed to the mountains to realize how deceptive distances become there. After having drained two glasses of the chalybeate waters, and breakfasted heartily, he set out, crossed the Inn, and began the ascent to the forest. The slope grew more and more abrupt, and ere long he discovered that he had wandered from the foot-path. He was not one to be easily disheartened; he continued climbing, laying hold of the brushwood with his hands, planting his feet among perfidious pine-needles, which form a carpet as smooth as a mirror, making three steps forward and two backward. Great drops of perspiration started out on his brow, and he sat down for a moment to wipe them away, hoping that some wood-cutter might appear and show him the way back to the path, if there was one. But no human soul came within sight; and plucking up his courage again he resumed the ascent, until he had nearly reached a breastwork of rock, in which he vainly sought an opening. He was about retracing his steps when he remembered that from the gallery of the hotel he had observed this breastwork of reddish rock, and it seemed to him that he remembered also that it formed the buttress of the mountain-stronghold of which he was in quest; and so he concluded that this would be the last obstacle he would have to overcome. He thought that it would be actually humiliating to be so near the goal and yet renounce it. The rock, worn by the frost, presented sundry crevices and indentures, forming a natural stairway. Arming himself with all his strength, and making free use of his nails, he undertook to scale it, and in five minutes had gained a sort of plateau, which, unluckily for him, he found to be commanded by a smooth granite wall of a fearful height. The only satisfactory procedure for him now was to return whence he had come; but in these perilous passages to ascend is easier than to descend; it being impossible to choose one’s steps, descent might lead to a rather undesirable adventure. M. Moriaz did not dare to risk this adventure.
He walked the whole length of the plateau where he found himself in the hope of discovering some outlet; but the sole outlet he could discover had already been monopolized by a mountain-torrent whose troubled waters noisily precipitated themselves through it to the depths below. This torrent was much too wide to wade, and to think of leaping over it would have been preposterous. All retreat being cut off, M. Moriaz began to regret his audacity. Seized by a sudden agony of alarm, he began to ask himself if he was not condemned to end his days in this eagle’s-nest; he thought with envy of the felicity of the inhabitants of the plains; he cast piteous glances at the implacable wall whose frowning visage seemed to reproach him with his imprudence. It seemed to him that the human mind never had devised anything more beautiful than a great highway; and it would have taken little to make him exclaim with Panurge, “Oh, thrice--ay, quadruply--happy those who plant cabbages!”
Although there seemed small chance of his being heard in this solitude, he called aloud several times; he had great difficulty in raising his voice above the noise of the cataract. Suddenly he believed that he heard below him a distant voice replying to his call. He redoubled his cries, and it seemed to him that the voice drew nearer, and soon he saw emerging from the thicket bordering the opposite bank of the torrent a pale face with chestnut beard, which he remembered having beheld in the cathedral at Chur, and to have seen again at Bergun.
“You are a prisoner, monsieur,” was the salutation of Count Larinski; for, of course, the newcomer was none other than he. “One moment’s patience, and I am with you.” And his face beamed with joy. He had him at last, this precious game which has caused him so many steps.
He turned away, bounding from rock to rock with the agility of a chamois. In about twenty minutes he reappeared, bearing on his shoulder a long plank which he had detached from the inclosure of a piece of pasture-land. He threw it across the torrent, secured it as well as he could, crossed this impromptu foot-bridge of his own device, and joined M. Moriaz, who was quite ready to embrace him.
“Nothing is more perfidious than the mountains,” said the count. “They are haunted by some mysterious sprite, who fairly delights in playing tricks with venturesome people; but ‘all’s well that ends well.’ Before setting out from here you need something to revive you. The rarefied atmosphere of these high regions makes the stomach frightfully hollow. More prudent than you, I never undertake these expeditions without providing myself with some refreshment. But how pale you are!” he added, looking at him with sympathetic, almost tender, eyes. “Put on, I beg of you, my overcoat, and I will wrap myself up in my plaid, and then we will both be warm.”
With these words he took off his overcoat and handed it to M. Moriaz, who, feeling almost frozen, offered feeble objections to donning the garment, although he had some difficulty in getting into the sleeves.
During this time Count Abel had thrown down on the rock the wallet he carried slung to a leathern strap over his shoulders. He drew forth from it a loaf of light bread, some hard-boiled eggs, a _pate_ of venison, and a bottle of excellent burgundy. These provisions he spread out around him, and then presented to M. Moriaz a cup cut from a cocoanut-shell, and filled it to the brim, saying, “Here is something that will entirely restore you.” M. Moriaz drained the cup, and soon felt his weakness disappear. His natural good spirits returned to him, and he gaily narrated to his Amphitryon his deplorable Odyssey. In return, Abel recounted to him a similar adventure he had had in the Carpathian Mountains. It is very easy to take a liking to a man who helps you out of a scrape, who gives you drink when you are thirsty, and food when you are hungry; but, even had not M. Moriaz been under great obligations to Count Larinski, he could not have avoided the discovery that this amiable stranger was a man of good address and agreeable conversation.
Nevertheless, so soon as the repast was finished, he said: “We have forgotten ourselves in our talk. I am the happy father of a charming daughter who has a vivid imagination. She will believe that I have met with an untimely end if I do not hasten as speedily as possible to reassure her.”
Count Abel hereupon gave his hand to M. Moriaz to aid him in preserving his equilibrium as he crossed the plank, which was not wide. Throughout the descent he overwhelmed him with attentions, sustaining him with his arm when the descent became too abrupt. So soon as they had made their way to a foot-path, they resumed their conversation. Abel was very clear-sighted, and, like Socrates, as we said before, he was master in the art of interrogating. He turned the conversation to erratic glaciers and boulders. M. Moriaz was enchanted with his manner of asking questions; as Professor of the College of France, he was well pleased to owe his life to an intelligent man.
As they traversed a pine-forest, they heard a voice hailing them, and they were shortly joined by a guide whom Mlle. Moriaz, mortally disquieted at the prolonged absence of her father, had sent in quest of him. Pale with emotion, trembling in every fibre, she had seated herself on the bank of a stream. She was completely a prey to terror, and in her imagination plainly saw her father lying half dead at the bottom of some precipice or rocky crevasse. On perceiving him she uttered a cry of joy and ran to meet him.
“Ah! truly, my love,” said he, “I have been more fortunate than wise. And I shall have to ask my deliverer his name in order to present him to you.”
Count Abel appeared not to have heard these last words. He stammered out something about M. Moriaz having exaggerated the worth of the little service it had been his good fortune to render him, and then with a cold, formal, dignified air, he bowed to Antoinette and moved hurriedly away, as a man who cares little to make new acquaintances, and who longs to get back to his solitude.
He was already at some distance when M. Moriaz, who had been busily recounting his adventures to his daughter, bethought him that he had kept his deliverer’s overcoat. He searched in the pockets, and there found a memorandum-book and some visiting-cards bearing the name of Count Abel Larinski. Before dinner he made the tour of all the hotels in Saint Moritz without discovering where M. Larinski lodged. He learned it in the evening from a peasant who came over from Cellarina for the overcoat.
The good Mlle. Moiseney was quite taken with Count Abel; first, because he was handsome, and then because he played the piano bewitchingly. There could be no doubt that Antoinette would feel grateful to this good-looking musician who had restored to her her father. Certain of being no longer thwarted in her enthusiasm, she said to her that evening, with a smile which was meant to be excessively ironical: “Well, my dear, do you still think that Count Larinski has a stoop in his shoulders, and that his head is badly poised?”
“It is a matter of small import, but I do not gainsay it.”
“Ah, if you had only heard him play one of Schumann’s romances!”
“A talent for music is a noble one. Nevertheless, the man’s chief merit, in my eyes, is that he has a taste for saving life.”
“Oh, I was sure from the first, perfectly sure, that this man had a large heart and a noble soul. I read physiognomies very correctly, and I never need to see people twice to know how far they can be relied on.” After a pause she added, “I wonder if I dare tell you, my dear, of an idea that has occurred to me?”
“Tell me, by all means. Your ideas sometimes amuse me.”
“Might it not turn out that the author of a certain note, and sender of a certain thing, was M. le Comte Abel Larinski?”
“Why he rather than any other?” queried Antoinette. “I believe you do him wrong: he appears to be a gentleman, and gentlemen do not write anonymous letters.”
“Oh! that was a very innocent one, and you may be sure that he wrote it in perfect good faith.”
“You believe, then, mademoiselle, that in good faith a man about to put a halter about his neck would renounce his project because he had encountered Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz on a public highway?”
“Why not?” cried Mlle. Moiseney, looking at her with eyes wide open with admiration. “Besides, you know the Poles are a hot-headed people, whose hearts are open to all noble enthusiasms. One could pardon in Count Larinski what could not be overlooked in a Parisian.”
“I will pardon him on condition that he will keep his promise and never make himself known to me, for this is unquestionably the first duty of a mysterious unknown. Just now he refused to let my father present him to me, which is a good mark in his favour. If he alters his mind, he becomes at once a condemned man. I pity you, my dear Joan,” added Antoinette, laughingly. “You are dying with longing to hear one of those romances without words, which M. Larinski plays so divinely; and if M. Larinski be the man of the letter, his own avowal prohibits him from appearing before me again. How can you extricate yourself from this dilemma? The case is embarrassing.”
It was M. Moriaz who undertook the solution of this embarrassing dilemma. Three days later, some moments before dinner, he was walking in the hotel-grounds, smoking a cigar. He saw passing along the road Count Abel, on his way back to Cellarina. A storm was coming up; already great drops of rain were beginning to fall. M. Moriaz ran after the count and seized him by the button, saying: “You have saved my life--permit me, at least, to save you from the rain. Do me the honour to share our dinner; we will have it served in my apartment.”
Abel strongly resisted this proposition, giving reasons that sounded like mere pretences. A rumbling of thunder was heard. M. Moriaz took his man by the arm, and led him in by force. He presented him to his daughter, saying: “Antoinette, let me present to you M. le Comte Larinski, a most excellent man, but little inclined to sociability. I was compelled to use violence in bringing him here.”
The count acknowledged these remarks with a constrained smile. He wore the manner of a prisoner; but, as he prided himself on his good-breeding and on his philosophy, he seemed to be endeavouring to make the best of his prison. During dinner he was grave. He treated Antoinette with frigid politeness, paid some attention to Mlle. Moiseney, but reserved his chief assiduities for Mr. Moriaz. He addressed his conversation more particularly to him, and listened to him with profound respect. A professor is always sensible to this kind of courtesy.
After the coffee was served, the crusting of ice in which Count Abel had incased himself began to thaw. He had been all over the world; he knew the United States and Turkey, New Orleans and Bucharest, San Francisco and Constantinople. His travels had been profitable to him: he had observed men and things, countries and institutions, customs and laws, the indigenous races and the settlers, all but the transient visitors, with whom he seemed to have had no time to occupy himself; at least they formed no part of his conversation. He related several anecdotes, with some show of sprightliness; his melancholy began to melt away, he even indulged in little bursts of gaiety, and Antoinette could not avoid comparing him and his discourse to some of the more rigorous passages of the Engadine, where, amid the black shades of the pines, among frowning rocks, there are to be found lilies, gentians, and lakes.
He resumed his gravity to reply to a question of M. Moriaz concerning Poland. “Unhappy Poland!” cried he. “To-day the Jew is its master. Active, adroit, inventive, little scrupulous, he makes capital out of our indolence and our improvidence. He has over us one great advantage, which is simply that, while we live from day to day, he possesses a notion of a to-morrow; we despise him, and we could not do without him. We are always thirsty, and he supplies us with drink; we never have ready money, and he loans it to us at an enormous rate of interest; we cannot return it to him, and he reimburses himself by seizing our goods and chattels, our jewels, our land, and our castles. We take out our revenge in insolence, and from time to time in petty persecutions, and we gradually arrive at the conclusion that the sole means of freeing ourselves from the yoke of the Jew would be to conquer the vices by which he lives.” Count Abel added that for his part he had no prejudice against these children of Abraham, and he quoted the words of an Austrian publicist who said that each country had the kind of Jews it deserved. “In fact,” he continued, “in England, as in France, and in every country where they are placed on a footing of equality, they become one of the most wholesome, most vigorous elements of the nation, while they are the scourge, the leeches, of the countries that persecute them.”
“And, truly, justice demands that it should be so,” cried Mlle. Moriaz.
For the first time the count addressed himself directly to her, saying, with a smile: “How is this, mademoiselle? You are a woman, and you love justice!”
“This astonishes you, monsieur?” she rejoined. “You do not think justice one of our virtues?”
“A woman of my acquaintance,” he replied, “always maintained that it would be rendering a very bad service to this poor world of ours to suppress all injustice, because with the same stroke would also be suppressed all charity.”
“That is not my opinion,” said she. “When I give, it seems to me that I make restitution.”
“She is somewhat of a socialist,” cried M. Moriaz. “I perceive it every January in making out her accounts, and it is fortunate that she intrusts this to me, for she never takes the trouble to look at the memorandum her banker sends her.”
“I am proud for Poland that Mlle. Moriaz has a Polish failing,” said Abel Larinski, gallantly.
“Is it a failing?” queried Antoinette.
“Arithmetic is the most beautiful of the sciences and the mother of certainty,” said M. Moriaz. And turning towards the count, he added: “She is very wrong-headed, this girl of mine; she holds absolutely revolutionary principles, dangerous to public order and the preservation of society. Why, she maintains that people who are in need have a right to the superfluities of others!”
“This appears to me self-evident,” said she.
“And, for example,” further continued M. Moriaz, “she has among her _proteges_ a certain Mlle. Galard--” “Galet,” said Mlle. Moiseney, bridling up, for she had been impatiently awaiting an opportunity to put in a word.
“This Mlle. Leontine Galet, who lives at No. 25 Rue Mouffetard--” “No. 27,” again interposed Mlle. Moiseney, in a magisterial tone.
“As usual, you are sure of it, perfectly sure. Very good! This Mlle. Galard or Galet, residing at No. 25 or No. 27 Rue Mouffetard, was formerly a florist by trade, and now she has not a sou. I do not wish to fathom the mysteries of her past--it is very apt to be ‘lightly come, lightly go’ with the money of these people--but certain it is that Mlle. Galard--” “Galet,” put in Mlle. Moiseney, sharply.
“Is to-day an infirm old woman, a worthy object of the compassion of charitable people,” continued M. Moriaz, heedless of this last interruption. “Mlle. Moriaz allows her a pension, with which I find no fault; but Mlle. Galet--I mistake, Mlle. Galard--has retained from her former calling her passion for flowers, and during the winter Mlle. Moriaz sends her every week a bouquet costing from ten to twelve francs, which shows, according to my opinion, a lack of common-sense. In the month of January last, she sent for Parma violets for this _protégé_ of hers. Now, I appeal to M. Larinski--is this reasonable, or is it absurd?”
“It is admirably absurd and foolishly admirable,” replied the count.
“The flowers I give her are never so beautiful as some that were sent me the other day,” exclaimed Mlle. Moriaz.
She went then into the next room, and returned, carrying the vase of water containing the mysterious bouquet. “What do you think of these?” she asked the count. “They are already much faded, and yet I think they are beautiful still.”
He admired the bouquet; but, although Antoinette regarded him fixedly, she detected neither blush nor confusion on his face. “It was not he,” she said to herself.
There was a piano in the room where they had dined. As Count Abel was taking leave, Mlle. Moiseney begged him to give Mlle. Moriaz proof of his talent. He slightly knit his brows at this request, and resumed that sombre, almost savage, air he had worn when he met Antoinette at the foot of the mountain. He urged in excuse the lateness of the hour, but he allowed the promise to be wrested from him that he would be more complaisant the next day.
When he was gone, accompanied by M. Moriaz, who said he would walk a little distance with him, Antoinette exclaimed: “You see, my dear--it was not he.”
“Suppose I was wrong,” replied Mlle. Moiseney, in a piqued tone--“you will at least grant that he is handsome?”
“As handsome as you please. Do you know what I think of when I look at him? A haunted castle. And I feel curious to make the acquaintance of the goblins that visit it.”
Notwithstanding his promise, Count Larinski did not reappear before the lapse of three days; but this time he gave all the music that was asked of him. His memory was surprising, and his whole soul seemed to be at the ends of his fingers; and he drew marvellous strains from an instrument which, in itself, was far from being a marvel. He sang, too; he had a barytone voice, mellow and resonant. After having hummed in a low tone some Roumanic melodies, he struck up one of his own national songs. This he failed to finish; tears started in his eyes, emotion overpowered his voice. He broke off abruptly, asking pardon for the weakness that had caused him to make himself ridiculous; but one glance at Mlle. Moriaz convinced him that she did not find him ridiculous.
A most invaluable resource, indeed, in a mountain-country where the evenings are long, is a Pole who knows how to talk and to sing. M. Moriaz liked music; but he liked something else besides. When he could not go into society and was forbidden to work, he grew sleepy after dinner; in order to rouse himself he was glad to play a hand of _bezique_ or _ecarte_. For want of some one better, he played with Mlle. Moiseney; but this make-shift was little to his taste; he disliked immensely coming into too close proximity with the pinched visage and yellow ribbons of Pope Joan. He proposed to Count Larinski to take a hand with him, and his proposal was accepted with the best grace in the world. “Decidedly this man is good for everything,” thought M. Moriaz, and he conceived a great liking for him. The result was, that during an entire week Count Abel passed every evening at the Hotel Badrutt.
“Your father is a most peculiar man,” said Mlle. Moiseney, indignantly, to Antoinette. “He is shockingly egotistical. He has confiscated M. Larinski. The idea of employing such a man as that to play _bezique_! He will stop coming.”
But the count’s former savageness seemed wholly subdued. He did not stop coming.
One evening M. Moriaz committed an imprudence. In making an odd trick, he carelessly asked M. Larinski who had been his piano professor.
“One whose portrait I always carry about me,” was the reply.
And, drawing from his vest-pocket a medallion, he presented it to M. Moriaz, who, after having looked at it, passed it over to his daughter. The medallion contained the portrait of a woman with blond hair, blue eyes, a refined, lovely mouth, a fragile, delicate being with countenance at the same time sweet and sad, the face of an angel, but an angel who had lived and suffered.
“What an exquisite face!” cried Mlle. Moriaz.
Truly it was exquisite. Some one has asserted that a Polish woman is like punch made with holy-water. One may like neither the punch nor the holy-water, and yet be very fond of Polish women. They form one of the best chapters in the great book of the Creator.
“It is the portrait of my mother,” said Count Larinski.
“Are you so fortunate as to still possess her?” asked Antoinette.
“She was a tender flower,” he replied; “and tender flowers never live long.”
“Her portrait shows it plainly; one can see that she suffered much, but was resigned to live.”
For the first time the count departed from the reserve he had shown towards Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz. “I have no words to tell you,” he exclaimed, “how happy I am that my mother pleases you!”
Othello was accused of having employed secret philters to win Desdemona’s love. Brabantio had only himself to blame; he had taken a liking to Othello, and often invited him to come to him; he did not make him play _bezique_, but he questioned him on his past. The Moor recounted his life, his sufferings, his adventures, and Desdemona wept. The fathers question, the heroes or adventurers recount, and the daughters weep. Such are the outlines of a history as old as the world. Abel Larinski had left the card-table. He had taken his seat in an arm-chair, facing Mlle. Moiseney. He was questioned; he replied.
His destiny had been neither light nor easy. He was quite young when his father, Count Witold Larinski, implicated in a conspiracy, had been compelled to flee from Warsaw. His property was confiscated, but luckily he had some investments away from home, which prevented him from being left wholly penniless. He was a man of projects. He emigrated to America with his wife and his son; he dreamed of making a name and a fortune by cutting a canal through the Isthmus of Panama. He repaired to New Granada, there to make his studies and his charts. He made them so thoroughly that he died of yellow fever before having begun his work, having come to the end of his money and leaving his widow in the most cruel destitution. Countess Larinski said to her son: “We have nothing more to live on; but, then, is it so necessary to live?” She uttered these words with an angelic smile about her lips. Abel set out for California. He undertook the most menial services; he swept the streets, acted as porter; what cared he, so long as his mother did not die of hunger? All that he earned he sent to her, enduring himself the most terrible privations, making her think that he denied himself nothing. In the course of time Fortune favoured him; he had acquired a certain competency. The countess came to rejoin him in San Francisco; but angels cannot live in the rude, exciting atmosphere of the gold-seekers; they suffer, spread their wings, and fly away. Some weeks after having lost his mother--it was in 1863--Count Abel learned from a journal that fell into his hands that Poland had risen again. He was twenty-one years of age. He thought he heard a voice calling him, and another voice from the skies whispered: “She calls thee. Go; it is thy duty.” And he went. Two months later he crossed the frontier of Galicia to join the bands of Langiewicz.
Othello spoke to Desdemona of caverns, deserts, quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven; of cannibals, the anthropophagi, and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. Count Abel spoke to Mlle. Moriaz of the fortunes and vicissitudes of partisan warfare, of vain exploits, of obscure glories, of bloody encounters that never are decisive, of defeats from which survive hope, hunger, thirst, cold, snow stained with blood, and long captivities in forests, tracked by the enemy; then disasters, discouragements, the vanishing of the last hope, punishment, the gallows, and finally a mute, feverish resignation, swallowed up in that vast solitude with which silence surrounds misfortune. After the dispersion of the band whose destinies he had followed, he had gone over to Roumania.
This narration, exact and precise, bore the impress of truth. Count Abel made it in a simple, modest tone, keeping himself as much as possible in the background, and growing persuasive without apparent effort. There were moments when his face would flame up with enthusiasm, when his voice would become husky and broken, when he would seek for a word, become impatient because he could not find it, find it at last, and this effort added to the energy of his spasmodic and disjointed eloquence. In conclusion, he said: “In his youth man believes himself born to roll; the day comes when he experiences the necessity of being seated. I am seated; my seat is a little hard, but when I am tempted to murmur, I think of my mother and refrain.”
“What did you do in Roumania?” inquired M. Moriaz, who liked to have stories circumstantially detailed.
“Ah! I beg of you to excuse me from recounting to you the worst employed years of my life. I am my father’s own son. He dreamed of cutting through an isthmus, I of inventing a gun. I spent four years of my life in fabricating it, and the first time it was used it burst.”
And thereupon he plunged into a somewhat humorous description of his invention, his hopes, his golden dreams, his disappointments, and his chagrin. “The only admirable thing in the whole affair,” he concluded, “and something that I believe never has happened to any other inventor, is that I am cured entirely of my chimera; I defy it to take possession of me again. I propose to put myself under discipline in order to expiate my extravagance. So soon as my cure is entirely finished I will set out for Paris, where I will do penance.”
“What kind of penance?” asked M. Moriaz. “Paris is not a hermitage.”
“Nor is it my intention to live there as a hermit,” was the reply, given with perfect simplicity. “I go to give lessons in music and in the languages.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed M. Moriaz. “Do you see no other career open to you, my dear count?”
“I am no longer a count,” he replied, with an heroic smile. “Counts do not run about giving private lessons.” And a strange light flashed in his eyes as he spoke. “I shall run about giving private lessons until I hear anew the voice that spoke to me in California. It will find me ever ready; my reply will be: ‘I belong to thee; dispose of me at thy pleasure.’ Ah! this chimera is one that I never will renounce!”
Then suddenly he started as one just awakening from a dream; he drew his hand over his brow, looked confusedly around him, and said: “_Grand Dieu! _ here I have been talking to you of myself for two hours! It is the most stupid way of passing one’s time, and I promise you it shall not happen again.”
With these words he rose, took up his hat, and left.
M. Moriaz paced the floor for some moments, his hands behind his back; presently he said: “This _diable_ of a man has strangely moved me. One thing alone spoils his story for me--that is the gun. A man who once has drunk will drink again; one who has invented will invent again. No man in the world ever remained satisfied with his first gun.”
“I beg of you, monsieur,” cried Mlle. Moiseney, “could you not speak to the Minister of War about adopting the Larinski musket?”
“Are you your country’s enemy?” he asked. “Do you wish its destruction? Have you sworn that after Alsace we must lose Champagne?”
“I am perfectly sure,” she replied, mounting on her high horse, “that the Larinski musket is a _chef-d’oeuvre_, and I would pledge my life that he who invented it is a man of genius.”
“If you would pledge your word of honour to that, mademoiselle,” he replied, making her a profound bow, “you may well feel assured that the French Government would not hesitate a moment.”
Mlle. Moriaz took no part in this conversation. Her face slightly contracted, buried in her thoughts as in a solitude inaccessible to earthly sounds, her cheek resting in the palm of her left hand, she held in her right hand a paper-cutter, and she kept pricking the point into one of the grooves of the table on which her elbow rested, while her half-closed eyes were fixed on a knot of the mahogany. She saw in this knot the Isthmus of Panama, San Francisco, the angelic countenance of the beautiful Polish woman who had given birth to Count Abel Larinski; she saw there also fields of snow, ambuscades, retreats more glorious than victories, and, beyond all else, the bursting of a gun and of a man’s heart.
She arose, and saluted her father without a word. In crossing the _salon_ she perceived that M. Larinski had forgotten a book he had left on the piano when he came in. She opened the volume; he had written his name on the top of the first page, and Antoinette recognised the handwriting of the note.
Shut up in her own room, while taking down and combing her hair, her imagination long wandered through California and Poland. She compared M. Larinski with all the other men she ever had known, and she concluded that he resembled none of them. And it was he who had written: “I arrived in this village disgusted with life, sorrowful and so weary that I longed to die. I saw you pass by, and I know not what mysterious virtue entered into me. I will live.”
It seemed to her that for long years she had been seeking some one, and that she had done well to come to the Engadine, because here she had found the object of her search.
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{
"id": "2470"
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Two, three, four days passed without Count Larinski reappearing at the Hotel Badrutt, where every evening he was expected. This prolonged absence keenly affected Mlle. Moriaz. She sought an explanation thereof; the search occupied part of her days, and troubled her sleep. She had too much character not to conceal her trouble and anxiety. Those about her had not the least suspicion that she asked herself a hundred times in the twenty-four hours: “Why does he not come? will he never come again? is it a fixed resolution? Does he blame us for drawing out, by our questions, the secret of his life? or does he suspect that I have discovered him to be the writer of the anonymous letter? Will he leave Engadine without bidding us good-bye? Perhaps he has already gone, and we shall never see him again.” This thought caused Mlle. Moriaz a heart-burn that she had never before experienced. Her day had come; her heart was no longer free: the bird had allowed itself to be caught.
Mlle. Moiseney said to her one evening: “It seems certain to me that we never shall see Count Larinski again.”
She replied in an almost indifferent tone, “No doubt he has found people at Cellarina, or elsewhere, who are more entertaining than we.”
“You mean to say,” said Mlle. Moiseney, “that M. Moriaz and the _bezique_ has frightened him away. I would not for worlds speak ill of your father; he has all the good qualities imaginable, except a certain delicacy of sentiment, which is not to be learned in dealing with acids. Think of condemning a Count Larinski to play _bezique_! There are some things that your father does not and never will understand.”
M. Moriaz had entered meanwhile. “Please oblige me by explaining what it is that I do not understand,” said he to Mlle. Moiseney.
She replied with some embarrassment, “You do not understand, monsieur, that certain visits were a charming diversion to us, and that now we miss them.”
“And do you think that I do not miss them? It has been four days since I have had a game of cards. But how can it be helped? Poles are fickle--more fools they who trust them.”
“It may be simply that M. Larinski has been ill,” interrupted Antoinette, with perfect tranquility. “I think, father, that it would be right for us to make inquiries.”
The following day M. Moriaz went to Cellarina. He brought back word that M. Larinski had gone on a walking-excursion through the mountains; that he had started out with the intention of climbing to the summit of Piz-Morteratsch, and of attempting the still more difficult ascent of Piz-Roseg. Mlle. Moriaz found it hard to decide whether this news was good or bad news. All depended on what point of view was taken, and she changed hers every hour.
Since his mishap, M. Moriaz had become less rash than formerly. Experience had taught him that there are treacherous rocks that can be climbed without much difficulty, but from which it is impossible to descend--rocks exposing one to the danger of ending one’s days in their midst, if there is no Pole near at hand. Certain truths stamp themselves indelibly on the mind; so M. Moriaz never ventured again on the mountains without being attended by a guide, who received orders from Antoinette not to leave him, and not to let him expose himself. One day he came in later than usual, and his daughter reproached him, with some vivacity, for the continual anxiety he caused her. “The glaciers and precipices will end by giving me the nightmare,” she said to him.
“Pray on whose account, my dear?” he playfully rejoined. “I assure you the ascent that I have just made was neither more difficult nor more dangerous than that of Montmartre, nor of the Sannois Hill, and as to glaciers, I have firmly resolved to keep shy of them. I have passed the age of prowess. My guide has been making me tremble by relating the dangers to which he was exposed in 1864 on Morteratsch, where he had accompanied Professor Tyndall and another English tourist. They were all swept away by an avalanche. Attached to the same rope, they went down with the snow. A fall of three hundred metres! They would have been lost, if, through the presence of mind of one of the guides, they had not succeeded in stopping themselves two feet from a frightful precipice, which was about to swallow them up. I am a father, and I do not despise life. Let him ascend Morteratsch who likes! I wish our friend Larinski had made the descent safe and sound. If he has met an avalanche on the way, he will invent no more guns.”
Antoinette was no longer mistress of her nerves: during the entire evening she was so preoccupied that M. Moriaz could not fail to notice it; but he had no suspicion of the cause. He was profoundly versed in qualitative and quantitative analysis, but less skilled in the analysis of his daughter’s heart. “How pale you are!” he said to her. “Are you not well? You are cold. --Pray, Mlle. Moiseney, make yourself useful and prepare her a mulled egg; you know I do not permit her to be sick.”
It was not the mulled egg that restored Mlle. Moriaz’s color. The next morning as she was giving a drawing lesson to her _protegee_, Count Abel was announced. She trembled; the blood rose in her cheeks, and she could not conceal her agitation from the penetrating gaze of the audacious charmer. It might easily be seen that he had just descended from where the eagles themselves seldom ascend. His face was weather-beaten by the ice and snow. He had successfully accomplished the double ascent, of which he was compelled to give an account. In descending from Morteratsch he had been overtaken by a storm, and had come very near never again seeing the valley or Mlle. Moriaz. He owed his life to the presence of mind and courage of his guide, on whom he could not bestow sufficient praise.
While he modestly narrated his exploits, Antoinette had dismissed her pupil. He seemed embarrassed by the _tete-a-tete_ which, nevertheless, he had sought. He rose, saying: “I regret not being able to see M. Moriaz; I came to bid him farewell. I leave this evening.”
She summoned courage and replied: “You did well to come; you left a volume of Shakespeare--here it is.” Then drawing from her notebook a paper--“I have still another restitution to make to you. I have had the misfortune to discover that it was you who wrote this letter.”
With these words she handed him the anonymous note. He changed countenance, and it was now his turn to grow red. “Who can prove to you,” he demanded, “that I am the author of this offence, or rather crime?”
“Every bad case may be denied, but do not you deny.”
After a moment’s silence, he replied: “I will not lie, I am not capable of lying. Yes, I am the guilty one; I confess it with sorrow, because you are offended by my audacity.”
“I never liked madrigals, either in prose or verse, signed or anonymous,” she returned, rather dryly.
He exclaimed, “You took this letter for a madrigal?” Then, having reread it, he deliberately tore it up, throwing the pieces into the fireplace, and added, smiling: “It certainly lacked common-sense; he who wrote it is a fool, and I have nothing to say in his defence.”
Crossing her hands on her breast, and uplifting to him her brown eyes, that were as proud as gentle, she softly murmured, “What more?”
“I came to Chur,” he replied, “I entered a church, I there saw a fair unknown, and I forgot myself in gazing at her. That evening I saw her again; she was walking in a garden where there was music, and this music of harps and violins was grateful to me. I said within myself: ‘What a thing is the heart of man! The woman who has passed me by without seeing me does not know me, will never know of my existence; I am ignorant of even her name, and I wish to remain so, but I am conscious that she exists, and I am glad, content, almost happy. She will be for me the fair unknown; she cannot prevent me from remembering her. I will think sometimes of the fair unknown of Chur. ’” “Very good,” said she, “but this does not explain the letter.”
“We are coming to that,” he continued. “I was seated in a copse, by the roadside. I had the blues--was profoundly weary; there are times when life weighs on me like a torturing burden. I thought of disappointed expectations, of dissipated illusions, of the bitterness of my youth and of my future. You passed by on the road, and I said to myself, ‘There is good in life, because of such encounters, in which we catch renewed glimpses of what was once pleasant for us to see. ’” “And the note?” she asked again, in a dreamy tone.
He went on: “I never was a philosopher; wisdom consists in performing only useful actions, and I was born with a taste for the useless. That evening I saw you climb a hill, in order to gather some flowers; the hill was steep and you could not reach the flowers. I gathered them for you, and, in sending my bouquet, I could not resist the temptation of adding a word. ‘Before doing penance,’ I said to myself, ‘let me commit this one folly; it shall be the last.’ We always flatter ourselves that each folly will be our last. The unfortunate note had scarcely gone, when I regretted having sent it; I would have given much to have had it back; I felt all its impropriety; I have dealt justly by it in tearing it to pieces. My only excuse was my firm resolution not to meet you, not to make your acquaintance. Chance ordered otherwise: I was presented to you, you know by whom, and how; I ended by coming here every evening, but I rebelled against my own weakness, I condemned myself to absence for a few days, so as to break a dangerous habit, and, thank God! I have broken my chain.”
She lightly tapped the floor with the tip of her foot, and demanded with the air of a queen recalling a subject to his allegiance, “Are you to be believed?”
He had spoken in a half-serious, half-jesting tone, tinged with the playful melancholy that was natural to him. He changed countenance, his face flushed, and he cried out abruptly, “I regained my strength and will on the summit of Morteratsch, and I only return to bid you farewell, and to give you the assurance that I never will see you again.”
“It is a strange case,” she replied; “but I pardon you, on condition that you do not execute your threat. You are resolved to be wise; the wise avoid extremes. You will remember that you have friends in Paris. My father has many connections; if we can be of service to you in any way--” He did not permit her to finish, and responded proudly: “I thank you, with all my heart. I have sworn to be under obligations to none but myself.”
“Very well,” she replied, “you will visit us for our pleasure. In a month we shall be at Cormeilles.”
He shook his head in sign of refusal. She looked fixedly at him, and said, “It must be so.”
This look, these words, sent to Count Abel’s brain such a thrill of joy and of hope that for a moment he thought he had betrayed himself. He nearly fell on his knees before Mlle. Moriaz, but, speedily mastering his emotions, he bowed gravely, casting down his eyes. She herself immediately resumed her usual voice and manner, and questioned him on his journey. He told her, in reply, that he proposed to go by the route of Soleure, and to stay there a day in order to visit in Gurzelengasse the house where Kosciuszko, the greatest of Poles, had died. He had thought of this pilgrimage for a long time. He added: “Still another useless action. Ah! when shall I improve?”
“Don’t improve too much,” she said, smiling. And then he went away.
M. Moriaz returned to the hotel about noon: his guide being engaged elsewhere, he had taken only a short ramble. After breakfast his daughter proposed to him that he should go down with her to the banks of the lake. They made the descent, which is not difficult. This pretty piece of water, that has been falsely accused of resembling a shaving-dish, is said to be not less than a mile in length. When the father and daughter reached the entrance of the woods that pedestrians pass through in going to Pontresina, they seated themselves on the grass at the foot of a larch. They remained some time silent. Antoinette watched the cows grazing, and stroked the smooth, glossy leaves of a yellow gentian with the end of her parasol. M. Moriaz busied himself with neither the cows nor the yellow gentian--he thought of M. Camille Langis, and felt more than a little guilty in that quarter; he had not written to him, having nothing satisfactory to tell him. He could see the young man waiting in vain, at the Hotel Steinbock. To pass a fortnight at Chur is a torture that the most robust constitution scarcely can endure, and it is an increased torture to watch every evening and every morning for a letter that never comes. M. Moriaz resolved to open hostilities, to begin a new assault on the impregnable place. He was seeking in his mind for a beginning for his first phrase. He had just found it, when suddenly Antoinette said to him, in a low, agitated, but distinct voice: “I have a question for you. What would you think if I should some day marry M. Abel Larinski?”
M. Moriaz started up, and his cane, slipping from his hand, rolled to the bottom of the declivity. He looked at his daughter, and said to her: “I beg of you to repeat what you just said to me. I fear I have misunderstood you.”
She answered in a firmer voice, “I am curious to know what you would think if I should marry, some day or other, Count Larinski.”
He was startled, thunderstruck. He never had foreseen that such a catastrophe could occur, nor had the least suspicion that anything had passed between his daughter and M. Larinski. Of all the ideas that had suggested themselves to him, this seemed the least admissible, the most improbable and ridiculous. After a long silence, he said to Antoinette, “You want to frighten me--this is not serious.”
“Do you dislike M. Larinski?” she asked.
“Certainly not; I by no means dislike him. He has good manners, he speaks well, and I must acknowledge that he had a very graceful way of taking me from off my rock, where I should still be had it not been for him. I am grateful to him for it; but, from that to giving him my daughter, there is a wide margin. If he wanted me to give him a medal he should have it.”
“Let us talk seriously,” said she. “What objections have you to make?”
“First, M. Larinski is a stranger, and I mistrust strangers. Then, I know him but slightly. I naturally demand additional information. Finally, I own that the state of his affairs--” “Ah! that is the main point,” she interrupted. “He is poor; that is his crime, which he has not disguised. How differently we think! I have some fortune; its only advantage that I can see is that it makes me free to marry the man I esteem, though he be poor.”
“And perhaps a little because of that very reason,” interrupted M. Moriaz, in his turn. “Come, I entreat you, let me explain the anxieties arising from my miserable good sense. M. Larinski has related his history to us. Frankly, do you not think that it is rather that--what shall I say--of an adventurer? The word shocks you--I take it back--but you must admit that this Pole belongs to the--ambulatory family.”
“Or family of heroes,” she replied.
“That is it, of wandering heroes. I wish all manner of good to heroes, although I never have clearly discovered their use. At all events, I am not sure that they are the best qualified men in the world to make a wife happy, and I intend that my daughter shall be happy.”
“You are not convinced as I am that M. Larinski has a superior mind, and a heart of gold?”
“A heart of gold! I should be glad to believe it. I have no reason to doubt it; but many very skilful persons are deceived by false jewellery. Ah! my dear, if you were better versed in chemistry, you would know how easy it is to manufacture a false trinket. Formerly, after having cleaned the piece to be gilded, a gold amalgam was applied. Now, the brass or copper trinket is steeped in a solution of perchloride of gold and bicarbonate of potash, and in less than a minute the thing is accomplished. It is called gilding by immersion. There is another process in which galvanism--But let us admit that M. Larinski’s heart is real gold. In the purest gold there is usually some alloy, to dispense with which resort must be had to the cupel. Do you not know what a cupel is? It is a small capsule or cup of a porous substance, used in the refining process, and possessing the property of absorbing the fused oxides and retaining the refined metal. What is the proportion of lead or of gold ore in M. Larinski’s heart? Neither you nor I know.”
She was no longer listening; her chin in her hand, her glances wandered over the glade. He touched her arm gently to rouse her, and said: “It is all over? You love him?”
“Why will you make me say so?” she replied, blushing.
“And he has declared himself? He has dared----” “He has dared nothing. Ah! how little you know him! If you were to offer me to him, his pride would say no, and I would have to go down on my knees to get the better of his refusal.”
“We will say, at once, that he is unique, that he is a marvel, that there is not a second Pole like him; the mould has been broken. And yet are you sure that he loves you?”
She replied by a motion of the head.
“I should confess,” he resumed, “that the passion that is called the grand passion is for me a sealed letter, the mystery of mysteries. I am completely ignorant of it. Yet that did not prevent my marrying, and making a choice that brought me great happiness. Your method is different, and I must believe that you have yielded to an irresistible force. It seems to me, however, that resistance can always be made. You have will, character--” She interrupted him, murmuring, “It is either he or no one.”
“Oh! if it comes to that,” he continued, “you are of age, and mistress of your actions; there is nothing for me but to submit. Still, it will be painful to you, I like to believe, to marry in opposition to my wishes.”
“Do you doubt it? I am willing not to marry.”
“Bad solution! It is worse than the other. Let us come to terms. The positive has its place only in science. It is absolutely true that borax is a salt composed of boracic acid and soda. Beyond such facts all is uncertain. Does this happy man surmise the sentiments he has inspired?”
“I tell you that you do not know him? Do you take him for a coxcomb? When he came this morning to announce his departure, his serious intention was to bid us an eternal farewell, and never to see me again.”
“A most excellent idea that,” sighed M. Moriaz. “Unfortunately, you represented to him that it took but two hours to go from Paris to Cormeilles.”
“I had trouble to persuade him of it.”
“Well, since the matter stands thus, nothing is yet lost. You know, my dear, that my physician advised me to beware of abrupt transitions, and not to change too suddenly from the keen air of Engadine to the heavy atmosphere of the plains. On leaving Saint Moritz, we will descend five hundred metres lower, and remain three weeks at Churwalden; consequently, we will not be in Paris for a month. You will employ this month in somewhat calming your imagination. It is very easy for it to become excited in these mountain-holes, without taking into account the wearisomeness of hotel-life. From the very day after our arrival you took a dislike to the paper in our little _salon_, and its squares, I confess, are very ugly. In every square, a thrush stretching out its neck to peck a currant. Two hundred thrushes and two hundred currants--it was enough to weary you to death. Suddenly there appears a Pole--” “The thrushes had nothing to do with it,” she replied, smiling. “A month hence I shall say as I do to-day. ‘It is either he or no one.’ And you shall choose.”
“Do not repeat that formula, I beg. Fixed resolves are the prison-house of the will. Promise me to reflect; reflection is an excellent thing. One thing more--grant me in advance what I am going to ask you.”
“It is granted.”
“You have a godmother--” “Ah! now we are coming to the point,” she added.
“You cannot deny that Mme. De Lorcy is a woman of the world, a woman of good sense, a woman of experience, who is deeply interested in your welfare--” “And who has decided from time immemorial, that I can only be happy on condition that I marry her nephew, M. Camille Langis.”
“Well, I admit that she is partial. That is no reason why we should not send her our Pole. She will inspect him, she will tell us her opinion; it will be a new element in the argument.”
“Ah! I know her opinion without asking it. This woman of experience and good sense is incapable of recognising merit in a man who is sufficiently impertinent to make Mlle. Moriaz love him, without having at least fifty thousand livres a year to offer her.”
“What does that matter? We will let her speak--we need not question her, an oracle; but she knows false jewellery. If she discover--” “I would require proofs,” she interrupted, quickly.
“And if she furnish them?”
She was silent an instant, then she said: “Let it be so; do as you please.”
With these words they ended the conversation; then arose, and retook the road to Saint Moritz. M. Moriaz scarcely had reached there, when he entered a carriage to drive to Cellarina, provided with a portfolio given him by Antoinette. He found M. Larinski busy strapping his trunks, and waiting for the mail-coach that made the journey between Samaden and Chur by the Col du Julier.
M. Moriaz expressed his regret at having missed his visit, and asked if he would consent to charge himself with a commission for his daughter, who desired to send to her godmother, Mme. De Lorcy, a sketch of Saint Moritz.
“Cheerfully,” coldly replied Count Abel, and he promised, so soon as he reached Paris, to send the portfolio to Maisons Lafitte.
“Do better than that,” rejoined M. Moriaz, “and carry your good-nature so far as to take it yourself to its address. Mme. de Lorcy is an amiable woman, who will be charmed to make your acquaintance, and hear from you of us.”
The count bowed with a submissive air. There was so little ardour in this submission that M. Moriaz queried if his daughter had not been dreaming, if M. Larinski was as much in love with her as she fancied. He had not read the anonymous letter; Antoinette had refrained from even mentioning it to him.
He was returning to Saint Moritz, when he met midway a pedestrian, who, lost in thought, neither looked at him nor recognised him. M. Moriaz ordered the coachman to stop, sprang out of the carriage, went up to the traveller whom he seized by both shoulders, exclaiming: “What, you! you again! I can go nowhere in Grisons without meeting you. I ask as I did at Chur, ‘Where do you come from? ’” “Did you think I would stay there forever?” rejoined M. Camille Langis, reproachfully. “You have not kept your word, you have forgotten me; you did not write to me. I am tired of waiting, so here I am.”
“And where are you going?”
“To the Hotel Badrutt, to plead my own cause, because my advocate has failed me.”
“Ah! you have chosen an excellent time,” cried M. Moriaz; “you have a real genius for arriving in season. Go, hurry, plead, moan, weep, entreat; you will be well received; you can come and tell me all about it.”
“What do you mean?” asked Camille; “is it all over? Have you spoken, and did she silence you?”
“Not at all; she listened to me, without enthusiasm, it is true, but with attention and deference, when suddenly--Ah! my poor friend, how can it be helped? This sad world is full of accidents and Poles.”
M. Langis looked at him in amazement, as if to ask for an explanation. M. Moriaz continued: “Do yourself justice. You are the most honest fellow upon earth, I grant; you are a charming man, and an engineer of the highest merit. But, unfortunately, there is no mystery of blood and tears in your existence; you are perfectly unpretending, frank, unaffected, and as transparent as crystal; in short, you are not a stranger. Had you a delicate, blond, and romantic mother, and do you wear her portrait on your heart? have you unfathomable green eyes? have you adventures to relate? have you visited California? have you swept the streets of San Francisco? have you exchanged bullets with the Cossacks? have you been killed in three combats and in ten skirmishes? I fear you have not even thought of dying once. Have you tried all professions, without succeeding in one? have you invented a gun which burst? and, above all, are you as poor as a church-mouse? What! is it possible that you possess none of these fine advantages, and yet are audacious enough to ask me for my daughter’s hand?”
M. Moriaz ended this harangue as the Samaden mail-coach passed. Count Abel, seated on the outside, bowed and waved his hand to them.
“Look well at that man,” said M. Moriaz to Camille, “for he is the enemy.”
And then, instead of giving him the remaining information that the youth desired, he said: “Go away and forget; it is the best thing that you can do.”
“You do not know me yet,” replied Camille. “I am obstinate, I fire to the last cartridge. I will follow your steps. Oh! don’t be afraid, I will lie--deceive Antoinette; let her think that I have relinquished my claims. I shall pay her only a friendly visit; but my eyes hunger to see her, and I will see her.”
The morning of the following day the enemy arrived at Chur, whence he proceeded to Berne. Deponent saith not why he failed to turn aside at Soleure, as he had expressed his intention of doing in order to pay tribute there to the memory of the great Kosciuszko. The facts of the case are, that from Berne he went direct to Lausanne, and that immediately on reaching there he hastened to the Saxon Casino. When he seated himself at the gaming-table, he experienced a violent palpitation of the heart. His ears tingled, his brain was on fire, and the cold sweat started out on his forehead. He cast fierce glances right and left; he seemed to see in his partner’s eyes his past, his future, and Mlle. Moriaz life-size. Fortune made amends for the harshness she had shown him at Milan. After a night of anguish and many vicissitudes, at daybreak Count Abel had twenty thousand francs in his pocket. It was sufficient to pay his debts, which he was anxious to do, and to enable him to await without too much impatience the moment for executing his projects.
He left the casino, his face flushed and radiant; he was so joyful that he became tender and affectionate, and, had M. Guldenthal himself come in his way, he could have embraced him.
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{
"id": "2470"
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Although he had said nothing about it to Mlle. Moriaz in narrating to her his voyages and Odysseys, Count Abel was already acquainted with Paris, having made several long sojourns there. This may seem improbable. Gone in his early youth to America, he had not recrossed the ocean until he returned to fight in Poland; since then he had lived in Roumania and Vienna. Where, then, had he found time to visit France? Certain it is, however, that he was at home on the boulevard, and that he knew well the streets that led to the places where Paris amuses itself; but he had no thoughts now for amusements. Notwithstanding the fact that his purse was full, he proposed to live a retired and austere life. He found suitable apartments in one of the lodging-houses of Rue Mont-Thabor. These apartments, on the fifth floor, were pleasant but modest; they consisted of two rooms having a view of the chestnut-trees in the garden of the Tuileries. The portress was a nice woman, whose good-will Count Abel gained on the very first day. He considered it useful, in the affairs of this world, to be at peace with both conscience and portress.
After getting installed in his garret his first care was to write to M. Moses Guldenthal. He informed him that he was ready to refund interest and capital, and he commissioned him to pay off some trifling debts that he had left in Vienna; he also desired him to send him the bracelet, which he hoped to make use of. He felt a genuine relief in the thought that he owed no man anything, that his condition was clear and transparent. When a man is proud he likes to be out of debt, and when he is clever he foresees all possible contingencies. His second care was to go to the Passage de l’Opera and buy a bouquet for sixty francs, which he carried to No. 27 Rue Mouffetard. He had one of those memories that retain everything and let nothing escape them. This bouquet--the most beautiful Mlle. Galet ever had received--caused her great astonishment. She did not know to whom to attribute it, the modest donor having escaped from the effusions of her gratitude by not making himself known. She supposed that Mlle. Moriaz had sent it to her, and, as she had taste for composition, she wrote to her a four page letter of thanks.
Count Abel had not forgotten that he was the bearer of a commission from Mlle Moriaz. A few days after his arrival, he decided to go to Maisons, but to take the longest route there; he wanted to see Cormeilles in passing, and a certain villa in which he was particularly interested. He went in the Argenteuil cars, got out at Sannois, climbed that pretty hill that commands the loveliest of views, and stopped at the inn of Trouillet mills in order to breakfast there. The morning was charming--it was in the middle of August--and the approach of autumn was already felt, which enhances the beauty of all things. The sky was flecked with small gray clouds; a light, silvery mist hung on the brow of the hills; in two places the Seine appeared glittering in the sunshine. Abel breakfasted in the open air; while eating he gazed on the sky and on the great garden-plain extending at his feet, covered with vegetables, grape-vines, and asparagus, interspersed with fruit-trees. The wooded hills bordering it formed an admirable frame. In his present mood Count Larinski was charmed with the landscape, which was at once grand and smiling. Then he questioned himself as to how much a bed of asparagus would yield at the gates of Paris, and, having finished his calculation, he surveyed with the eye of a poet the heather and broom that surrounded him. He decided that the Sannois Hill is more beautiful than Koseg; and indeed it is not necessary to be in love with Mlle. Moriaz to hold that opinion.
After having had a good breakfast, he again set out, following the crest of the hill and going through the woods. As he approached Cormeilles, he saw in the distance, beyond a grove of oaks, the white walls of a pretty villa. His heart beat faster, and by a sort of divination he said within himself, “That must be it.” He inquired; he had made no mistake. Five minutes later he stood before a railing, through which he saw a green lawn. At the entrance of the porter’s lodge a woman sat knitting.
“Can you tell me where M. Moriaz lives?” asked Count Larinski.
“Here, monsieur,” she replied; “but M. Moriaz is absent; he will not return for a month. If you come from a distance, monsieur,” she added, graciously, “perhaps you would like to rest awhile on the terrace. The view is beautiful.”
This hospitable reception seemed a good omen, for, sensible as he was, he believed in presentiments and prognostics. He entered without waiting to be urged. When he had crossed the lawn he stood facing two detached buildings, separated by a mass of verdure: to the right, an old summer-house, used from time immemorial for M. Moriaz’s collections, laboratory, and library; to the left, a new two-story house, part stone, part brick, built in an elegant but unobtrusive style, without ornament or pretension, and flanked by a turret covered with ivy and clematis, which served for a dove-cote. The house was not a palace, but there was an air about it of well-being, comfort, and happiness. In looking at it you felt like saying, “The inmates here ought to be happy!” This was about what Count Abel said to himself; in fact, he could hardly refrain from exclaiming, “Dieu! how happy I shall be here!” The situation, the terrace, the garden, everything pleased him infinitely. It seemed to him that the air here was fresher, more delightful than elsewhere, that it was exhilarating in the extreme; it seemed to him that the grass on the lawn was greener than any grass he ever had seen before, that the flowers in the carefully tended borders exhaled an unusually delicious perfume. He espied an open window on the ground-floor. He drew near it; the room into which he gazed, full of _bric-a-brac_ of exquisite choice, was Mlle. Moriaz’s study. There was in the appearance of this little sanctuary, hung with white silken drapery, and as elegant as the divinity whose favourite tarrying-place it was, something of purity, chastity, and maidenliness. It opened its windows to the fresh breezes and to the perfume of the flowers; but it seemed as if nothing could penetrate there that was coarse or suspicious; that the entrance was forbidden to all doubtful or malignant beings who might have a secret crime to hide, to all pilgrims through life who had travelled its highways and had brought hence dust and mud on the soles of their shoes. Strange to say, Count Abel experienced an attack of timidity and embarrassment. He felt that he was indiscreet; he averted his eyes and went away.
This impression was soon dispelled. He regained his assurance, and walked around the terrace twice, treading the gravel with the step of a conqueror, making it feel the full weight of his foot. He finally seated himself on a bench; he had the nonchalant attitude of a man who is at home. Five or six doves were billing and cooing on the ledge of the roof; he could readily understand that they were talking of him, and that they were saying, “Here he is--we have been waiting for him.” A beautiful Angora cat, white as snow, with delicate nose and silky hair, came, arching her back and waving her bushy tail, from out a grove, and advanced towards him. She examined him curiously an instant, rubbed herself against the bench, and then sat coquettishly at the feet of the intruder. He caressed her, saying: “You are as white and graceful as your mistress; you are an intelligent animal; you understand, my dear, that I come from her. Shall I tell you a secret? She loves Count Abel Larinski.”
With these words he rose and left, after thanking the portress, who would have been extremely astonished had she been aware of the reflections that had just been occupying his mind. He went a short distance on the highway, then finding, to the right, a road that led to Cormeilles, he took it, but soon struck into a path that wound through the woods. He was sorry to leave a spot that spoke vividly to his heart, and even more so to his imagination. He seated himself on the turf, in the midst of a grove of oaks; around him stretched a blooming heath. Through an opening in the grove, he could see Saint-Germain, its forests, and the Seine glittering in the sunshine, with the two bridges of Maisons Lafitte spanning it with their arches. Through another opening he caught a glimpse, to his left, of the proud bastions of Mont-Valerien, and, in the distance, Paris, the Arc de l’Etoile, the gilt dome of the Invalides, and the smoke of the factories rising slowly in the air, then by turns remaining stiff and motionless, or being swept away by the wind.
The place was retired, solitary, very still. No sound was to be heard save the singing of a lark, and at intervals the melancholy cry of a peacock. Abel Larinski was overcome by a mysterious emotion; he felt a voluptuous languor steal through his veins. He watched the smoke over Paris, and he saw floating in it an ethereal form whose face was partly concealed by a red hood. It smiled on him, and he read in this smile a promise of all the joys of the land of Canaan.
He turned away his eyes, partially closing them, and there appeared another form to him--in truth, very different from the first. It was that of a man whom he had known intimately, of a man whom he had deeply loved. In vain the lark sang aloud, in vain the peacock wailed--Abel Larinski no longer heard them. He was thinking of a certain Samuel Brohl; he was reviewing in his mind all the history of this Samuel, a man who never had had a secret from him. This history was quite as sad a one as that of Abel Larinski, but much less brilliant, much less heroic. Samuel Brohl prided himself neither on being a patriot nor a paladin; his mother had not been a noble woman with the smile of an angel, and the thought never had occurred to him of fighting for any cause or any person. He was not a Pole, although born in a Polish province of the Austrian Empire. His father was a Jew, of German extraction, as indicated by his name, which signifies a place where one sinks in the mire, a bog, swamp, or something of that nature; and he kept a tavern in a wretched little market-town near the eastern frontier of Galicia--a forlorn tavern, a forlorn tavern-keeper. Although always on the alert to sell adulterated brandy to his neighbour, and to seize the opportunity to lend him money on usury, he did not thrive: he was a coward of whose timidity every one took advantage to make him disgorge his ill-gotten gains. His creed consisted in three doctrines: he firmly believed that the arts of lying well, of stealing well, and of receiving a blow in the face without apparently noticing it, were the most useful arts to human life; but, of the three, the last was the only one that he practised successfully. His intentions were good, but his intellect deficient. This arrant rogue was only a petty knave that any one could dupe.
Abel Larinski transported himself, in thought, to the tavern in which Samuel Brohl had spent his first youth, and which was as familiar to him as though he had lived there himself. The smoky hovel rose before him: he could smell the odour of garlic and tallow; he could see the drunken guests--some seated round the long table, others lying under it--the damp and dripping walls, and the rough, dirty ceiling. He remembered a panel in the wainscoting against which a bottle had been broken, in the heat of some dispute; it had left a great stain of wine that resembled a human face. He remembered, too, the tavern-keeper, a little man with a dirty, red beard, whose demeanour was at once timid and impudent. He saw him as he went and came, then saw him suddenly turn, lift the end of his caftan and wipe his cheek on it. What had happened? An insolvent debtor had spit in his face; he bore it smilingly. This smile was more repulsive to Count Abel than the great stain that resembled a human face.
“Children should be permitted to choose their fathers,” he thought. And yet this poor Samuel Brohl came very near living as happy and contented in the paternal mire as a fish in water. Habit and practice reconcile one even to dirt; and there are people who eat and digest it. What made Samuel Brohl think of reading Shakespeare? Poets are corrupters.
The way it happened was this. Samuel had picked up, somewhere, a volume which had dropped from a traveller’s pocket. It was a German translation of _The Merchant of Venice_. He read it, and did not understand it; he reread it, and ended by understanding it. It produced a wild confusion of ideas in his mind; he thought that he was becoming insane. Little by little, the chaos became less tumultuous; order began to reign, light to dawn. Samuel Brohl felt that he had had a film over his eyes, and that it was now removed. He saw things that he never had seen before, and he felt joy mingled with terror. He learned _The Merchant of Venice_ by heart. He shut himself up in the barn, so that he might cry out with Shylock: “Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?” He repeated, too, with Lorenzo: “Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins: Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.”
Samuel sometimes rose at night to watch the heavens, and he fancied he heard the voices of the “young-eyed cherubins.” He dreamed of a world where Jessicas and Portias were to be met, of a world where Jews were as proud as Shylock, as vindictive as Shylock, and, as Shylock, ate the hearts of their enemies for revenge. He also dreamed, poor fool, that there was in Samuel Brohl’s mind or bosom an immortal soul, and that in this soul there was music, but that he could not hear it because the muddy vesture of decay too grossly closed it in. Then he experienced a feeling of disgust for Galicia, for the tavern, for the tavern-keeper, and for Samuel Brohl himself. An old schoolmaster, who owned a harpsichord, taught him to play on it, and, believing he was doing good, lent him books. One day, Samuel modestly expressed to his father a desire to go to the gymnasium at Lemberg to learn various things that seemed good to him to know. It was then that he received from the paternal hand a great blow, which made him see all the stars of heaven in broad daylight. Old Jeremiah Brohl had taken a dislike to his son Samuel Brohl, because he thought he saw something in his eyes that seemed to say that Samuel despised his father.
“Poor devil!” murmured Count Abel, picking up a pebble and tossing it into the air. “Fate owes him compensation, it has dealt so roughly with him thus far. He fell from the frying-pan into the fire; he exchanged his servitude for a still worse slavery. When he left the land of Egypt, he fancied he saw the palms of the promised land. Alas! it was not long before he regretted Egypt and Pharaoh! Why was not this woman Portia? why was she neither young nor beautiful?” And he added: “Ah! old fairy, you made him suffer!”
It seemed to Count Larinski that this woman, this ugly fairy who had made Samuel Brohl suffer so much, stood there, before him, and that she scanned him from head to foot, as a fairy, whether old or young, might scan a worm. She had an imperious, contemptuous smile on her lips, the smile of a czarina; so Catharine II smiled, when she was dissatisfied with Potemkin, and said to herself, “I made him what he is, and to-morrow I can ruin him.” “Yes, it was she, it was surely she,” thought Count Larinski. “I cannot mistake. I saw her five weeks ago, in the Vallee du Diable; she made me tremble!”
This woman who had taken Samuel Brohl from out of the land of Egypt, and had showered attentions upon him, was a Russian princess. She owned an estate of Podolia, and chance would have it that one day, in passing, she stopped at the tavern where young Samuel was growing up in the shadow of the tabernacle. He was then sixteen. In spite of his squalid rags, she was struck by his figure. She was a woman of intelligence, and had no prejudices. “When he is well washed and cared for,” she thought, “when he is divested of his native impurities, when he has seen the world and had communication with honest people, he certainly will be a noble fellow.” She made him talk, and found him intelligent; she liked intelligent men. She made him sing, assured herself that he had a voice; she adored music. She questioned him; he told her all his misery, and while he talked she said to herself: “No, I do not mistake; he has a future before him; in two or three years he will be superb. Three years is not long: the gardener who grafts a young tree is often condemned to wait longer than that.” When he had ended his narrative, she told him that she was in want of a secretary, that she had had several, but that she had soon tired of them, on account of their not having the desired qualifications; she asked him if he would like to accept the position. He replied only by pointing his finger to his father, who was smoking his pipe on the door-step. A moment later she was closeted with Jeremiah Brohl.
She at once proposed to him to buy his son; he dropped his arms in astonishment, then felt delighted and charmed. He declared, at first, that his son was not for sale; and then he insinuated that if ever he did sell him he would sell him dear; he was, according to his opinion, merchandise of the best quality, a rich and rare article. He raised his demands ridiculously; she exclaimed; he affirmed he could not put them lower, that he had his terms, and that he always sold at a fixed price. They disputed a long time; she was about to give up; he yielded, and they ended by making the transaction. She sent for Samuel and said to him: “My boy, you belong to me--I have bought you for cash. You are satisfied with the bargain, are you not?”
He was stupefied to learn that he had a commercial value; he never had suspected it. He wanted very much to know what he was worth; but the princess was discreet upon the subject, and desired that he should believe that he had cost her a fabulous sum. After reflection, he made his conditions; he stipulated that he should belong to himself for three years, which time he would employ in study and in satisfying a multitude of curious longings.
She readily consented, as that had been her own intention: it would take fully three years before the fruit was ripe and ready to be served at the princely table. She gave him instructions and advice, all bearing the stamp of a superior mind; she understood the world, the state of public affairs, and physiology, all that can be learned, and all that cannot be learned. Thus Samuel Brohl set out, his pocket well filled, for the University of Prague, which he soon left to settle at Heidelberg, whence he went to Bonn, then to Berlin, then to Paris. He was restless, he did not know what he wanted, but wherever he went he studied semiquavers, naturals, and flats; it was part of the conditions.
The princess was herself a great traveller; two or three times a year Samuel Brohl received a visit from her. She questioned him, examined him, felt him, as we feel a peach to be certain it is ripe. Samuel was very happy; he was free, he enjoyed his life, he did as he pleased. One single thing spoiled his happiness; when he looked in the glass, he would sometimes say within himself: “These are the features of a man who is sold, and the woman who bought him is neither young nor beautiful.” Several times he determined to learn a trade, so that he might be in a position to refund the debt and break the bargain. But he never did. He was both ambitious and idle. He wanted to fly at once; he had a horror of beginnings of apprenticeships. His early education had been so neglected that in order to recover lost time he would have been compelled to study hard--all the more so because, although he was quick-witted, and had a marvellous facility for entering into the thoughts of others, his own stock was poor; he had no ideas of his own, nor individuality of mind. He possessed a collection of half-talents; even in music, he was incapable of originating; when he attempted to compose, his inspirations proved mere reminiscences. He did himself justice; he felt that, strive as he might, his half-talents never would aid him to secure the first position, and he disdained the second. In fact, what he most needed was will, which, after all, makes the man. He tried to fling himself from his horse, which carried him where he did not desire to go; but he felt that his feet held firm in the stirrup; he had not strength to disengage them, and he remained in the saddle. Not being able to be a great man, he abandoned himself to his fate, which condemned him to be only a knave. At the expiration of his term of freedom, he declared himself solvent, and the princess took possession of her merchandise.
“Yes, poets are corrupters,” thought Count Abel Larinski. “If Samuel Brohl never had read _The Merchant of Venice_, or _Egmont_, a tragedy in five acts, or Schiller’s ballads, he would have been resigned to his new position; he would have seen its good sides, and would have eaten and drunk his shame in peace, without experiencing any uncomfortable sensations; but he had read the poets, and he grew disgusted, nauseated. He was dying with desire to get away, and the princess suspected it. She kept him always in sight, she held him close, she paid him quarterly, shilling by shilling, his meagre allowance. She said to herself: ‘So long as he has nothing, he cannot escape.’ She mistook; he did escape, and he was so afraid of being retaken that for some time he hid like a criminal, pursued by the police. He fancied that this woman was always on his track. It was then, for the first time, that he felt hunger, for they eat in the land of Egypt. He lived by all sorts of expedients, and cursed the poets. One day he learned that his father was dead; he hastened to the old tavern in order to succeed to the inheritance. He was not aware that for two years old Jeremiah Brohl had been in his dotage, and that his debtors mocked him while devouring his substance. A fine inheritance! it was diminished to two or three rickety chairs, four cracked walls that scarcely could stand upright, and some jewellery concealed in a hiding-place that Samuel knew of. Old Jeremiah never had been able to dispose of it for the price he required, and he preferred to keep it rather than lower his charge. He had principles, which was well for Samuel, as the jewellery was useful to him. He sold a necklace, and set out for Bucharest, some one having told him that he certainly would make his fortune there. He gave music-lessons; this wearisome profession did not suit him, he could not endure the constraint and the regular hours. The boys plagued him--he would willingly have wrung their necks; the girls treated him like a dog--they never thought of his being handsome, because they suspected him of being a Jew. Why had he gone to Bucharest--a city where all Germans are Jews, and where Jews are not considered men? Although he had earned a little money, he grew melancholy, and he began to think seriously of killing himself.”
Count Abel Larinski leaned forward, plucked a spray of heather, tickled his lips with it, and began to laugh; then, striking his breast, he said, in an undertone, “Thank God, Samuel Brohl is not dead, for he is here!”
He spoke the truth: Samuel Brohl was not dead, and life was of value to him, since he had met Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz in the cathedral in Chur. It was Samuel Brohl who had come to Cormeilles, and who was seated, at this moment, in the midst of a grove of oaks. Perhaps the lark that he had heard singing a quarter of an hour before had recognised him, for it had ceased singing. The peacock continued its screaming, and its doleful cries sounded like a warning. Yes, the man seated among the heather, employed in narrating his own history to himself, was indeed Samuel Brohl, and the proof of this was that he had laughed, while Count Abel Larinski never laughed; moreover, for four years the latter had been out of the world. The second reason is, perhaps, the better.
He whom, with or without his consent, we shall call henceforth Samuel Brohl, reproached himself for this access of levity, as he would have reproached himself for a false note that had escaped him in executing a Mozart sonata. He resumed his grave, dignified air, in order to salute with a wave of his hand the phantom that had just appeared before him. It was the same that he had summoned one evening at the Hotel Steinbock, and treated there as an addle-brain, as a visionary, and even as an imbecile; but this time he gave him a more indulgent and gracious reception. He bore him no ill-will, he wished him well, he was under essential obligations to him, and Samuel Brohl was no ingrate.
“Ah! well, my poor friend, I am here,” he said, in that mute language that phantoms understand. “I have taken your place, and almost your form; I play your part in the great fair of this world, and, although your noble body has rested for four years, six feet underground, thanks to me you still live. I always have had a most sincere admiration for you. I considered you a phenomenon, a prodigy. You were courageous, devoted, generosity itself; you esteemed honour above all the gold deposits in California; you detested all coarse thoughts and doubtful actions; your mother had nourished you in all sublime follies. You were a true chevalier, a true Pole, the last Don Quixote in this age of sceptics, plunderers, and interlopers. Blessed be the chance that made us acquainted! You lived retired, solitary, unknown, in a miserable hovel just outside of Bucharest. So goes the world! You were in hiding--you who had nothing to hide from either God or man--you who deserved a crown. Alas! the Russian Government had the poor taste not to appreciate your exploits, and you feared that it would claim and obtain your extradition. At our first meeting I pleased you, and you took me into your friendship; I spoke Polish, and you loved music. I became your intimate friend, your sole companion, your confidant. You must grant that you owe to me the last happy moments of your short existence. I soon knew your origin, the history of your youth, of your enterprises, and of your misfortunes. You initiated me into the secret of the great invention that you had just made; you explained to me in detail the mechanism of your famous gun. I was intelligent; I understood, or thought I understood. This gun, you said, would one day make my fortune, for, on your own account, you had renounced all hope; you had heart-disease, and you knew that you were condemned to a speedy end. My imagination was kindled. Through my entreaty you decided to leave with me for Vienna. This expedition was fatal to you, but I swear to you I did not foresee it.”
Samuel crossed his hands on his knee; then he continued: “May my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, may my blood cease to flow in my veins, may the marrow dry up in my bones, if ever I forget to be grateful for what I owe to you, Abel Larinski, or cease to remember the forlorn hovel in which we passed the first night of our journey! You were attacked by suffocation. You had only time to call and wake me. I hastened to you. You gave me, in a dying voice, your last instructions. You delivered into my hands your last fifty florins, which were as acceptable as an orange would have been to the shipwrecked passengers of the Medusa. Then you pointed with your finger to a box, in which were inclosed family relics, letters, your journal, and papers. You said: ‘Destroy all that; Poland is dead, let no one remember that I have lived!’ After that you breathed your last. Well! I confess that I did not fulfil your orders. I kept your mother’s portrait, the papers, all; and, in announcing your decease to the police, I made them believe that the man who was dead was named Samuel Brohl, and that Count Larinski still lived. What would you have me do? The temptation was too great. Samuel Brohl had disgraceful antecedents, he was base-born, he had been sold; there was a stain on his past that never could be wiped away, and, as he had had the misfortune to read the poets, it had come about that he often despised himself. It was, indeed, time that he should be thrown into the shade, and my joy was extreme to know that he was dead, and to feel that I was alive. As soon as I succeeded in persuading myself that I was indeed Count Abel Larinski, I was as happy as a child whose parents have dressed him in new clothes, and who struts about to show them. With your name I acquired a noble past; in thought, I roamed through it with delight; I visited its every nook and corner, as a poor devil would make the circuit of a park that he has just come to inherit. You bequeathed me your relations, your adventures, your exploits. When you fought for your country, I was there; when you received a gun-shot-wound near Dubrod, it was into my flesh that the bullet penetrated. Of what do you complain? Between friends is not everything in common? I left my own skin, I entered yours; I was satisfied there, and desired to remain. To-day I resemble you in everything; I assure you that if we were seen together it would be difficult to tell us apart. I have assumed your habits, your manners, your language, the poise of your head, your playful melancholy, your pride, your opinions, all, even to the colour of your hair and your handwriting. Abel Larinski, I have become you: I mistake, I am more Pole, more Larinski, than you were yourself.”
At this moment Samuel Brohl had a singular expression of countenance; his gaze was fixed. He was no longer of this world--he conversed with a spirit; but he was neither terrified nor awed, as was Hamlet in talking to the shade of his father. He treated familiarly the shade of the true Abel Larinski; it was precisely as we treat a partner that has transacted business with us in the same firm.
“It is very true, my dear Abel,” he continued, “that the principle of partnership accomplishes wonders; one man alone is a small affair. But, of all partnerships, the most useful and convenient is the one that we have made together. The living and the dead can render each other important services, and they never quarrel. You should be satisfied; you play a fine role; you are the signature of the house. We will not speak of your gun; that was a poor speculation, for which I scarcely can pardon you. It was the fault of your disordered brain that we wandered off on that bypath, but, thanks be to Heaven! we have at last gained the highway. Five weeks ago we met a woman, and what a woman! She has velvety-brown eyes, whence glances well forth like fresh and living waters. To praise her grace properly, I must borrow the language of the ‘Song of Solomon’: ‘Thy lips, O my spouse! drop as the honey-comb; honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon. This thy stature is like to a palm-tree. Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee. A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse: a spring shut up--a fountain sealed.’ Some day she will cry out, with the Shulamite, ‘Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.’ She belongs to us, my dear Larinski--my dear partner; she had yielded, and you and I share the honour of the victory. I presented myself before her, and my presence did not displease her. I related to her your history, as you would have related it yourself, with delicacy and simplicity, neither adding nor omitting. Her heart was touched; her heart was taken captive. You will wed her--she will bear your name; but you will marry her by proxy, and I shall be your proctor. I promise to consider myself your mandatory, or, to express it better, you will own the property and I will have the usufruct. Never fear that I shall forget what I owe to you, or the modesty proper to my estate.”
At these words, he made a grand gesture, as if to banish the phantom that he had conjured up, and that fled away trembling with sorrow, shame, and indignation. The peacock cried anew a mournful shriek. “Stupid bird!” thought Samuel Brohl, quaking with sudden dread.
He looked at his watch, and reflected that the hour was advancing--that he was losing time with the spirits. He rose hastily, and wended his way toward Cormeilles; thence he wished to come upon a sunny path that led to the banks of the Seine, and Sartrouville, the belfry of which was plainly visible. When he reached the foot of the declivity, he turned his head and saw, on the summit of the hill, through the space left by the crooked branches of two plantains, a white wall, that seemed to laugh amid the verdure, and a little higher the pointed roof of the dove-cote, where Mlle. Moriaz’s doves had their nests. He did not need to look long at this roof to recognise it. He threw a burning kiss in the air--a kiss that was sent to the doves as well as to the dove-cote--to the house as well as to the woman--to the woman as well as the house. For the first time in his life, Samuel Brohl was in love; but Samuel Brohl’s love differed from Abel Larinski’s. When they adore a woman, be she as beautiful as a picture, the frame, if it is a rich one, pleases them as much as the painting; and they propose to possess their mistress with all her appendages and appurtenances.
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Mme. de Lorcy was a woman of about fifty years of age, who still possessed remains of beauty. She had been a widow for long years, and never had thought of marrying again. Although her wedded life had been a happy one, she considered that liberty is to be prized above all else; she employed hers in a most irreproachable manner. She was self-possessed, even better acquainted with numbers than with dress, and managed her property herself, which was by no means a trifling thing to do. Liking to make good use of her time, she thought to do it by busying herself in the affairs of others. She had a real vocation for the profession of a consulting lawyer. Usually her advice was sensible and judicious--nothing better could be done than to follow it; only her clients complained that she pronounced her sentences with too little tenderness, without granting any appeal. She was good, charitable, but lacked unction, and she had no sympathy with the illusions of others. A German poet, in making his New-Year offerings, wishes that the rich may be kind-hearted, that the poor may have bread, that the ladies may have pretty dresses, that the men may have patience, that the foolish may get a little reason, and that sensible people may grow poetic. Mme. de Lorcy was kind-hearted, she had pretty dresses and a great deal of reason; but her reason was wanting in poetry, and poetic people to whom she gave advice required a good deal of patience to listen to the end. Those who permitted themselves to despise her counsel, and who were happy after their own fashion, incurred her lasting displeasure. She obstinately asserted to them that their seeming happiness was all a deceit; that they had fastened a stone about their necks; and that, without appearing to do so, at the bottom of their hearts they bitterly repented. She added, “It is not my fault; I told you, but you would not believe me.”
Mme. de Lorcy had an almost maternal affection for her nephew, M. Camille Langis. Confident that he could not be otherwise than successful in a love-affair, she promised him that he should marry Mlle. Moriaz. To be sure, he was rather young; but she had decided that the question of age made no difference, and that in all else there was a perfect fitness between the parties. M. Langis hesitated a long time about declaring himself. He said to Mme. de Lorcy: “If she refuse me, I shall no longer be able to see her; and so long as I can see her, I am only half-wretched.” It was Mme. de Lorcy who forced him to draw his sword and open the campaign, in which she was to act as second. This campaign had not been a successful one. Deeply wounded at the refusal, which she had in vain attempted to prevent, she was ready to force Mlle. Moriaz into compliance. They made her believe, to pacify her, that the sentence was not definite, or at least that a period of grace would be granted to the condemned. M. Langis set out for Hungary, and he had now returned. In the mean time, Antoinette had refused two offers. Mme. de Lorcy had inferred this to be a favourable omen for her projects. Thus she felt annoyance mingled with anger on receiving the following letter from M. Moriaz: “DEAR MADAME: “You will be charmed to learn that I am extremely well. My cheeks are full, my complexion florid, my legs as nimble as a chamois, my appetite like that of an ogre. If ever you become anemic, which God forbid, you should set out forthwith for Saint Moritz, and I shall soon have good news from you. Saint Moritz is a place where you find what you want, but you find, besides, what you do not want. I do not speak of bears; I have not seen any, and should I meet one, I am strong enough to strangle it. Besides, bears are taciturn animals, they never relate their histories, and the only animals I fear are those that have the gift of narrating, and that one is not allowed to strangle. I will say no more. Have I made myself intelligible? You are so intelligent.
“Apropos, Antoinette sends you a sketch or a painting, I do not know which, that will be handed to you by Count Abel Larinski. He is a Pole, of that there can be no doubt; you will perceive it at once. I wish him well; he was obliging enough to extricate me from a breakneck position into which I had foolishly thrust myself. That I have a pair of legs to walk on, and a hand to write with, I owe to him. I recommend him to your kind reception, and I beg you to get him to relate his history. He is one of those who narrate, not every day, it is true, but when you touch the right spring, he starts, and cannot be stopped. Seriously, M. Larinski is no ordinary man; you will find pleasure in his acquaintance. I have discovered that he is in rather embarrassed circumstances. He is the son of an emigrant, whose property has been confiscated. His father was a half fool, who made great attempts to cut a channel through the Isthmus of Panama, and never succeeded in cutting his way through anything. He was himself beginning to earn money in San Francisco, when, in 1863, he gave everything up to go and fight against the Russians. This enthusiastic patriot has since adopted the calling of an inventor, in which he has been unsuccessful; he is now in search of a livelihood. Do not think he will ask for anything; he is an hidalgo; he wraps himself proudly in his poverty, as a Castilian does in his cloak. I am interested in him; I want to assist him, give him a lift; but, first, I wish to feel sure that he is worthy of my sympathy. Examine him closely, sift him well; I trust your eyes rather than my own; I have the greatest faith in your skill in this kind of valuation.
“Antoinette sends you her most affectionate greetings. She adores Saint Moritz; you would think that she had found something here which has wrought a charm over her. For my own part, I am delighted to have recovered my appetite, my sleep, and all the rest, and yet I regret having come; can you reconcile that? Let me know as soon as possible what you think of my Pole; but, pray do not condemn him unheard. No hasty decision, I entreat; an expert is bound not to be influenced by his prejudices, but to weigh his judgments as his words. Adieu, dear madame; pity me in spite of my full cheeks.”
Madame de Lorcy replied in these words, by return mail: “You are indeed innocent, my dear professor, and your finesse is but too apparent; I could not help understanding. Is she, indeed so foolish. I did not think her overwise; but here she astonishes me more than I would have believed. You can tell her, for me--or rather don’t say anything to her; I will only speak to you, I am too angry to reason with her. I will see your Pole, I await him resolutely; but, in truth, I have seen him already. I am well acquainted with him, I know him by heart; I have no doubt that he is some impostor. I will examine him without prejudice, with religious impartiality. You are so good as to remind me that an expert suspends his judgment. I will hold my police force in reserve, and I will let you know before long what I think of your adventurer. Ah! yes, I do pity you, poor man. After all, however, you alone are to blame; is it my fault that you did not know how to act? God bless you!”
At the time when Samuel Brohl, seated amid the heather, in an oak-grove, was conversing with phantoms, Mme. de Lorcy, alone in her _salon_, was occupied with her needlework, and her thoughts, which revolved in a circle, like a horse in a riding-school. She had for several days been expecting Count Abel Larinski’s visit; she wondered at his want of promptness, and suspected that he was afraid of her. This suspicion pleased her. Several times she fancied she heard a man’s step in the antechamber, at which she started nervously, and the rose-coloured strings of her cap fluttered on her shoulders.
Suddenly, while she was counting her stitches, with head bent down, some one entered without her perceiving it, seized her hand, and, devoutly kissing it, threw his hat on the table, and then dropped into a chair, where he remained motionless, with his legs stretched out, and his eyes riveted on the floor.
“Oh! It is you, Camille,” exclaimed Mme. de Lorcy. “You come apropos. Well?”
“Well! yes, madame, that is it,” replied M. Langis; “and you see before you the most unhappy of men. Why is your pond dry? I want to fling myself into it head foremost.”
Mme. de Lorcy laid down her embroidery, and crossed her arms. “So you have returned?” said she.
“Would to God I never had gone there! It is a land where poison is sold, and I have drunk of it.”
“Don’t abuse metaphors. You have seen her? What did you say to her?”
“Nothing, madame--nothing of what is in my heart. I made her believe that I had reflected, and changed my views; that I was entirely cured of my foolish passion for her; that I was simply making her a friendly visit. Yes, madame, I remained half a day with her, and during the half day I never once betrayed myself. I convinced her that the mask was a face. Tell me, conscientiously, have you ever read of a more heroic act in Plutarch’s _Lives of Great Men_?”
“She herself, what did she say to you?”
“She was so enchanted, so delighted with the change, that she was dying to embrace me.”
“She shall pay for it. And he, did you see him?”
“Just caught a glimpse of him, looked up to him as was befitting the humility of my position. This fortunate man, this glorious mortal, was enthroned on the top of the mail-coach.”
“Is he really so fascinating?”
“He has, I assure you, a certain look of deep profundity, and he bears his exploits inscribed on his brow. What am I, to contend against him! You must allow that I have the appearance of a school-boy. And yet, if I were to boast. This road in Transylvania for which I had the contract was by no means easy to construct. We had to cut through the solid rock, working in the air, suspended by ropes. This perilous labour so disheartened our workmen that some of them left us; to encourage the rest, I was slung up like them, and like them handled the pickaxe. One day, in the explosion of a charge a piece of stone struck the rope of one of my men with such violence that it cut it as clean in two as the edge of a razor would have done. The man fell--I believed him to be lost; by a miracle, his clothes caught in some brushwood, to which he succeeded in clinging. It was I who went to his assistance, and I swear to you that in this rescue I proved the strength of my muscles, and ran the risk twenty times of breaking my neck. The workmen had mistrusted me on account of my youth; from that day, I can assure you, they held me in respect.”
“Did you relate this incident to Antoinette?”
“What would have been the use? With women it does not suffice to be a great man; you must have the look of one too.” And Camille Langis cried out, clinching his hands: “Ah! madame, I entreat you, do you know where I can procure a Polish head, a Polish mustache, a Polish smile? Pray, where are these articles to be had, and what is their market price? I will not haggle! O women! what a set you are--plague on you!”
“And are aunts the same?” gravely asked Mme. de Lorcy.
He answered more calmly: “No, madame, you are a woman without an equal, and I name you every day in my prayers. You are my only resource, my consolation, my counsel. Do not refuse me your precious instructions! What ought I to do?”
Mme. de Lorcy gazed up at the ceiling for an instant, and then said: “Love elsewhere, my dear; abandon this foolish girl to her fate and her Pole.”
He started and replied: “You demand what is impossible. I am no longer my own master; she has taken possession of me--she holds me. Love elsewhere? Can you think of it? I detest her--I curse her--but I adore her!”
She rejoined: “You should not use hyperbole any more than metaphors. Both are unsolid food. When you decide not to love, you will love no more.”
“That supposes that I have several hearts to choose from. I never had but one, and that no longer belongs to me. So you refuse me your advice?”
“What advice would you have me give you before having seen M. Larinski--before having taken the measure of this hero?”
“What! you expect to see him?”
“I am waiting for him to call, and I am sorry he keeps me waiting.”
“Seriously, will you receive this man?”
“I have been asked to examine him.”
“I am lost, if you feel the need of hearing before condemning him. Our most sacred duty is to be resolutely unjust towards the enemies of our friends.”
“Nonsense! I shall not be indulgent towards him.”
“Do as you like; I have my plan.”
“What is it?”
“I shall seek some groundless quarrel with this contraband, this poacher, and I will blow his brains out.”
“A fine scheme, my dear Camille! And afterward, when you have killed him, you will have gained a great deal. Have you confidence in me? I have already begun to work for you. The Abbe Miollens, as you know, is well acquainted in the society of Polish emigrants; I have sent to him for information. I have also written to Vienna for intelligence concerning him. Antoinette is foolish in forming such an acquaintance, it must be admitted; but, in matters of honour, she is as delicate as an ermine in tending the whiteness of her robe; if there be in M. Larinski’s past a stain no larger than a ten-sou piece, she will forever discard him. Let me act; be wise, do not blow out any one’s brains. _Grand Dieu! _ what would become of us, if the only way to get rid of people was by killing them?”
As she pronounced these words a servant entered, bearing a card on a silver salver. She took the card and exclaimed: “When you speak of the wolf--Here is our man!” She begged M. Langis to retire; he implored permission to remain, promising to be a model of discretion. She was insisting on his leaving when Count Abel Larinski appeared.
Samuel Brohl had scarcely taken three steps in Mme. de Lorcy’s _salon_ before he conjectured why M. Moriaz had asked him to go there, and what was the significance of the commission with which he was charged. Notwithstanding the _salon_ had a southern exposure, and that it was then the middle of the month of August, it seemed to him to be cold there. He thought that he felt a draught of chilly air, an icy wind, which pierced him through and through, and caused him an unpleasant shiver. He did not need to look very attentively at Mme. de Lorcy to be convinced that he was before his judge, and that this judge was not a friendly one; and, as soon as his gaze met that of M. Camille Langis, something warned him that this young man was his enemy. Samuel Brohl had the gift of observation.
He delivered his message, and handed Mme. de Lorcy the little portfolio that contained Mlle. Moriaz’s painting, expressing his regret that business had prevented his coming sooner. Mme. de Lorcy thanked him for his kindness, with rather a cool politeness, and asked him for news of her goddaughter. He did not expatiate on this topic.
“The valley of Saint Moritz is a dreary country,” she next said.
“Rather say, madame, that it is a dreary country possessing a great charm for those who love it.”
“It appears that Mlle. Moriaz is almost wearied to death there. I should think she would die of ennui.”
“Do you think her capable of yielding to ennui in any place?”
“Certainly, do not doubt it; but she has recourse to her imagination to dispel the tedium. She has a marvellous talent for procuring herself diversion and for varying her pleasures. Hers is an imagination having many relays: no sooner is one horse exhausted than there is another to take its place.”
“That is a precious gift,” he replied, briefly. “I assure you, however, that you calumniate the Engadine. The trees there are not so well grown as those in your park; but the Alpine fir and pine have their beauty.”
“You went to this hole for your health, monsieur?”
“Yes, and no, madame. I was not ill, but any physician contended that I should be still better if I breathed the air of the Alps for three weeks. It was taking a cure as a preventive.”
“M. Larinski made the ascent of the Morteratsch,” said Camille, who, seated on a divan with his arms extended on his knees, never had ceased to look at Samuel Brohl with a hard and hostile glance. “That is an exploit that can be performed only by well people.”
“It is no exploit,” replied Samuel; “it is a work of patience, easy for those who are not subject to vertigo.”
“You are too modest,” rejoined the young man. “Had I done as much, I would sound a trumpet.”
“Have you attempted the ascent?” asked Samuel.
“Not at all. I do not care about having feats of prowess to relate,” he replied, in an almost challenging tone.
Mme. de Lorcy hastened to interrupt the conversation by saying, “Is this the first time you have been in Paris, monsieur?”
“Yes, madame,” replied Samuel, who withdrew more and more into his shell.
“And does Paris please you as much as a pine-grove?”
“Much more, madame.”
“Have you any acquaintances?”
“None; and the truth is, I have no desire to make any.”
“Why?”
“Shall I tell you my reason? I am not fond of breaking ice, and Poles complain that there is nothing in the world so icy as Parisian coldness.”
“That explains itself,” cried Camille. “Paris, that is Paris proper, is a small city of a hundred thousand souls, and this small city is invaded more and more, by strangers who come here to seek pleasure or fortune. It is but natural that Paris should protect itself.”
“Parisians pride themselves on their penetration,” replied Samuel. “It does not require much of it to distinguish an honest man from an adventurer.”
“Ah! permit me,” returned M. Langis, “that depends a good deal on practice. The most skillful are deceived.”
Samuel Brohl rose and made a movement to leave. Mme. de Lorcy insisted on his sitting down again. She saw that she had made a bad beginning in the fulfilment of her office of examining magistrate, and of gaining the prisoner’s confidence. Fearing that Camille, in spite of his promise, would spoil everything by some insult, she found a pretext to send him away; she begged that he would go and examine a pair of horses that were a recent acquisition.
As soon as he was gone, she changed her manner; she grew amiable, she endeavoured to remove the ill impression of her first welcome; she put Count Abel at his ease, who felt that the air lost its chilliness about him. Without appearing to do so, she made him undergo an examination--she asked him many questions; he replied promptly. Visitors came in; it was an hour before he took leave, after having promised Mme. de Lorcy to dine with her the next day.
She did not wait until then to write to M. Moriaz. Her letter was thus conceived: “August 16, 1875.
“You recommend me to be impartial, my dear friend. Why should I not be? It is true that I have dreamed of a certain marriage: one of the parties would not listen to my propositions, and the other had abandoned the idea. My project has come to nothing. Camille has enjoined me never to speak of it to him again. You see I am no longer interested in the question, or, rather, I have in the matter no other interest than that which I feel for Antoinette, whose happiness is as dear to me as it is to you. Apropos, do not give her my letters; read to her the passages that you judge suitable to communicate to her--I leave that to your discretion.
“First of all, let me unfold to you my humble opinions. I am charged with having prejudices; it is a shocking calumny. I will make you a profession of faith, and you shall judge. I am at war with more than one point of our French morals; I deplore the habit that we have formed of considering marriage as a business transaction, of esteeming it as a financial or commercial partnership, and making everything subordinate to the equality of the personal estates. This principle is revolting to me, my dear friend. We are accused in foreign countries of being an immoral people. Heavens! it seems to me that we understand and practise virtue quite as much as the English or Germans, and, to speak the whole truth, I am not afraid to advance the opinion that this, of all the countries of the universe, is the one where there is the most virtue. It is not at that point that we sin. Our misfortune is, that we are too rational in our habits of life, too circumspect, too prudent; we lack boldness in our undertakings; we wish, as it is said, to have one foot on firm land and the other not far off. We must have security; we do not like risk; doubtful affairs do not please us; we are too prone to look ahead, and to look ahead is to fear. That is one reason why we send out no colonies, and that is the reason we have no more children. Are you satisfied with me?
“Napoleon I was in the habit of saying that, in fighting a battle, he so ordered matters as to have seventy chances out of a hundred in his favour; he left the rest to Fate. Ah! brave people, life is a battle, but the French of to-day will not risk anything. They are the most honest, the least romantic of men, and I regret it. Read Antoinette this passage of my letter. Our young people think that they have a right to the paternal fortune; they consider that their father is wanting in his duty if he does not leave them a settled position, a certain future. Their second preconceived notion is that they must find a wife who will bring them as much at least as they have to offer her. I have so much, you have so much--we are evidently created for each other; let us marry. All this is deplorable. I like better to hear of the young American who only expects from his parents the education necessary for a man to make his way; he has his tools given to him and the method of using them, but not a sou. You have learned to swim, my friend--swim. After that he marries, most frequently a woman who has nothing, and who loves to spend money. May the God Dollar protect him! he will gaily make an opening for himself in life, and his wife will give him ten children, who will follow the same course as their father. Where it is customary for hunger to marry thirst, there are happy marriages, and a hardy race of people. In all conscience, am I not romantic enough?
“Let me consider another case. Take a man who has fortune: he profits thereby to consult his heart only, and offer his name and revenues to the woman he loves and who has no dower. I clap my hands, I think it the best of examples, and I regret that it is so seldom practised among us. In France princes never are seen marrying shepherdesses; on the contrary, one too often sees penniless sons-in-law carrying off heiresses, and that is precisely the most objectionable case. In a romance, or at the theatre, the poor young man who marries a million is a very noble person; in life it is different. Not if the poor young man had a profession or a trade, if he could procure by his own work a sufficient income to render him independent of his wife; but if he submit to be dependent on her, if he expect from her his daily bread, to roll in her carriage, to ask her for the expenses of his toilet, for his pocket-money, and perhaps for sundry questionable outlays--frankly, this young man lacks pride; and what is a man who has no pride? Besides, what surety is there that in marrying it is, indeed, the woman he is in love with and not the dower? Who assures me that Count Abel Larinski? --I name no one, personalities are odious, and I own there are exceptions. _Dieu_, how rare they are! If I were Antoinette, I would love the poor, but in their own interest. I would not marry them. The interest of the whole human race is at stake. Beggars are inventive; let them have their own way to make, and they will be sure to invent some means of livelihood; give them the key of a cash-box, and they will cease to strive, you have destroyed their genius. My dear professor, in fifteen years I have brought about a great many marriages. Three times I have married hunger to thirst, and, thank God, I once decided a millionaire to marry a poor girl who had not a sou, but I never aided a beggar to marry a rich girl. Now you have my principles and ideas--Are you listening to me still? You fall asleep sometimes while listening to a sermon. Good! you open your eyes--I proceed: “I have seen your man. Well, sincerely, he only half pleases me. I do not deny that he has a handsome head; a sculptor might use it as a model. I will add that his eyes are very interesting, by turns grave, gentle, gay, or melancholy. I have nothing to say against his manners or his language; his address is excellent, and he is no booby--far from it. With all this there is something about him that shocks me--I scarcely know what--a mingling of two natures that I cannot explain. He might be said to resemble, according to circumstances, a lion or a fox; I believe that the fox-nature predominates, that the lion is supplementary. I simply give you my impressions, which I am perfectly willing to be induced to change. I am inclined to fancy that M. Larinski passed his first youth amid vulgar surroundings, that later he came into contact with good society, and being intelligent soon shook off the force of early influences; but there still remain some traces of these. While he was in my _salon_ his eyes twice took an inventory of its contents, and that with a rapidity which would have done credit to a practised appraiser. It was then, especially, that he had the air of a fox.
“Nor is this all. I read the other day the story of a princess who was travelling over the world, and asked hospitality, one evening, at the door of a palace. Was she a real princess or an adventuress? The queen who received her judged it well to ascertain. For this purpose she prepared for her, with her own hands, a soft bed, composed of two mattresses, on which she piled five feather-beds; between the two mattresses she slipped three peas. The next day the traveller was asked how she had slept. ‘Very badly,’ she replied. ‘I do not know what was in my bed, but my whole body is bruised; I am black and blue, and I never closed my eyes until dawn!’ ‘She is a true princess,’ cried the queen. Is M. Larinski a true prince? I made him undergo the test of the three peas. I allowed myself to question him with indiscreet, urgent, improper curiosity; he did not appear to feel the indiscretion. He replied promptly and submissively; he endeavoured to satisfy me, and I was not satisfied. I shall see him again to-morrow--he comes to dine at Maisons. I only wish to be able to prove to myself that he is a true prince.
“My dear professor, you are the most imprudent of men, and, whatever happens, you have only yourself to blame. People do not open their doors so easily to strangers. You tell me that, thanks to M. Larinski’s kindness, you did not break your leg. Mercy on me! a father would better break his leg in three places than expose his daughter to the risk of marrying an adventurer; his leg could be easily set. There is nothing so frightful in that.
“_Postscriptum_. --I open my letter. I want to prove to you how much I desire to be just, and how far my impartiality goes. You know that my neighbour, Abbe Miollens, lived a long time in Poland, and has correspondents there. I begged him to get me information concerning the count--of course, without explaining anything to him. He reports that Count Abel Larinski is a true count. His father, the confiscation of the property, the emigration to America, the Isthmus of Panama--all is true; the history is authentic. Countess Larinski was a saint. Concerning the son, nothing is known; he must have been three or four years old when he landed in New York. No one ever saw him; no one seems to know anything about his taking part in the insurrection of 1863. Having spoken the truth about his parents, it is to be presumed that he told the truth about himself. Very well, but one can fight for one’s country, and have a saint for one’s mother, and yet possess none of the qualities that go towards making a happy household. I take back the word adventurer, but I still hold to all I have said about him. Why did he take an inventory of my furniture with his eyes? Why did he sleep so soundly in a bed where there were three peas? This requires an explanation.
“Kiss Antoinette for me. Give my regards to Mlle. Moiseney, without telling her that I think her a simpleton; it is a conviction in which I shall die. Was it, indeed, very difficult to descend from that terrible rock of yours?”
Three days later, Mme. de Lorcy wrote a second letter: “August 19th.
“I have received this very moment, my dear monsieur, the reply from Vienna that I have been expecting, and which I hasten to share with you. I had applied to our friend Baron B---, first secretary of the embassy from France to Vienna, in order to try to learn what reputation Count Larinski had left there. He is esteemed there as a most worthy man; as an inventor who was more daring than wise; as a devoted patriot; as one of those Poles whose only thought is of Poland and of their Utopia, and who would set fire to the four corners of the earth without wincing, for the sole purpose of procuring embers at which to roast their chestnuts. I will not return to the subject of the gun; you know all about it. It seems that there was some good in this explosive gun, and that he who invented it united a sort of genius with ingenuousness, inexperience, and ignorance enough to make one weep. Nothing can be said against the private character of the man. He had a few debts, and his tradespeople felt considerable anxiety when he left Vienna one morning on foot. He had no sooner reached Switzerland than he sent back money to settle everything. Here we have an admirable trait. However, his tastes were simple, and he led a steady life; it was the gun that brought his finances into disorder. I will add that M. Larinski visited in Vienna at several of the most distinguished houses, where he is remembered most kindly. He was sought everywhere on account of his talents as a musician, which were far more to be relied on than his talent as a gunsmith. He plays the piano to perfection, and has a very beautiful voice. Had he employed these talents, he could have made his way to the opera, but his dignity held him back. Now you know what has been communicated to me by Baron B---. On the faith of an honest woman, I have neither added nor omitted anything.
“I am going to astonish you. Would you believe that I am beginning to be reconciled to Count Larinski? What shocked me in him is explained and excused by his long residence in America. He is a mixed breed of Yankee and Pole. Far from having prejudices against him, I now have them in his favour. Do you know, I am by no means sure that he cherishes in his heart any serious sentiment for your daughter? As a man of taste he admires her. I should like to know who would not admire her! I suspect Antoinette of allowing her imagination to become excited about nothing. He talks of her on all occasions in as free and tranquil a fashion as he would talk of a work of art. I find it impossible to believe that he is in love. I have in vain watched his green eyes. I never have seen a suspicious look.
“As I announced to you, he came to Maisons yesterday to dine. I had invited Abbe Miollens, and Camille had invited himself, promising that he would act like a philosopher; he only half kept his promise: for I must inform you that my nephew has conceived, I do not know why, an insurmountable antipathy to M. Larinski; he is subject to taking dislikes to people. During dinner, Abbe Miollens, who is a great linguist and a great traveller, and who has at the ends of his fingers everything concerning Poland and the Poles, led the conversation to the insurrection of 1863. M. Larinski, at first, refrained from discussing this sad subject; little by little the flood-gates were opened: he related his adventures or campaigns without boasting, praising others rather than himself; when suddenly his voice grew husky and his eyes dim, he interrupted himself, and begged we would speak of other things. Fortunately, at this moment, he did not see Camille, whose lips were a sinister smile. Young Frenchmen have become such sceptics! I made eyes at the bad boy, and on leaving the table I sent him to smoke a cigar in the park.
“I should confess to you that M. Larinski has made a conquest of Abbe Miollens, who of all men is the most difficult to please, and who disputes with Providence the privilege of fathoming the depths of the human heart. You are aware that the abbe is a remarkable violinist: he sent for his instrument; M. Larinski seated himself at the piano, and the two gentlemen played a concert by Mozart--divine music performed by two angels of the first class. The conversation that followed charmed me more than the concerto. I do not know by what fatality we came to speak of marriage. I did not miss the opportunity to disclose with a most innocent air, my little theories, with which you are acquainted. Would you believe that the count concurred, more than concurred, with my views? He is more royalist than the king; he does not admit that a good rule allows of any exception. According to him, a poor man who marries a rich woman forfeits his honour, debases himself, sells himself; he is a man in bondage. He developed this theme with sombre eloquence. I assure you that the lion no longer bore resemblance to the fox.
“After the departure of this fine musician and great orator, Abbe Miollens, remaining alone with me, told me how much he was charmed with his conversation and manners; he could not cease to sing his praises. I think he went a little too far. However, I joined with him in regretting that a man of his merit should be reduced to live by expedients. The abbe’s arm reaches a long way; he promised me that he would busy himself, at the expense of all other business, to find some employment for M. Larinski. He remembered that there was some talk of establishing in London an international school for the living languages. One of the founders of this institute had applied to him to learn if he could recommend some professor of the Slavonian languages. It would be exactly the thing, and I should be delighted to procure for your _protégé_ an occupation that would insure all the happiness that it is possible to enjoy on the other side of the Channel. After this, will you still accuse me of being prejudiced against him?
“Adieu, my dear monsieur. Give my tender love to my amiable goddaughter. I rely on you to read my letters to her with care and discretion. Little girls should have only a part of the truth.”
Eight days afterward Mme. de Lorcy wrote a third letter, which was thus expressed: “August 27th.
“I am more and more content with M. Larinski. I blame myself for the suspicions with which he inspired me. The Viennese were right to consider him a worthy man, and Abbe Miollens has not valued him too highly. You write, on your part, my dear friend, that you are not dissatisfied with Antoinette. She is gay, tranquil; she walks, paints, never speaks of Count Abel Larinski, and, when you speak to her of him, she smiles and does not reply. You claim that she has reflected; that time and absence have wrought their effect. ‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ you say. Take care! I am more mistrustful than you. Are you very sure that Antoinette may not be a slyboots?
“What is certain is, that I received a charming epistle from her, in which there is no more mention of M. Larinski than if Poland and the Pole did not exist. She praises Engadine; she pretends that she would ask for nothing better than to end her days in a pine-forest. I can read between the lines that it would be a pine-forest after her own heart, where there would be reunions, balls, guests to dinner, small parties, a conservatory of music, and the opera. The last paragraph of her letter is devoted to the insurrection in Herzegovina, and it is hardly worth while to say that all her sympathies are with the insurgents. ‘If I were a man,’ she writes, ‘I would go and fight for them.’ That is very well; she always took the part of thieves against the police. I remember long ago--she was ten years old--I told her the story of an unfortunate traveller besieged in a forest by an army of wolves. He made a barricade about himself, and around it he lighted great fires. The wolves fell into the flames, where they roasted, one after the other. Antoinette began to weep bitterly, and I imagined that she was lamenting the terror of the unfortunate man. ‘Not at all,’ she cried: ‘the poor beasts!’ She was made so; we cannot remake her. She will always side with the wolves, especially with the lean ones who scarcely can make two ends meet.
“I told you that Count Larinski was a worthy man. He came to see me the day before yesterday. We have become very good friends. I asked him if Paris still pleased him, and he replied, with the most gracious smile, ‘What I like best in Paris is Maisons Lafitte.’ Thereupon he said some exceedingly pretty things, which I will not repeat. We walked _tete-a-tete_ around the park. Heaven be praised that I returned heart-whole! We talked politics; he bears the reputation of being hot-headed, but he is not wanting in good sense. I wished to know if he was in favour of the Turks or of the Bosnians. He replied: “‘As a Christian, as a Catholic, I am interested in the Christians of the East, and I am for the Cross against the Crescent.’ He pronounced these words, Christian, Catholic, and cross, in a tone full of unction. I surmise that he is a devotee. He added, ‘As a Pole, I am for Turkey.’
“‘I believed,’ said I, ‘that the Poles had sympathy with all the oppressed.’
“‘Poles,’ he replied, ‘cannot like those who like their oppressors, and they cannot forget that the Osmanlis are their natural allies, and, on occasions, their refuge.’
“I gave him Antoinette’s letter to read. I was very glad, at any hazard, to prove to him that she could write four pages without asking about him. He read it with extreme attention: but when he came to the famous passage--‘If I were a man, I would go and fight for them!’ --he smiled, and returned me the letter, saying, in a disdainful and rather a dry tone: “‘Write for me to Mlle. Moriaz that I believe I am a man, yet that I will not fight for the Bosnians, and that the Turks are my greatest friends.’
“‘She is foolish,’ I said. ‘Fortunately, she changes her folly with every new moon!’
“‘What would you have?’ he replied; ‘in order not to be insipid, it is well to be a little foolish. My poor mother used often to say: “My son, youth should be employed in laying by a great store of extravagant enthusiasm; otherwise, at the end of life’s journey the heart will be void, for much is left on the road. ”’ “Calm, _seigneur_, your excited fears, no one has designs on your daughter; we evidently find her charming, but are by no means in love with her. With much precaution and circumlocution I gently proceeded to question Count Larinski on the state of his affairs, about which he never has opened his mouth. He frowned. I did not lose courage. I offered him this place of professor of the Slavonian languages of which the abbe had again spoken. I saw in an instant that his sensitive pride had taken alarm. However, upon reflection, he softened, thanked me, declined my kind offer, and announced--guess what! How much is my news worth? what will you give for it? He announced, I tell you, that in two weeks--you understand me--he will return to Vienna, where he has been promised a post in the archives of the Minister of War. I did not dare to ask what was the salary; after all, if he is satisfied, it is not for us to be harder to please than he. When I affirm that Count Larinski is a good, worthy man! --In two weeks! you understand me perfectly.
“My dear friend, I am enchanted to know that the water of Saint Moritz and the air of the Engadine have entirely re-established your health; but do not be imprudent. Half-cures are fatal. Be careful not to leave Churwalden too soon, for the descent into the heavy atmosphere of the plains. Your physician, whom I have just seen, declares that, if you hasten your return he will not answer for the consequences. Antoinette, I am sure, will join her entreaties to ours. Do not let us see you before the end of three weeks! Follow my orders, my dear professor, and all will go well. Camille is about to leave; he has become insupportable. He had the audacity to assert to me that I was a good woman, but very credulous, which in my estimation is not very polite. He no longer acts as a nephew, and respect is dead.”
Ten days later M. Moriaz received at Churwalden a fourth and last letter: “September 6th.
“Decidedly my dear friend, Count Larinski is a delightful man, and I never will pardon myself for having judged ill of him. The day before yesterday I did not know the extent of his merit and of his virtues. His beautiful soul is like a country where one passes from one pleasing discovery to another, and at each step a new scene is revealed. Between ourselves, Antoinette is a dreamer: where has she got the idea that this man is in love with her? These Counts Larinski have artists’ enthusiasm, tender and sensitive hearts, and poetic imaginations; they love everything, and they love nothing; they admire a pretty woman as they admire a beautiful flower, a humming-bird, a picture of Titian’s. Did I tell you that the other day, as I was showing him through my park, he almost fainted before my purple beech--which assuredly is a marvel? He was in ecstasy; I truly believe there were tears in his eyes. I might have supposed he was in love with my beech; yet he has not asked my permission to marry it.
“Moreover, if he were up to his eyes in love with your daughter, have no fear; he will not marry her, and this is the reason--Wait a little, I must go further back.
“Abbe Miollens came to see me yesterday afternoon; he was distressed that M. Larinski had not approved of his proposition.
“‘The evil is not so great,’ I said; ‘let him go back to Vienna, where all his acquaintances are; he will be happier there.’
“‘The evil that I see in it,’ he replied, ‘is that he will be lost to us forever. Vienna is so far away! Professor in London, only ten hours’ journey from Paris, he could cross the Channel sometimes, and we could have our music together.’
“You can understand that this reasoning did not touch me in the least; whatever it cost me I will bear it, and resign myself to lose M. Larinski forever; but the abbe is obstinate.
“‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that the Austrians pay their archivists badly; the English manage matters better, and Lord C--- gave me _carte blanche_.’
“‘Oh! but that,’ rejoined I, ‘is a delicate point to touch. As soon as you approach the bread-and-butter question, our man assumes a rigid, formal manner, as if an attack had been made on his dignity.’
“‘I truly believe,’ he replied, ‘that there is a fundamental basis of incomparable nobility of sentiment in his character; he is not proud, he is pride itself.’
“The abbe is passionately fond of Horace; he assets that it is to this great poet that he owes that profound knowledge of men for which he is distinguished. He quoted a Latin verse that he was kind enough to translate for me, and that signified something equivalent to the statement that certain horses rear and kick when you touch the sensitive spot. ‘That is like the Poles,’ he said.
“Meanwhile, M. Larinski entered, and I retained the two gentlemen to dinner. In the evening they again gave me a concert. Why was Antoinette not there? I fancied I was at the Conservatoire. Then we conversed, and the abbe, who never can let go his idea, said, without any reserve, to the count: “‘My dear count, have you reflected? If you go to London, we could hope to see you often; and, besides, the salary--well, as this terrible word has been spoken, listen to me; I will do all in my power to obtain conditions for you in every way worthy of your merit, your learning, your character, your position.’
“He was not permitted to finish the list; the count reared like the horse in Horace, exclaiming, ‘O Mozart! what a horrid subject of conversation!’ Then he added, gravely: ‘M. l’Abbe, you are a thousand times too good, but the place offered to me in Vienna seems to me better adapted to my kind of ability; I would make, I fear, a detestable professor, and the salary, were it double, would in my opinion have but little weight.’
“The abbe still insisted. ‘In our century,’ said he, ‘less than any other, can one live on air.’
“‘I have lived on it sometimes,’ replied the count, gaily, ‘and I did not find it bad. My health is proof against accidents. Ah! where money is concerned, you have no idea how far my indifference goes. It is not a virtue with me, it is an infirmity; it is because of my nationality, because I am my father’s son. I feel myself incapable of thinking of the future, of practising thoroughly French habits of economy. If my purse is full, I soon empty it; after which I condemn myself to privations--no, that does not express it--I enjoy them. According to me, there is no true happiness into which a little suffering does not enter. Besides, I have a taste for contrasts. At times I believe myself a millionaire, I have the pretensions of a nabob; I give full scope to my fancies; the next day, my bed is hard and I live on bread-and-water, and am perfectly happy. In short, I am a fool once in the year, and a philosopher the rest of the time.’
“‘The trouble is,’ returned the abbe, ‘that one day of folly will sometimes suffice to compromise forever the future of a philosopher.’
“‘Oh, reassure yourself,’ replied he; ‘my extravagances never are very dangerous. There was method in Hamlet’s madness, and there is always a little reason in mine.’
“While making this declaration of principles, he had seated himself at the piano, and idly began running his fingers over the keys. Suddenly he began to sing a German song, which I got Abbe Miollens to translate for me, and which is not long. The hero of the song is an amorous pine, standing on the summit of a barren mountain of the north. He is alone; he is weary; the snow and ice wrap him in a white mantle, and he spends his dreary hours of leisure in dreaming of a palm, which in days of yore he met, it seems, in his travels.
“M. Larinski sang this little melody with so much pathos that the good abbe was touched, and I became anxious. Anxiety, once felt, is apt to be constantly returning. I asked myself if he had met his palm in the Engadine, and added aloud, rather dryly: ‘Is the day of your departure definitely fixed? will you not do us the favour of granting us a reprieve?’
“He executed the most pearly chromatic scale, and replied: ‘Alas! madame, I am only deferring my departure on account of a letter that cannot be much longer delayed; in less than a week, I shall have the distress of bidding you farewell.’
“‘You shall not leave,’ said Abbe Miollens, ‘without letting us hear once again the poem of the pine. You sang it with so much soul that it seemed to me you must be relating an episode of your own history. My dear count, did you ever chance to dream of a palm?’
“He answered: ‘I have no longer the right to dream; I am no longer free.’
“The abbe started and cried out, in his simple-hearted way, ‘Ah! what, are you married?’
“‘I thought I had told you so,’ replied he with a melancholy smile, and he hastened to speak of a ballet that he had seen the evening before at the opera, and with which he was only half pleased.
“You can readily believe that when he pronounced the words, ‘I thought I had told you so,’ I was on the point of falling on his neck; I was so happy, that I was afraid he would read in my eyes my joy, astonishment, and profound gratitude. I think that he is very keen, and that he has conjectured for some time the mistrust with which he inspired me. If he wanted to mock me a little, I will pardon him; a good man unjustly suspected has a perfect right to revenge himself by a little irony. I ordered the horses to be put to my carriage to take him over to the railroad, and the abbe and I accompanied him as far as the station. There cannot be too much regard shown to honest people who have been abused by fortune.
“Well! what do you say, my dear friend? Was I wrong in claiming that M. Larinski is a delightful man? He will leave before the end of a week, and he is married, unhappily married, I fear, for his smile was melancholy. You see he may have married out of gratitude some _grisette_, some little working-woman, who nursed him through illness, one of those women who are not presentable; that would be thoroughly in character. Happily, in law there are no good or bad marriages; this one I hold to be unimpeachable.
“The reaction was violent: I am so rejoiced that I feel tempted to illuminate Cormeilles and Maisons Lafitte. In what way will your undeceive our dreamer? In your place I would use some precautions. Be prudent; go bridle in hand; and in the future, believe me, climb no more among the rocks; you see what it may lead to.
“Once more, do not hasten your departure. We have had for some days stifling heat; we literally suffocate. You need to spend a fortnight longer amid the shade of the pine-trees, and four thousand feet above the level of the sea.
“Adieu, my dear professor! I am interrupted in my writing by the incredulous, the sceptical, the suspicious, the absurd, the ridiculous Camille, who respectfully recommends himself to your indulgent friendship.”
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{
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In reading the fourth letter of Mme. de Lorcy, M. Moriaz experienced a feeling of satisfaction and deliverance, over which he was not master. His daughter had gone to pay a visit in the neighbourhood, and he was alone with Mlle. Moiseney, who said to him, “You have received good news, monsieur?”
“It is excellent,” he replied; then, promptly correcting himself, he added: “Excellent, or to be regretted, or vexatious; I leave that to our powers of discernment.”
When he had finished reading the letter, and replaced it in the envelope, he remained thoughtful for some moments; he was wondering how he should proceed to announce the excellent news. For three weeks his daughter had been a mystery to him. She never once had pronounced the name of Count Larinski. Churwalden pleased her as much as Saint Moritz; apparently, she was gay, tranquil, perfectly happy. Had her delusion passed away? Had she changed her mind? M. Moriaz did not know; but he surmised that still waters should be mistrusted, and that a young girl’s imagination is like an abyss. One thoroughly good warning is worth two indifferent ones; henceforth, he feared everything. “If I speak to her,” thought he, “I shall not be able to dissimulate my joy, and perhaps she will go into hysterics.” He had a horror of hysterics; he resolved to have recourse to Mlle. Moiseney, and he said to her, abruptly: “I suppose, mademoiselle, that you are acquainted with all that has passed, and that Antoinette has given you her confidence?”
She opened her eyes wide, and was on the point of answering that she knew nothing; but she restrained herself, and setting her little pointed head erect on her thin shoulders, she said, proudly, “Can you imagine that Antoinette would keep any secrets from me?”
“Heaven forbid!” replied he. “And do you approve, do you encourage her sentiments for M. Larinski?”
Mlle. Moiseney started; she had been far from suspecting that Count Larinski had specially impressed Mlle. Moriaz, and, as on certain occasions her mind worked rapidly, she understood immediately all the consequences of this prodigious event. There was a cloud before her eyes, and in this cloud she beheld all manner of things, both pleasing and displeasing to her; her mouth open, she strove to clear her ideas. She said to herself: “It is an imprudent act; not only that, it cannot be;” but she also said: “Mlle. Antoinette can no more make a mistake than the Queen of England can; because she wishes it, she is right in wishing it.” Mlle. Moiseney ended by regaining her self-possession; her lips formed the most pleasant smile, as she exclaimed: “He has no fortune, but he has a beautiful name. Mme. la Comtesse Larinski! it sounds well to the ear.”
“Like music; I grant, it is perfect,” rejoined M. Moriaz. “Unfortunately, music is not everything in the affairs of this world.”
She was not listening to him. Full of her own idea, without taking time to breathe: “You jest, monsieur,” she continued, with extraordinary volubility. “Believe me or not, I have foreseen this marriage for some time. I have presentiments that never deceive me. I was sure that it would be thus. What a handsome couple! Fancy them driving in an open carriage through the park, or entering a proscenium-box at the opera! They will make a sensation. And truly, without boasting, I think I may call your attention to the fact that I have been of some account in the affair. The first time I saw Count Larinski, you know, at the _table d’hote_ in Bergun, I recognised at once that he was beyond comparison--” “By-the-way, he ate trout?” interrupted M. Moriaz; “it does honour to your discernment.”
“You had better ask Antoinette,” replied she, “if that very evening I did not praise the handsome stranger. She maintained that he stooped, and that his head was badly poised; would you believe it? --his head badly poised! Ah! I was sure it would end so. Do you wish to prove my discernment? Shall I tell you where your letter comes from that contains such excellent news? The count wrote it; he has at last proposed. I guessed it at once. Ah! monsieur, I sympathize in your joy. He is, indeed, the son-in-law that I have dreamed of for you. A superior man, so open-hearted, so unaffected and frank!”
“Do you really think so?” asked M. Moriaz, fanning himself with the letter.
“He related to us his whole life,” rejoined she, in a pedantic tone. “How many people could do as much?”
“A delightful narration. I only regret that he was silent concerning one detail which was of a nature to interest us.”
“An unpleasant detail?” she asked, raising her gooseberry-coloured eyes to him.
“On the contrary, a circumstance that does him honour, and for which I am obliged to him. Believe me, my dear demoiselle, I should be charmed to receive a son-in-law from your hands, and to give my daughter to a man whose genius and noble sentiments you divined from merely seeing him eat. Unfortunately, I fear this marriage will not come about; there is one little difficulty.”
“What?”
“Count Larinski forgot to apprise us that he was already married.”
Mlle. Moiseney sent forth a doleful cry. M. Moriaz handed her Mme. de Lorcy’s letter; after reading it, she remained in a state of deep dejection; a pitiless finger had burst the iris bubble that she had just blown, and that she saw resplendent at the end of her pipe.
“Do not give way to your despair,” said M. Moriaz; “take courage, follow the example I set you, imitate my resignation. But tell me, how do you think Antoinette will take the matter?”
“It will be a terrible blow to her,” replied Mlle. Moiseney; “she loves him so much!”
“How do you know, since she has not judged it best to tell you?”
“I know from circumstances. Poor dear Antoinette! The greatest consideration must be used in announcing to her this intelligence; and I alone, I believe--” “I agree with you,” M. Moriaz hastened to interpose; “you alone are capable of operating on our patient without causing her suffering. You are so skilful! your hand is so light! Make the best of the situation, mademoiselle--I leave it to you.”
With these words he took up his hat and cane, and hastened to get away, rather anxious about what had passed, yet feeling too happy, too much rejoiced, to be a good consoler.
It was not long before Mlle. Moriaz returned from her walk. She came humming a ballad; she was joyous, her complexion brilliant, her eyes sparkling, and she carried an armful of heather and ferns. Mlle. Moiseney went to meet her, her face mournful, her head bent down, her glance tearful.
“Why! what is the matter, my dear Joan?” she said; “you look like a funeral.”
“Alas!” sighed Mlle. Moiseney, “I have sad news to communicate.”
“What! have they written to you from Cormeilles that your parrot is dead?”
“Ah, my dear child, be reasonable, be strong; summon up all your courage.”
“For the love of God, what is the matter?”
“Ah! would that I could spare you this trouble! Your father has just received a letter from Mme. de Lorcy.”
Antoinette grew more attentive, her breath came quickly. “And what was there in this letter that is so terrible, so heart-rending?” she asked, forcing a smile.
“Fortunately, I am here,” replied Mlle. Moiseney. “You know that your joys and your sorrows are mine. All the consolation that I can lavish upon you, the tenderest sympathy--” “My dear Joan, in the name of Heaven, explain first, and then console!”
“You told me nothing, my child--I have a right to complain; but I have divined all. I can read your heart. I am sure that you love him.”
“Of whom do you speak?” replied Antoinette, whose colour rose in her cheeks.
“Of a most charming man, who, either through inconceivable stupidity, or through most criminal calculation, neglected to tell us that he was married.”
And with these words, Mlle. Moiseney extended both arms, that she might receive into them Mlle. Moriaz, whom she believed to be already swooning.
Mlle. Moriaz did not swoon. She flushed crimson, then grew very pale; but she remained standing, her head proudly erect, and she said, in a tone of well-feigned indifference: “Oh! M. Larinski is married? My very sincere compliments to the Countess Larinski.”
After which she busied herself arranging in a vase the heather and ferns she had brought back with her. Mlle. Moiseney stood lost in astonishment at her calm; she gazed in a stupor at her, and suddenly exclaimed: “Thank God! you do not love him! Your father has mistaken, he often mistakes; he sometimes gets the strangest ideas into his mind; he was persuaded that this would be a death-blow to you; he does not know you at all. Ah! unquestionably, M. Larinski is far from being disagreeable; I do not dispute his having some merit; but I always thought that there was something suspicious about him; his manners were a little equivocal; I suspected him of hiding something from us. As it appears, he has made a _mesalliance_ that he did not care to acknowledge. It is deplorable that a man of such excellent address should have low tastes and doubtful morality. His duty was to tell us all; he was neither loyal nor delicate.”
“You dream, my dear,” replied Antoinette. “What law, human or divine, obliged M. Larinski to tell us everything? Did you expect him to render an account of his deeds and misdeeds to us as to a tribunal of penance?”
In speaking thus, she took off her hat and mantilla, seated herself in the embrasure of a window, and opened a book which she began to read with great attention.
“God be praised! she does not love him,” thought Mlle. Moiseney, who was not aware that Mlle. Moriaz was turning two or three pages at a time with perceiving it.
Deeply absorbed as she was, she still recognised her father’s step as he came upstairs to his room. She hurried out to meet him. He noticed with pleasure that her face was not wan, nor were her eyes red. He was less satisfied when she said, in a calm, clear voice: “Please show me the letter that you have received from Mme. de Lorcy.”
“What is the use?” he rejoined. “I know it by heart. I am ready to recite it to you.”
“Is it a letter that cannot be shown?”
“No, indeed; but as I tell you that I am ready to give you an account of it--” “I would prefer to read it with my own eyes.”
“After all, you have a right. There! take it. But I beg of you do not be offended by unfortunate expressions.”
“Mme. de Lorcy always knows how to choose the proper word to express her thought,” she responded.
When she had run her eye rapidly over Mme. de Lorcy’s eight closely written pages, she looked at her father and smiled.
“You must own that you found a very useful and a very zealous ally in Mme. de Lorcy; do her this justice, she has worked hard, and you owe her many thanks for having busied herself so actively in ridding you of ‘this worthy man, this good man, this delightful man’; those are her own words, if you remember.”
M. Moriaz exclaimed: “I hope you do not imagine that it was a matter arranged between us. Do you really suspect me of having some dark plot with Mme. de Lorcy! Do you believe me capable of being implicated in an act of perfidy?”
“God forbid! I only accuse you of being too joyous, and of not knowing how to conceal it.”
“Is that a crime?”
“Perhaps it is an indiscretion.”
“I swear to you, my dear child, that I only consider your happiness, and Mme. de Lorcy herself--Since M. Langis no longer thinks of you, what reason could she have--” “I do not know,” interrupted Antoinette; “but her prejudice would take the place of reason.”
“So you will not believe that Count Larinski is married?”
“I believe it, without being certain, and I wish to be assured of it. Have I not acted in good faith through all this matter? was I not ready to comply with your conditions? I consented to refer to the judgment of Mme. de Lorcy. She has deigned to be gracious to the accused. She has admitted that M. Larinski is a perfectly honourable and even a delightful man; but she has discovered, at intervals of several days, first, that he does not love me, and then, that he has deceived me by letting me believe that he was still free. I wish to satisfy my own mind, and convince myself that I am not being played with.”
“And you have concluded----” “I have concluded that, with your permission, we shall leave to-morrow morning for Cormeilles.”
This conclusion was by no means agreeable to M. Moriaz, whose face grew sensibly longer.
“Of what are you afraid? You know that I have character, and you ought to know, no matter what Mme. de Lorcy says, that I am not wanting in good sense. When it is proved to me that I have deceived myself, I will make the sign of the cross over my romance; it will be dead and buried, and I promise you not to wear mourning for it.”
“So be it,” said he; “I believe in your good sense, I have faith in your reason: we shall leave to-morrow for Cormeilles.”
Four days later, Mme. de Lorcy was walking in an alley in her park. She was joined there by M. Langis, to whom she said, in a good-humoured tone: “Always grave and melancholy, my dear Camille! When will you cease your drooping airs? I cannot understand you. I do my best to be agreeable to you, to settle matters satisfactorily. Nothing seems to cheer you. You make me think of the hare in La Fontaine: “‘Cet animal est triste, et la Crainte le ronge. ’” “Fear and hate, madame,” replied he. “I hate this man; he is insupportable to me. I will give up coming to Maisons if I always must meet him here. Has he paid you his adieux for the last time?”
“Not yet; a little patience--we shall not count the minutes. Besides, what harm can this man do you? The lion has lost his claws--what do I say? --he has carried his good-nature to the point of muzzling himself. It is not generous to pursue with hate a disarmed enemy.”
“Very well, madame, if he is not gone in three days, I return to my first idea; it was the best.”
“You will cut his throat?”
“With all my heart.”
“For the love of art?”
“I am not a very bloodthirsty individual, but I would take a singular delight in slashing at the skin of this gloomy personage.”
Mme. de Lorcy shrugged her shoulders. “What makes you think him gloomy, my dear? You are perfectly reasonable. You ought to adore M. Larinski; you are under the greatest obligations to him. He has been the first to succeed in touching the heart of our dear, hitherto insensible girl; he has broken the charm. She was the Sleeping Beauty; he has awakened her, and, through the favour of Heaven, he cannot marry her. I can see her in Churwalden, a prey to the gloomiest ennui, weeping over her illusions, furious at having been deceived. Do you not divine all the advantage that can be derived from a woman’s anger?”
“You know that I love her, and yet I do not wish to owe anything to her spite.”
“You are a child: be guided. The moment is come for you to propose. In a few days you will start for Churwalden, and you will say to this angry woman, ‘I have lied--I love you.’ In short, you will talk to her of your amorous flame; and you may, freely, under these circumstances, exhaust all your treasure-store of hyperbole. She will listen to you, I can promise you, and she will say to herself, ‘I seek vengeance--here it is. ’” “I would like to believe you, madame,” he replied, “but are you very certain that Mlle. Moriaz is still at Churwalden?”
And, pointing with his finger, he showed her at the end of the avenue a figure coming towards them clad in a pretty nut-brown dress with a long train sweeping the gravel.
“Truly, I believe that it is she,” cried Mme. de Lorcy. “M. Moriaz is the most unskilful person; but, after all, not much harm is done.”
Mlle. Moriaz had arrived the evening previous at Cormeilles. After resting somewhat from the fatigues of the journey, she had nothing more urgent to do than to order the horses put to her coupe and to come and pay her respects to her godmother, who could not fail to be touched by this attention.
Mme. de Lorcy ran to Antoinette and embraced her several times, saying: “You are here at last! How charmed I am to see you again! You made us wait long enough; I began to fear that you had taken root in the Grisons. Is it indeed an enchanted land? I rather believe that your father is a cruel egotist, that he shamefully sacrificed you to his own convenience in prolonging his cure; but here you are--I will pardon him. Your poor, your _proteges_, are clamorous for you. Who do you think asked after you, the other day? Mlle. Galet, whom, according to your orders, I supplied with her quarter’s allowance. How you spoil her! I found on her table a bouquet fit for a duchess; she insisted that you had sent it to her from where you were, and I had all the trouble in the world to make her understand that double camellias are not gathered among the glaciers of Roseg. Strew with flowers, if you will, Mlle. Galet’s existence and garret; but do not fling at her head a bushel of double camellias, streaked with white; it is madness. I seriously propose to have you put under restraint. Never mind, I am very happy to see you again. You are looking very well. --Don’t you think, Camille, that she appears extremely well?”
Mlle. Moriaz coldly received Mme. de Lorcy’s embraces; but she smiled graciously on M. Langis, and pressed his hand affectionately. Mme. de Lorcy led them into her _salon_, where they talked on indifferent subjects. Antoinette was waiting for M. Langis’s departure to broach the subject that she had at heart. At the end of twenty minutes, he rose, but immediately reseated himself. A door had just opened, giving admittance to Count Abel Larinski.
At the unexpected apparition of Samuel Brohl, the two women changed colour; the one flushed from the effort that she made to dissimulate her vexation, the other turned pale from emotion. Samuel Brohl crossed the _salon_ with deliberate step, without appearing to recognise the person who was with Mme. de Lorcy. Suddenly he trembled, as if he had been touched by a torpedo, and, profoundly agitated, almost lost countenance. Was he as much astonished as he seemed? For some time the Sannois Hill had become his favourite promenade, and he never went there without going as far as a certain spot whence he could see the front of a certain house, the window-shutters of which had remained during two months as though hermetically sealed. It might be that the evening before he had found them open. Induction is a scientific process with which Samuel Brohls are familiar.
He had abundant will and self-control. He was not long in recovering himself; he raised his head like one who feels himself strong enough to defy all dangers. After greeting Mme. de Lorcy, he drew near Antoinette, and asked how she was, in a grave, almost ceremonious tone.
“Your visit distresses me, my dear count,” said Mme. de Lorcy to him; “I fear it is the last. Have you come to bid us farewell?”
“Alas! yes, madame,” he replied. “The letter for which I have been waiting has not yet arrived; but this delay will not alter my plans: in three days I shall leave Paris.”
“Without a desire to return, without regret?” she asked.
“I shall only regret Maisons, and the kind reception I have received there. Paris is too large; little people like myself feel their smallness more here than elsewhere; it does not require an excess of pride for one to dislike being reduced to the state of an atom. Residing in Vienna suits me better; I breathe freer there; it is a city better adapted to my size and taste. Birds do wrong to change their nests.”
Thereupon, he began to describe and warmly extol the Prater and its fine walks, Schonbrunn, its botanical gardens and the Gloriette, the church of St. Stephen’s, and the limpid waters of the Danube; sometimes addressing himself to Antoinette, who listened without a word, and sometimes to Mme. de Lorcy, whose eyes were turned at intervals towards M. Langis, seeming to say to him: “Was I not right? Confess that your apprehensions lacked common-sense. Do you hear him? he has only half an hour to spend with her, and he describes the Prater. Are you still thinking of cutting his throat? Please say one polite and civil word to him. It is not he, it is you who are gloomy. Throw off your sinister air. How long will this taciturn reverie last in which you are sunk? You make yourself a laughing-stock--you act like a fool. You resemble a sphinx of the desert engaged in meditating upon a serpent, and who mistakes an innocent adder for a viper.” M. Langis understood what she wished to say to him, but he did not throw off his sinister air.
After praising Vienna and its environs, Samuel Brohl eulogized the easy, careless character of the Viennese. He told, in a sprightly way, several anecdotes. His gaiety was rather feverish--somewhat forced studied, and abrupt; but, nevertheless, it was gaiety. Mme. de Lorcy responded to him, Mlle. Moriaz continued silent; she crumpled between her fingers the guipure lace of her Marie-Antoinette fichu, and, with fixed eye, she seemed to be counting the stitches. Samuel Brohl interrupted himself in the midst of a sentence, and rose suddenly. He turned towards Antoinette; in a hollow voice he begged her to tell M. Moriaz how much he regretted that his early departure would deprive him of the honour and pleasure of visiting him at Cormeilles; then he bowed to Mme. de Lorcy, thanked her for the happy moments that he had spent with her, and charged her to commend him to the kind remembrance of Abbe Miollens.
“We shall meet again, my dear count,” she said to him, in a clear voice, emphasizing her words; “and I hope that, before long, we shall make the acquaintance of the Countess Larinski.”
He looked at her in astonishment, and murmured, “I lost my mother ten years ago.”
Immediately, without giving Mme. de Lorcy time to explain herself, he directed his steps hastily towards the door, followed by three glances, all three of which spoke, although they did not all say the same thing. The room was large; during the thirty seconds that it took him to cross it, the angel of silence hovered in the air.
He was about passing through the door, when, as fatality ordained, there occurred to him an unfortunate and disastrous thought. He could not resist the desire to see Mlle. Moriaz once more, to impress forever on his memory her adored image. He turned, and their eyes met. He paid dearly for this weakness of the will. Apparently the violent restraint that he had exercised over himself for an hour had exhausted his strength. It seemed to him that his heart ceased to beat; he felt his legs stiffen, and refuse to serve him; his teeth clinched, his pupils dilated, consciousness forsook him. Suddenly, heavily as a mass of lead, he fell prone upon the floor, where he remained in a senseless condition.
Mlle. Moriaz could not suppress a cry, and seemed for a moment on the point of fainting herself. Mme. de Lorcy drew her arm around her waist, and hurried her into the next room, throwing to M. Langis a bottle of salts as she did so, and saying, “Take care of Count Larinski.”
The first thing that M. Langis did was to set the bottle on the table, after which he went close up to Samuel Brohl, who, fainting and inanimate, bore almost the appearance of death. He examined him an instant, bent over him, then, folding his arms and shrugging his shoulders, he said to him, “Monsieur, Mlle. Moriaz is no longer here.”
Samuel Brohl did not stir. “You did not hear me,” continued Camille. “You are superb, M. le Comte; you are very handsome; your attitude is irreproachable, and you might well be taken for a dead person. You fell admirably; I swear I never saw at the theatre a more successful fainting-fit; but spare yourself further trouble for the performance. I repeat, Mlle. Moriaz is no longer here.”
Samuel Brohl remained inert and rigid.
“Perhaps you want to try the strength of my wrists,” continued Camille. “Very well, I will give you that satisfaction.”
And, with these words, he seized him round his waist, summoned all his strength in order to lift him, and deposited him at full length on the sofa.
He examined him again, and said: “Will this tragi-comedy last much longer? Shall I not find a secret to resuscitate you? Listen to me, monsieur. I love with all my soul the woman that you pretend to love. Does that not suffice? Monsieur, you are a Polish adventurer, and I have as much admiration for your social talents as I have little esteem for yourself. Does that not suffice yet? I would not, however, lift my hand to you. I entreat you to consider the affront received.”
It seemed as if the dead man trembled slightly, and Camille exclaimed: “Thank God! this time you have given sign of life, and the insult found the way to your heart. I would be charmed to restore you to your senses. I await your commands. The day, the place, and the weapons, I leave to your choice. And, stay! You can count on my absolute discretion. No one, I give you my word, shall learn from me that your fainting-fit had ears, and resented insults. Here is my address, monsieur.”
And, drawing from his pocket a visiting-card, he tried to slip it into the cold, listless, pendent hand, which let it fall to the ground.
“What obstinacy!” he said. “As you will, M. le Comte; I am at the end of my eloquence.”
He turned his back, seated himself in a chair, and taking a paper, he unfolded it. Meanwhile the door opened, and Mme. de Lorcy appeared.
“What are you doing here, Camille?” she exclaimed.
“You see, madame,” he answered, “I am waiting until this great comedian has finished playing his piece.”
He was not aware that Mlle. Moriaz also had just entered the _salon_. She cast him an angry, indignant, threatening glance, in which he read his condemnation. He tried to find some word of excuse or explanation to disarm her anger, but his voice failed him. He bowed low, took his hat, and went away.
Mme. de Lorcy, very much agitated, opened a window; then she threw water into Samuel Brohl’s face, rubbed his temples with a vivacity that was not altogether exempt from roughness, and made him smell English salts.
“Ah, my dear! pray go away,” she said to Antoinette; “this is no place for you.”
Antoinette did not go away; her face contracted, her lips trembling, she seated herself aside at some distance from the sofa.
Mme. de Lorcy’s energetic exertions at last produced their effect. Samuel Brohl was not dead; a quiver ran through his frame, his limbs relaxed, and at the end of a few instants he reopened his eyes, then his mouth; he sat up, and stammered: “Where am I? What has happened? Ah, my God! it was but a moment ago that she was here!”
Mme. de Lorcy laid her hand on his mouth, and, bending over his ears, she said, in a severe, imperious tone, “She is here still!”
She did not succeed in making herself understood. One only recovers by degrees from such a fainting-fit. Samuel Brohl was again overcome by weakness; his eyes closed once more, and he let his head sink between his hands. After a silence of a few moments he said, in a choked voice: “Ah! pardon me, madame. I am ashamed of myself. My courage failed me; my strength betrayed me. I love her madly, and I had sworn never to see her again. It was in order to fly from her that I was going away.”
He raised his head; he saw Antoinette; he looked wildly at her, as though he did not recognise her.
He recognised her at last, made a gesture of alarm, rose precipitately, and fled.
Mlle. Moriaz drew near Mme. de Lorcy, and said to her, “Well, what do you think of it?”
“I think, my dear,” she replied, “that Mme. de Lorcy is a fool, and that Count Larinski is a powerful man.”
Antoinette looked at her with a bitter smile, and touched her arm lightly. “Admit, madame,” she said, “that if he had a hundred thousand livres’ income, you would not think of doubting his sincerity.”
Mme. de Lorcy did not reply; she could not say “No,” and she was enraged to feel that she was both right and wrong. It is an accident that happens sometimes to women of the world.
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{
"id": "2470"
}
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7
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On her entering her coupe to return to Cormeilles, Mlle. Moriaz was the prey of an agitation that did not calm down during the entire drive. Her whole soul was stirred by a tender, passionate sentiment for the man who had swooned away in taking farewell of her; she was filled with anger against the foolish prejudices and the petty finesse of the people of the world; filled with joy at having baffled a monstrous conspiracy against her happiness; filled with pride because she had seen clearly, because she had not mistaken in her choice, and because the man whom she loved was worthy of being loved. During several days she had suffered cruelly from anxiety, from actual agony of mind, and over and over again she had said to herself, “Perhaps they are right.” A woman’s heart believes itself to be at the mercy of error, and it is torture to it to be obliged to doubt itself and its own clairvoyance. When it is unmistakably demonstrated to it that its god is only an idol of wood or of stone, that what was once adored must henceforth be despised, it feels ready to die, and imagines that some spring must give way in the vast machine of the universe, that the sky must fall, the earth crumble away; and yet a woman’s error of judgment is not a matter of such very grave import. The sun continues to shine, the earth to revolve upon its axis, as though it had not occurred. The machine of the universe would be subject to quite too many accidents should it become unsettled every time a woman made a mistake.
“It was I who was right; they were incapable of comprehending him,” though Mlle. Moriaz, as she crossed the Seine, and she contemplated with a delighted eye the lovely blue sky, the tranquil waters, the verdant banks of the river, with their long range of poplar-trees. It seemed to her that all was going well, that order reigned everywhere, that the Great Mechanician was at his post, that the world was in good hands, and that travellers therein had no cause to fear untoward mischance.
When she arrived at Cormeilles, M. Moriaz was shut up in his laboratory, which he had been overjoyed to find just as he had left it. A velvet skull-cap perched on one side of his head, his sleeves turned up, a brown holland apron tied round his neck and his waist, a feather brush in his hand, he had proceeded at once to examine his precious stock in detail--his furnaces, his long-necked, big-bellied matrasses, the curved necks and the tubulures of his retorts, his cucurbits, and his alembics. Balloons, tubes, pipettes, pneumatic vats, receivers, cupels, lamps, bell-glasses, blow-pipes, and mortars, he passed in review to assure himself that during his absence nothing had been damaged. He carefully dusted his jars, examined the labels, made sure that none of his treasures were cracked, that his gauges were not out of order. He was as happy as a king who has his troops pass in review before him, and feels convinced that they bear themselves well; that they will stand fire and do honour to their master.
Agreeable as was the occupation to which for two hours he had devoted himself, M. Moriaz had not forgotten the existence of his daughter and of M. Larinski. He knew that Antoinette had repaired to Maisons Lafitte to have an explanation with Mme. de Lorcy, and this thought cast a shadow over his felicity. He hoped, however, that this interview might turn out according to his wishes; that the Pole star, which had caused him so much disquietude, might disappear forever from his horizon.
Some one knocked at the door of his laboratory. “Come in!” he cried, and turning he saw Antoinette standing upon the threshold. He gazed at her fixedly. Her eye was so animated, her countenance so beaming, so luminous, that involuntarily he dropped his arms and let fall, as he did so, a little vial he held in his hands.
“Naughty girl, to cause such havoc in her father’s laboratory!” she cried, gaily.
“The harm done is not very great,” he replied; and he began diligently brushing up the fragments of the vial. It was his way of gaining time, but he did it so awkwardly that she snatched the brush from his hands: “This is the way to sweep,” said she.
He watched her, saying to himself: “This is the reverse of the scene at Churwalden. It is now I who wear a long face, and she cannot dissemble her joy. Just requital of things here below.”
So soon as she had finished her brushing she looked around and remarked: “Well, here you are once more in your paradise--this enchanted spot, where you taste such ineffable delights.”
“Oh, yes, I am happy here--happy enough that is,” he replied, with modesty.
“Fastidious creature! It is altogether charming in your laboratory.”
“Yes, it is suitable. Nevertheless, I often reflect that there is something wanting. Do you know what my dream is? I should like to have over in yonder corner a transparent _chapelle_. You, perhaps, are unacquainted with a _chapelle_. It is a framework or basket-funnel above a chimney, for facilitating the release of volatiles and pernicious vapours, and having one side of glass. It enables the chemist to watch the process taking place within. German chemists have nearly always transparent _chapelles_ in their laboratories.”
“How can any one accuse you of lack of imagination?” she exclaimed. “You are a very romantic man, and your romance is a transparent _chapelle_. Now I know why you are so indulgent to the romances of others.”
Then carelessly drawing the brush in her hand over an arm-chair, she seated herself in it, placed another seat facing her, and said: “Come, sit down here near me on this stool; I will put a cushion on it to make you more comfortable. Come, I must talk with you.”
He drew near, seated himself, and put his ear towards her. “Must I take off my apron?” he asked.
“Why so?”
“I foresee that our conversation will revolve about matters pertaining to the height of romance. I wish to make a suitable appearance.”
“Nonsense! your apron is very becoming. All that I desire and stipulate is, that you will accord me most religious attention.”
She then proceeded to recount to him, point by point, all that had occurred at Mme. de Lorcy’s. She began her recital in a tranquil tone; she grew animated; she warmed up by degrees; her eyes sparkled. He listened to her with deep chagrin; but he gazed on her with pride as he did so, thinking, “_Mon Dieu_, how beautiful she is, and what a lucky rascal is this Pole!”
When she had ended, there was a moment’s pause, during which she left him to his reflections. As he maintained an ominous silence, she grew impatient. “Speak,” she exclaimed. “I wish to know your innermost thoughts.”
“I think you are adorable.”
“Oh! please, do for once be serious.”
“Seriously,” he rejoined, “I am not certain that you are wrong, nor has it been proved to me that you are right; there remain some doubts.”
She cried out eagerly: “According to this, the sole realities of this world are things that can be seen, touched, felt--a retort and its contents. Beyond this all is null and void, a lie, a cheat. Ah! your wretched retorts and crucibles! If I followed out this thought, I should be ready to break every one of them.”
She cast about her as she spoke so ferocious and threatening a look, that M. Moriaz trembled for his laboratory, “I beg of you,” he protested, “have mercy on my poor crucibles, my honest retorts, my innocent jars! They have nothing to do with this affair. Is it their fault that the stories you narrate to me so disturb my usual train of thoughts that I find it wholly impossible to make adroit replies?”
“You do not, then, believe in the extraordinary?”
“The extraordinary! Every time I encounter it, I salute it,” replied he, drawing off his cap and bowing low; “but at the same time I demand its papers.”
“Ah! there we are. I really imagined that the investigation had been made.”
“It was not conclusive, since it failed to convince Mme. de Lorcy.”
“Ah! who could convince Mme. de Lorcy? Do you forget how people of the world are constituted, and how they detest all that astonishes, all that exceeds their limits, all that they cannot weight with their small balances, measure with their tiny compasses?”
“_Peste! _ you are severe on the world; I always fancied that you were fond of it.”
“I do not know whether I am fond of it or not; it is certain that I scarcely should know how to live without it; but I surely may be permitted to pass an opinion on it, and I often tell myself that if Christ should reappear among us with his train of publicans and fisherman--are you listening? --that if the meek and the lowly Jesus should come to preach his Sermon on the Mount in the Boulevard des Italiens--” “To make a show of probability,” he interrupted, “suppose you were to place the scene at Montmartre. Frankly, I cannot see what possible connection there can be between the Christ and your Count Larinski; and, pray, do not let us enter into a theological discussion; you know it is wholly out of my line. Religion seems to me an excellent thing, a most useful thing, and I freely accept Christianity, minus the romantic side, with which I have no time to occupy myself. You will at least grant me that, if there are true miracles, there are also false ones. How distinguish them?”
“It is the heart that must decide,” said she.
“Oh! the infallibility of the heart!” exclaimed he. “There never was council yet that voted that.”
There was a pause, after which M. Moriaz resumed: “And so, my dear, you are persuaded that M. Larinski is still free, and that Mme. de Lorcy lied?”
“Not at all; if she had lied, she would not have betrayed herself so naively just now. I accuse her of deceiving herself, or rather of having wished to deceive herself. Do you know what you are going to do--I mean this evening--after dinner? You are going to order up the carriage, and you are going--” “To Paris, Rue Mont-Thabor!” he exclaimed, bounding up in his seat. “Very good, I will put on a dress-coat, and I will say to Count Larinski: ‘My dear monsieur, I come to demand your hand for my daughter, who adores you. Certain malicious tongues assert that you are no longer free; I do not believe them; besides, this would be a mere bagatelle.’ On the whole, I believe you would do better to put it down in writing for me; left to myself I never will get through with it; out of my professor’s chair I have considerable difficulty in finding words!”
“Dear me, how hasty you are! Who suggests such a thing? Abbe Miollens is our friend; he is a worthy man, whose testimony would be reliable.”
“Now this is something like! I see what you mean. At this rate you will not need to prepare my harangue. Here we have an acceptable idea, a possible interview. This evening, after my dinner, I shall go see Abbe Miollens; but it is clearly understood, I presume, that if he confirms the sentence--” “I shall not ask for its repeal, and I promise you that I will be courageous beyond anything that you can imagine; you shall not so much as suspect that I even regret my chimera. But, as a fair exchange, you on your side must make me a promise. If Abbe Miollens--” “You know as well as I that you are of age.”
“I know as well as you that I never will be content without your consent. Here once more as in the Engadine, I say, ‘Either he or no one. ’” “Did I not warn you that when once a formula has been pronounced, one is apt to keep on repeating it forever?”
“Either he or no one: that is my last word. Would you not rather that it should be he? Are you willing to accept him?”
“I will submit.”
“With a good grace?”
“With resignation.”
“With cheerful resignation?”
“I shall certainly do my best to acquire it; or, rather, if he makes you happy, I shall welcome him all the days of my life; in the contrary case, I will repeat, morning and evening, like Mme. de Lorcy: ‘You would not listen to me; you ought to have believed me. ’” “It is agreed; you are a good father, and now we are in perfect harmony,” she replied, impulsively seizing his two hands, and pressing them in her own.
He watched her a moment between his half-closed eyes, and then he cried, half resentfully: “But, _mon Dieu_ why do you love this man?”
She replied, in a low voice: “Because I love him; this is my sole reason; but I find it good.”
“Certainly most decisive. But, come, let us go quickly,” he replied, rising. “I fear that my retorts and crucibles, if they listen to you much longer, will fall into a syncope as prolonged as that of M. Larinski. Was ever such a debate heard of in a chemical laboratory?”
As soon as dinner was over, M. Moriaz made ready to repair to Maisons, where Abbe Miollens passed the summer in the vicinity of Mme. de Lorcy. Mlle. Moiseney followed him to the carriage, and said: “You have a remarkable daughter, monsieur! With what courage she has assumed her role! With what resolution she has renounced an impossible happiness! Did you observe her during dinner? How tranquil she was! how attentive! Is she not astonishing?”
“As astonishing as you are sagacious,” he replied.
“Ah! undoubtedly; I never thought that she loved him so much as you imagine I did: but he pleased her; she admired him. Did she ever utter a word of complaint, or a sigh, on learning the cruel truth? what strength of mind! what equability of temperament! what nobility of sentiment! You do not admire her enough, monsieur; you are not proud enough of having such a daughter. As to me, I glory in having been of some value in her education. I always made a point of developing her judgment, and putting her on her guard against all erratic tendencies. Yes, I can safely say that I took great pains to cultivate and fortify her reason.”
“I thank you with all my heart,” rejoined M. Moriaz, leaning back in one corner of the carriage; “you can most assuredly boast of having accomplished a marvellous work; but I beg of you, mademoiselle, when you have finished your discourse, will you kindly say to the coachman that I am ready to start?”
During the drive, M. Moriaz gave himself up to the most melancholy reflections; he even tormented himself with sundry reproaches. “We have acted contrary to good sense,” he thought. “Her imagination has been taken by storm; in time it would have calmed down. We should have left her to herself, to her natural defence--her own good judgment, for she has a large stock of it. I fell on the unlucky idea of calling Mme. de Lorcy to my aid, and she has spoiled everything by her boasted _finesse_. As soon as Antoinette had reason to suspect that her choice was condemned by us, and that we were plotting the enemy’s destruction, the sympathy, mingled with admiration, which she accorded to M. Larinski, became transformed into love; the fire smouldering beneath ashes leaped up into flames. We neglected to count on that passion which is innate in women, and which phrenologists call combativeness. With her there is now a cause to be gained, and, when love unites its interests with cards or with war, it becomes irresistible. Truly our campaign is greatly jeopardized, unless Heaven or M. Larinski interfere.”
Thus reasoned M. Moriaz, whom paternal misadventures and recent experiences had rendered a better psychologist than he ever had been. While busied with his reflections the carriage drove rapidly onward, and thirty-five minutes sufficed to reach the little _maison de campagne_ occupied by Abbe Miollens. He found him in his cabinet, installed in a cushioned arm-chair embroidered by Mme. de Lorcy, slowly sipping a cup of excellent tea brought him by the missionaries from China. On his left was his violin-box, on his right his beloved Horace, Orelli’s edition, Zurich, 1844.
Conversation began. As soon as M. Moriaz had pronounced the name of Count Larinski, the abbe assumed the charmed and contented countenance of a dog lying in wait for its favourite game.
He exclaimed, “A most truly admirable man!”
“Mercy upon us!” thought M. Moriaz. “Here we have an exordium strangely similar to that of Mlle. Moiseney. Do they think to condemn me to a state of perpetual admiration of their prodigy? I fear there must be some kinship of spirit between our friend the abbe and that crack-brained woman; that he is cousin-german to her at least.”
“How grateful I am to you, my dear monsieur,” continued Abbe Miollens, lying back in his chair, “for having given us the pleasure of the acquaintance of this rare man! It is you who sent him to us; to you belongs the merit of having discovered him, or invented him, if you choose.”
“Oh! I beg of you not to exaggerate,” humbly rejoined M. Moriaz. “He invented himself, I assure you.”
“At all events it was you who patronized him, who made him known to us; without you the world never would have suspected the existence of this superb genius, this noble character, who was hidden from sight like the violet in the grass.”
“He is unquestionably her cousin-german,” thought M. Moriaz.
“Only think,” continued the abbe, “I have found M. Larinski all over again in Horace! Yes, Horace has represented him, trait for trait, in the person of Lollius. You know Marcus Lollius, to whom he addressed Ode ix. of book iv., and who was consul in the year 733 after the foundation of Rome. The resemblance is striking; pay attention!”
Depositing his cup on the table he took the book in his right hand, and placing the forefinger of his left by turns on his lips or complacently following with it the lines of especial beauty in the text, he exclaimed: “Now what do you say to this? ‘Thy soul is wise,’ wrote Horace to Lollius, ‘and resists with the same constancy the temptations of happiness as those of adversity--_est animus tibi et secundis temporibus dubusque rectus_.’ Is not this Count Larinski? Listen further: ‘Lollius detested fraud and cupidity; he despised money which seduces most men--_abstinens ducentis ad se cuncta pecuniae_.’ This trait is very striking; I find even, between ourselves, that our dear count despises money entirely too much, he turns from it in horror, its very name is odious to him; he is an Epictetus, he is a Diogenes, he is an anchorite of ancient times who would live happily in a Thebaid. He told us himself that it made little difference to him whether he dined on a piece of bread and a glass of water, or in luxury at the Café Anglais. But I have not finished. ‘Happy be those,’ exclaimed Horace, ‘who know how to suffer uncomplainingly the hardships of poverty--_qui duram que callet pauperiem pati_!’ Of whom does he speak--of Lollius, or of our friend, who not only endures his poverty but who loves it, cherishes it as a lover adores his mistress? And the final trait, what to you think of it? Lollius was always ready to die for his country--‘_non ille pro patria timidus perire_.’ In good faith, is it not curious? Does it not seem as though Horace had known Count Larinski at Rome or at Tibur?”
“I do not doubt it for an instant,” replied M. Moriaz, taking the book from the hands of Abbe Miollens and placing it respectfully on the table. “Luckily, our friend Larinski, as you call him, fell upon the excellent idea of resuscitating himself some thirty years ago, which procured for us the great joy of meeting him at Saint Moritz; and while we are on the subject--My dear abbe, have you a free, impartial mind? Can you listen to me? I have a question to propound, an elucidation to demand. It is not only the friend to whom I address myself, it is the confessor, the director of consciences, the man of the whole universe in whose discretion I place most reliance.”
“I am all ears,” responded the abbe, crossing the shapely legs in which he took no little pride.
M. Moriaz entered at once into the subject that troubled him. It was some moments before Abbe Miollens divined whither he was tending. As soon as he had grasped a ray of light, his face contracted, and uncrossing his limbs, he cried: “Ah, what a misfortune! You will have to renounce your delightful dream, my dear Monsieur, and, believe me, no one can be more grieved than I. I fully comprehend with what joy you would have seen your charming daughter consecrate, I will not say her fortune, for you know as well as I how little Count Larinski would care for that, but consecrate, I say, her graces, her beauty, and all the qualities of her angelic character to the happiness of a man of rare merit who has been cruelly scourged by Providence. She loves him, she is loved by him; Heaven would have blest their union. Ah, what a misfortune! I must repeat it, this marriage is impossible; our friend is already married.”
“You are sure of it?” cried M. Moriaz, in a burst of enthusiasm that the good abbe mistook for an access of despair.
“I scarcely can pardon myself for causing you this pain. You ask if I am sure of it! I have it from our friend himself. One evening, apropos of I scarcely remember what, it occurred to me to ask if he were married, and he replied, briefly: ‘I thought I had told you so.’ Ah! my dear professor, it were needless to discuss whether such a marriage would be a happy one, for it never can take place.”
“Well, now we have something positive,” M. Moriaz hastened to observe, “and there is nothing to do but yield to evidence.”
“Alas! yes,” rejoined the abbe; and, then, after a pause, during which he wore a reflective air, he added, “However--” “There is no ‘however,’ M. l’Abbe. Believe me, your word suffices.”
“But I might possibly have misunderstood.”
“I have entire confidence in your ears--they are excellent.”
“But pray allow me to observe that it is never worth while to despair too soon. Do you know what? Count Larinski came recently to see me without finding me at home. I owe him a farewell visit. To-morrow morning, I promise you, I will call on him.”
“For what purpose?” interrupted M. Moriaz. “I thank you a thousand times for your kindly intentions, but God forbid that I should uselessly interfere with your daily pursuits; your time is too precious! I declare myself completely edified. I consider the proof firmly established; there is no further doubt.”
As Madame de Lorcy had remarked, Abbe Miollens was not one to easily relax his hold upon an idea he had once deemed good. In vain M. Moriaz combated his proposition, bestowing secret maledictions on his excess of zeal; the abbe would not give up, and M. Moriaz was forced to be resigned. It was agreed that the next day the worthy man should call on Count Larinski, and that from Paris he should repair to Cormeilles, in order to communicate to the proper person the result of his mission. M. Moriaz perceived the advantage of having Antoinette learn from the abbe’s own lips the fatal truth; and he did not leave without impressing upon him to be very circumspect, as prudent as a serpent, as discreet as a father confessor. He started for home with quite a contented mind, seeing the future lie smoothly and pleasantly before him, and it really seemed to him that the drive from Maisons to Cormeilles was a much shorter and more agreeable one than that from Cormeilles to Maisons.
Samuel Brohl was seated before an empty trunk, which he was apparently about to pack, when he heard some one knock at his door. He went to open it and found himself face to face with Abbe Miollens. From the moment of their first meeting, Samuel Brohl had conceived for the abbe that warm sympathy, that strong liking, with which he was always inspired by people in whom he believed he recognised useful animals who might be of advantage to him, whom he considered destined to render him some essential service. He seldom mistook; he was a admirable diagnostician; he recognised at first sight the divine impress of predestination. He gave the most cordial reception to his reverend friend, and ushered him into his modest quarters with all the more _empressement_, because he detected at once the mysterious, rather agitated air he wore. “Does he come in the quality of a diplomatic agent, charged with some mission extraordinary?” he asked himself. On his side the abbe studied Samuel Brohl without seeming to do so. He was struck with his physiognomy, which expressed at this moment a manly yet sorrowful pride. His eyes betrayed at intervals the secret of some heroic grief that he had sworn to repress before men, and to confess to God alone.
He sat down with his guest, and they began to talk; but the abbe directed the conversation into topics of the greatest indifference. Samuel Brohl listened to him and replied with a melancholy grace. Lively as was his curiosity he well knew how to hold it in check. Samuel Brohl never had been in a hurry; during the month that had elapsed he had proved that he knew how to wait--a faculty lacking in more diplomates than one.
Abbe Miollens’s call had lasted during the usual time allotted to a polite visit, and the worthy man seemed about to depart, when, pointing with his forefinger to the open valise, he remarked: “I see here preparations that grieve me. I did dream, my dear count, of inviting you to Maisons. I have a spare chamber there which I might offer to you. _Hoc erat in votis_, I should indeed have been happy to have had you for a guest. We should have chatted and made music to our hearts’ content, close by a window opening on a garden. ‘Hae latebrae dulces, etiam, si credis, amoenae.’ But, alas! you are going to leave us; you do not care for the friendship accorded you here. Has Vienna such superior attractions for you? But I remember, you will doubtless be restored there to a pleasant home, a charming wife, children perhaps who----” Samuel looked at him with an astonished, confused air, as he had viewed Mme. de Lorcy when she undertook to speak to him of the Countess Larinski. “What do you mean?” he finally asked.
“Why, did you not confide to me yourself that you were married?”
Samuel opened wide his eyes; during some moments he seemed to be in a dream; then, suddenly putting his hand to his brow and beginning to smile, he said: “Ah! I see--I see. Did you take me literally? I thought you understood what I said. No, my dear abbe, I am not married, and I never shall marry; but there are free unions as sacred, as indissoluble as marriage.”
The abbe knit his brows, his countenance assumed an expression of chagrin and disapproval. He was about delivering to his dear count a sermon on the immorality and positive danger of free unions, but Samuel Brohl gave him no time. “I am not going to Vienna to rejoin my mistress,” he interposed. “She never leaves me, she accompanies me everywhere; she is here.”
Abbe Miollens cast about him a startled, bewildered gaze, expecting to see a woman start out of some closet or come forward from behind some curtain.
“I tell you that she is here,” repeated Samuel Brohl, pointing to an alabaster statuette, posed on a _piedouche_. The statuette represented a woman bound tightly, on whom two Cossacks were inflicting the knout; the socle bore the inscription, “Polonia vincta et flagellata.”
The abbe’s countenance became transformed in the twinkling of an eye, the wrinkles smoothed away from his brow, his mouth relaxed, a joyous light shone in his eyes. “How well it is that I came!” thought he. “And under what obligations M. Moriaz will be to me!”
Turning towards Samuel he exclaimed: “I am simply a fool; I imagined--Ah! I comprehend, your mistress is Poland; this is delightful, and it is truly a union that is as sacred as marriage. It has, besides, this advantage--that it interferes with nothing else. Poland is not jealous, and if, peradventure, you should meet a woman worthy of you whom you would like to marry, your mistress would have nothing to say against it. To speak accurately, however, she is not your mistress; one’s country is one’s mother, and reasonable mothers never prevent their sons from marrying.”
It was now Samuel’s turn to assume a stern and sombre countenance. His eye fixed upon the statuette, he replied: “You deceive yourself, M. l’Abbe, I belong to her, I have no longer the right to dispose of either my heart, or my soul, or my life; she will have my every thought and my last drop of blood. I am bound to her by my vows quite as much, I think, as is the monk by his.”
“Excuse me, my dear count,” said the abbe; “this is fanaticism, or I greatly mistake. Since when have patriots come to take the vow of celibacy? Their first duty is to become the fathers of children who will become good citizens. The day when there will cease to be Poles, there will cease also to be a Poland.”
Samuel Brohl interrupted him, pressing his arm earnestly, and saying: “Look at me well; have I not the appearance of an adventurer?” The abbe recoiled. “This word shocks you?” continued Samuel. “Yes, I am a man of adventures, born to be always on my feet, and ready to start off at a moment’s warning. Marriage was not instituted for those whose lives are liable at any time to be in jeopardy.” With a tragic accent, he added: “You know what occurred in Bosnia. How do we know that war may not very shortly be proclaimed, and who can foresee the consequences? I must hold myself in readiness for the great day. Perhaps an inscrutable Providence may ere long offer me a new occasion to risk my life for my country; perhaps Poland will call me, crying, ‘Come, I have need of thee!’ If I should respond: ‘I belong no more to myself, I have given my heart to a woman who holds me in chains; I have henceforth a roof, a family, a hearthstone, dear ties that I dare not break!’ I ask you, M. l’Abbe, would not Poland have a right to say to me, ‘Thou hast violated thy vow; thou hast denied me; upon thy head rest forever my maledictions? ’” Abbe Miollens had just taken a pinch of snuff, and he hearkened to this harangue, tapping his fingers impatiently on the lid of his handsome gold snuff-box, which had been presented to him by the most amiable of his penitents.
“If this be the way you view it,” replied he, “is your conscience quite tranquil, my dear friend? for you will permit me, I trust, to call you so. Ay, is it sure that from your standpoint your conscience has no accusations to make you? Is it certain that your heart has not been unfaithful to its mistress? If I may believe a certain rumour that has reached my ear, there took place a most singular scene yesterday at the house of Mme. de Lorcy.”
Samuel Brohl trembled violently; he changed colour; he buried his face in his hands, doubtless to hide from the abbe the blushes remorse had caused to mantle his cheeks. In a faint voice he murmured: “Not a word more! you know not how deep a wound you have probed.”
“It is, then, true that you love Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz?” asked the abbe.
“I have sworn that she never shall know it,” replied Samuel, in accents of the most humble contrition. “Yesterday I had the unworthy weakness to betray myself. _Mon Dieu! _ what must she have thought of me?”
As he spoke thus, his face buried in his hands, he slightly moved apart his fingers, and fixed upon the abbe two glittering eyes that, like cats’ eyes, were capable of seeing clearly in the dark.
“What she thinks of you!” echoed the abbe, taking a fresh pinch of snuff. “Bah! my dear count, women never are angry when a man swoons away because of their bright eyes, especially when this man is a noble chevalier, a true knight of the Round Table. I have reason to believe that Mlle. Moriaz did not take your accident unkindly. Shall I tell you my whole thought? I should not be surprised if you had touched her heart, and that, if you take the pains, you may flatter yourself with the hope of one day being loved by her.”
At this moment the voice of his worthy friend appeared to Samuel Brohl the most harmonious of all music. He felt a delicious thrill quiver through his frame. The abbe was telling him nothing he had not known before; but there are things of which we are certain, things that we have told ourselves a hundred times, and yet that seem new when told us for the first time by another.
“You are not misleading me?” ejaculated Samuel Brohl, overwhelmed with joy, transported beyond himself. “Can it really be true! --One day I may flatter myself--one day she may judge me worthy--Ah! what a glorious vision you cause to pass before my eyes! How good and cruel together you are to me! What bitterness is intermingled with the ineffable sweetness of your words! No, I never could have believed that there could be so much joy in anguish, so much anguish in joy.”
“What would you imply, my dear count?” interposed Abbe Miollens. “Have you need of a negotiator? I can boast of having had some experience in that line. I am wholly at your service.”
These words calmed Samuel Brohl. Quickly recovering himself, he coldly rejoined: “A negotiator? What occasion would I have for a negotiator? Do not delude me with a chimera, and above all do not tempt me to sacrifice my honour to it. This height of felicity that you offer to me I must renounce forever; I have told you why.”
Abbe Miollens was at first inclined to be indignant; he even took the liberty to rebuke, to expostulate with his noble friend. He endeavoured to prove to him that his principles were too rigorous, that such a thing is possible as exaggeration in virtue, too great refinement in delicacy of conscience. He represented to him that noble souls should beware of exaltation of sentiment. He cited the Gospels, he cited Bossuet, he also cited his well-beloved Horace, who censored all that was ultra or excessive, and recommended the sage to flee all extremities. His reasoning was weak against the unwavering resolution of Samuel, who resisted, with the firmness of a rock, all his remonstrances, and finally ended these with the words: “Peace, I implore you! Respect my folly, which is surely wisdom in the eyes of God. I repeat it to you, I am no longer free, and, even if I were, do you not know that there is between Mlle. Moriaz and myself an insurmountable barrier?”
“And pray, what is that?” demanded the abbe.
“Her fortune and my pride,” said Samuel. “She is rich, I am poor; this adorable being is not made for me. I told Mme. de Lorcy one day what I thought of this kind of alliances, or, to speak more clearly, of bargains. Yes, my revered friend, I love Mlle. Moriaz with an ardour of passion with which I reproach myself as though it were a crime. Nothing remains to me but to avoid seeing her, and I never will see her again. Let me follow to its end my solitary and rugged path. One consolation will accompany me: I can say that happiness has not been denied to me: that it is my conscience, admonished from on high, which has refused to accept it, and there is a divine sweetness in great trials religiously accepted. Believe me, it is God who speaks to me, as he spoke to me of old in San Francisco, to enjoin me to forsake everything and give my blood for my country. I recognise his voice, which to-day bids my heart be silent and immolate itself on the altar of its chosen cause. God and Poland! Beyond this, my watch-word, I have no longer the right to yield to anything.”
And, turning towards the statuette, he exclaimed: “It is at her feet that I lay down my dolorous offering; she it is who will cure my bruised and broken heart.”
Samuel Brohl spoke in a voice thrilling with emotion; the breath of the Divine Spirit seemed to play through his hair, and make his eyes grow humid. The eyes of the good abbe also grew moist: he was profoundly moved; he gazed with veneration upon this hero; he was filled with respect for this antique character, for this truly celestial soul. He never had seen anything like it, either in the odes or in the epistles of Horace. Lollius himself was surpassed. Transported with admiration, he opened wide his arms to Samuel Brohl, spreading them out their full length, as though otherwise they might fail to accomplish their object, and, clasping him to his bosom, he cried: “Ah! my dear count, how grand you are! You are immense as the world!”
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Abbe Miollens hastened to repair to Cormeilles, where he gave a faithful circumstantial account of his conference with Count Larinski. He was still warm from the interview, and he gave free vent to the effusions of his enthusiasm. He struck up a Canticle of Zion in honour of the antique soul, the celestial soul, which had just been revealing to him all its hidden treasures. M. Moriaz, both astonished and scandalized, observed, dryly: “You are right, this Pole is a prodigy; he should either be canonized or hanged, I do not know which.”
Antoinette said not a word; she kept her reflections to herself. She retired to her chamber, where she paced to and fro for some time, uncertain regarding what she was about to do, or, rather more restless than uncertain. Several times she approached her writing-table, and gazed earnestly at her inkstand; then, seized with a sudden scruple, she would move away. At last she formed a resolute decision, seized her pen, and wrote the following lines: “MONSIEUR: Before setting out for Vienna, will you be so good as to come and pass some moments at Cormeilles? I desire to have a conversation with you in the presence of my father.
“Accept, monsieur, I beg of you, the expression of my most profound esteem.
“ANTOINETTE MORIAZ.”
The next morning she received by the first mail the response she awaited, and which was thus fashioned: “This test would be more than my courage could endure. I never shall see you again, for, should I do so, I would be a lost man.”
This short response caused Mlle. Moriaz a disappointment full of bitterness, and blended with no little wrath. She held in her hand a pencil, which she deliberately snapped in two, apparently to console herself for not having broken the proud and obstinate will of Count Abel Larinski. And yet can one break iron or a diamond? The carrier had brought her at the same time another letter, which she opened mechanically, merely to satisfy her conscience. She ran through the first lines without succeeding in comprehending a single word that she read. Suddenly her attention became riveted, her face brightened up, her eyes kindled. This letter, which a kind Providence had sent her as a supreme resource in her distress, was from the hand of Mlle. Galet, and here was what this retired florist of the Rue Mouffetard wrote: “MA CHERE DEMOISELLE: I learn that you have returned. What happiness for me! and how I long to see you! You are my good angel, whom I should like to see every day of my life, and the time has seemed so long to me without you. When you enter the garret of the poor, infirm old woman, it seems to her as though there were three suns in the heavens; when you abandon her, the blackness of midnight surrounds her. Mme. de Lorcy has been very good to me. As my angel requested her, she came a fortnight since to pay me the quarter due of my pension. She is a very charitable lady, and she dresses beautifully; but she is a little hard on poor people. She asks a great many questions; she wants to know everything. She reproached me with spending too much, being too fond of luxury, and you know how that is. She forgets that everything is higher priced than it used to be, that meat and vegetables are exorbitant, and that just now eggs cost one franc and fifty centimes a dozen. Besides, a poor creature, deprived of the use of her limbs, as I am, cannot go to market herself, and it is quite possible that my _femme de menage_ does not purchase as wisely as she might. I know I have great scenes with her sometimes for bringing me early vegetables; _le bon Dieu_ can, at least, bear me witness that I am no glutton.
“The good Mme. de Lorcy scolded me about a bouquet of camellias she saw on my table, just like those for which I have been grateful to my angel. I don’t know what notions she got into her head about them. Ah! well, _ma chere demoiselle_, I have learned since that these double camellias--they are variegated, red and white--came to me from a man, for, at present, as it would appear, men have taken to give me bouquets and making me visits; it is rather late in the day. The particular man to whom I refer presented himself one fine morning, and, telling me that you had spoken to him of me, said that he wished to assure himself that I was well and wanted nothing. He returned several times, always pampering me with some attention or other. But the best of all was when he came to tell me that my angel had returned. What a man he is! he has surely dropped right down from the skies! One evening when I was sick he gave me my medicine himself, and would have sat up with me all night if I had been willing to let him. You must tell me who he is, for it puzzles me greatly. He has the head of some grand lion; he is as generous as he is handsome, but very sad. He must have some great sorrow on his heart. The misfortune, so far as I am concerned, is that he cannot spoil me much longer--it is almost over now. He expects to leave here in two days; and he has announced to me that he will come to make his adieus, to-morrow afternoon.
“You will come soon, won’t you, _ma chere demoiselle_? I burn with impatience to embrace you, since you permit me to embrace you. You are my angel and my sunshine, and I am your very humble and devoted servant, “LOUISE GALET.”
This letter of Mlle. Louise Galet continued nothing definite, beyond, perhaps, the passage relative to the early vegetables, and the supposed scenes with her _chambriere_. Whatever may have been the good demoiselle’s past record, she certainly was not void of principles, and she prided herself on her truthfulness; only she did not always see the necessity of telling everything she knew; in her narratives she frequently omitted certain details. She had written at the instigation of Samuel Brohl, who had not explained to her his motives. To be sure, she had partially divined these, being shrewd and sly. He had commended himself to her discretion, for which he had paid liberally. Mlle. Galet had at first refused the round sum he had offered her; she had ended by accepting it with tender gratitude. These little pampering attentions make good friends.
An audacious idea suddenly came to Mlle. Moriaz; there was no time to recoil from it. She ordered up her coupe. M. Moriaz had just gone out to make a call in the neighbourhood. She determined to profit by his absence, and besought Mlle. Moiseney to make ready in haste to accompany her to Paris, where she had to confer with her dressmaker. Ten minutes later she stepped into her carriage, having ordered her coachman to drive like the wind.
Her dressmaker did not detain her long; from the Rue de la Paix she ordered to be driven to No. 27 Rue Mouffetard. She never was in the habit of permitting Mlle. Moiseney, who was very short of breath, to climb with her to the fifth story, where Mlle. Galet lodged; upon this occasion she indicated to her an express order to remain peaceably below in the coupe to await her return.
She slowly mounted the stairs; on her way up she encountered a servant, who informed her that Mlle. Galet was lying down taking a nap, being somewhat indisposed, but that the key was in the door. The apartment of which Mlle. Moriaz was in quest was composed of three rooms, a vestibule serving as a kitchen, a tiny _salon_, and a bed-chamber. She paused a few moments in the vestibule to regain her breath, to gather together all her courage, to compose her mind; she had at once divined that there was some one in the _salon_. She entered; Mlle. Galet was not there, but he was there, the man whom she had come to seek. Apparently, he awaited the awakening of the mistress of the place. In perceiving the woman whom he had sworn never to see again, he trembled violently, and his eyes sought some loophole of escape; there was none. Standing upon the threshold, Antoinette barred the passage. She looked fixedly at him and felt certain of her victory; he had the air of one vanquished, and his defeat resembled a complete routing.
She crossed her arms, she smiled, and, in a firm, half-mocking tone, said: “So this is the way you rob me of my poor people! They flourish under it, I am well aware. Confess now that there is a little hypocrisy in your virtue. Mlle. Galet never for a moment doubted that these famous camellias were given for my sake. Bouquets costing sixty francs! absolute folly! How you despise money! Why, then, do you not despise mine? You are afraid of it, you fear to burn your fingers by touching it. You will not aid me to throw it out of the windows? Your poor and mine will surely pick it up. Say, will you not? My fortune is not such a great affair; but it is certain that I alone do not suffice to spend it properly; there is plenty for two--for two would really only be one. You cannot consent to share it with me? You are too proud--that is it. The day before yesterday you were playing comedy; you do not love me. It costs little to owe something to those we love.”
He made a gesture of despair and cried: “I implore you, let me go!”
“Presently; I propose telling you first all that is in my mind. I do not place much reliance on your boasted nobility of spirit; it is pride, egotistical pride. Yes, your pride is your god--a pitiful sort of a god! And as to Poland--” He winced at this word. After a pause, Antoinette continued: “It is she herself who will give, or rather lend, you to me. I solemnly promise that if ever she has need of you I will say to her, ‘Here he is, take him’; and to you, yourself, I will say, ‘She calls you--go.’ But speak to me and look at me; you will not die of so doing. Are you so very much afraid of me? Come, have courage to repeat to me what you have said to others?”
He fell back into a chair, where he remained, his arms hanging helplessly at his sides, his head drooping on his breast, and he murmured: “I knew well that if I saw you again I should be lost.”
“Say, rather, saved. Your mind was sick; I have cured you. I work miracles; you once took the pains to write me so. Will you touch my hand? That will not bind you to anything; you can return it to me if you choose.”
He took the hand she extended to him; he did not carry it to his lips, but he held it within his own.
“Listen to me,” she resumed. “To-day, this very hour, you will set out for Cormeilles, and you will say to my father: ‘She has given me her hand; it has seemed good to me to keep it; allow me to do so?’ Is it agreed upon? Will you obey me?”
He exclaimed: “You are here, you speak to me, the world has disappeared; henceforth I believe only in you!”
“Well done! You see when two people frankly discuss matters they soon come to an understanding; but the main essential is to see each other. Since you are so wise when you see me, I naturally desire to have you see me always. There--take that!” And she handed him a medallion containing her portrait; then she moved towards the door. On the threshold she turned. “Please tell Mlle. Galet,” said she, “that I respect her nap, and will return to-morrow. Mlle. Moiseney awaits me, and must be growing impatient. I have your word of honour? Adieu, then, until this evening. I must hasten away.”
And she did hasten, or, rather, she flew away.
Returning from as well as driving into Paris, the coachman put his horses to full speed, and Cormeilles was reached before the soup was cold. Nevertheless, M. Moriaz had had abundant time for anxiety. He did not take his seat at table without first questioning Mlle. Moiseney; knowing nothing, she could give him no information; but she responded indefinitely to his queries with that air of mystery beneath which it was her wont to disguise her ignorance. He resolved to question Antoinette after dinner. She anticipated him, taking him aside and recounting to him what had occurred.
“I presume,” said she, “that henceforth you will believe in his pride and his disinterestedness. Did I not foretell you that I should have to put myself on my knees to compel him to marry me?”
He could not repress a movement of indignation.
“Oh, reassure yourself!” she resumed; “that is only my way of speaking. He was at my feet and I was standing.”
M. Moriaz opened his lips and closed them again three times without speaking. He finally contented himself with a gesture, which signified, “The die is cast, let come what must.”
Samuel Brohl religiously kept his word. After having made a most faultless toilet, he repaired by the railway to Argenteuil, where he took a carriage. He reached Cormeilles as the clock struck nine. He was ushered into the _salon_, where M. Moriaz was reading his journal. Samuel was pale, and his lips trembled with emotion. He greeted M. Moriaz with profound respect, saying: “I feel, monsieur, like a criminal. Be merciful, and refuse her to me.”
M. Moriaz replied: “The fact is, you come, monsieur, in the words of the evangelist, ‘like a thief in the night’; but I have nothing to refuse you. You are not the son-in-law I frankly avow, whom I should have chosen. This matters not; my daughter belongs to herself, she is mistress of her own actions, and I have no reason to believe that she errs in her choice. You are a man of taste and of honour, and you know the worth of what she has given you. If you render Antoinette happy, you will find in me a warm friend. I have said all that is necessary; let us suppose that you have replied to me, and talk of something else.”
Samuel Brohl considered the matter settled; he insisted no longer, and entered at once upon another topic. He knew how to be agreeable and dignified at the same time. He was as amiable and gracious as his lively emotion would permit. M. Moriaz was obliged to confess to himself that Count Larinski was as good company at Cormeilles as he had been at Saint Moritz, and had no other fault than having taken it into his head to become his son-in-law.
Their interview was a prolonged one. During this time Antoinette had been promenading the walk in front of the house, inhaling the jasmine-perfumed air, pouring out her heart to the night and to the stars. Her happy reverie was troubled only by the presence of a bat, flitting incessantly from one end of the terrace to the other, flapping its wings about her head. The loathsome creature seemed to be especially in quest of her, circling around and above her with obstinate persistency, even venturing to graze her hair in passing; Antoinette even fancied that she could distinguish its hideous face, with deep pouches and long ears, and she moved away, quivering with disgust.
She heard a step on the gravel-walk. Samuel Brohl had taken leave of M. Moriaz and was crossing the terrace to regain his carriage. He recognised Antoinette, approached her and clasped on her wrist a bracelet he held in his hand, saying as he did so: “What could I give you that would equal in value the medallion you deigned to offer me and that should never leave me? However, here is a trinket by which I set great store. My mother loved it; she always refused to part with it, even in the time of her greatest distress; she wore it on her arm when she died.”
We are not all moulded alike; and there is no human clay in which are not intermingled some spangles of gold. Intriguers as well as downright knaves are often capable of experiencing moments of sincere and pure sentiments; in certain encounters every human being rises superior to him-or herself. The upper part of Mlle. Moriaz’s face was shaded by her red hood, the lower part lit up by the moon, which was slowly rising above the hills. Samuel Brohl contemplated her in silence; she seemed to him as beautiful as a dream. During two entire minutes he forgot that she had an income of a hundred thousand livres, and that, according to all probabilities, M. Moriaz would die one day. His head was completely turned by the thought that this woman loved him, that soon she would be his. Yes, for precisely two minutes, Samuel Brohl was as passionately in love with Mlle. Moriaz as might, perchance, have been Count Larinski.
He could not resist the impulse that transported him. He folded in his arms the slender, supple form of Antoinette, and imprinted upon her hair a kiss of flame, a true Polish kiss. She offered no resistance; but at this moment the bat that had already forced upon her its distasteful company renewed the attack, struck her full in the face, and stuck fast in her hood. Antoinette felt the touch of its cold, clammy wings, of its hooked claws. She tore the hood from her head and flung it away in horror. Samuel Brohl sprang forward to pick it up, pressed it to his lips, and made his escape, like a thief carrying off his booty.
When Antoinette re-entered the _salon_, she found there Mlle. Moiseney, whose boisterous, overwhelming joy had just put M. Moriaz to flight. This time Mlle. Moiseney knew everything. She had seen Samuel Brohl arrive, she had been unable to control her overweening curiosity, and, without the slightest scruples, she had listened at the door. She cast herself into Antoinette’s arms, pressed her to her heart, and cried: “Ah, my dear! oh, my dear! Did I not always say that it would end thus?”
Mlle. Moriaz hastened to free herself from her embraces; she felt the need of being alone. On entering her chamber she took a hasty survey of it: her furniture, her pretty knick-knacks, her rose-tined tapestry, the muslin hangings of her bed, the large silver crucifix hanging on the extreme wall, all seemed to regard her with astonishment, asking, “What has happened?” And she replied: “You are right, something has happened.”
She remained in contemplation before a portrait of her mother, whom she had lost very young.
“I have been told,” she mused, “that you were a great romance-reader. I do not care for romances at all--I scarcely ever read them; but I have just been making one myself, with which you would not be discontented. This man would astonish you a little; he would please you still more. Some hours ago he seemed lost to me forever. I brazened it out. I went in search of him, and when he saw me he surrendered. Only now he was with me on the terrace; his lips touched me here on my hair, and thrilled me from head to foot. Do not feel displeased with me--his are pure and royal lips! They have been touched by the sacred fire; they never have lied; never have there fallen from them other than proud and noble words; they modestly recount the history of a life without blemish Ah! why are you not here? I have a thousand things to say to you, which you alone could comprehend; others do not comprehend me.”
She began her toilet for the night. When she had unfastened her hair, she remembered that there was One in her chamber who could comprehend everything, and to whom she had yet said nothing. She knelt down, her wealth of hair streaming over her beautiful shoulders, her hands reverently clasped, her eyes fixed on the silver crucifix, and she said, in a low tone: “Forgive me that I have forgotten thee, thou who never hast forgotten me! I return thanks to thee that thou hast granted my desires; thou hast given me the happiness of which I have dreamed without daring to ask it. Ah, yes, I am happy, perfectly happy! I promise thee that I will cast the reflection of my joy among the poor and unfortunate of this world: I will love them as I have never loved them before! When we give them food and drink, we give it also unto thee; and when we give them flowers, this crown of thorns that has wounded thy brow bursts into bloom. I will give them flowers and bread. It is vain to say that thou art a jealous God. Full as may be my heart, thou knowest that there is always room for thee, and that thou never canst knock at the door without my crying: ‘Enter; the house and all that therein is belong unto thee! My happiness blesses thee: oh, bless thou it! ’” While Mlle. Moriaz thus held communion with her crucifix, Samuel Brohl was rolling along the great highway from Cormeilles to Argenteuil, a distance of six kilometres. His head was held erect, his face was radiant, his eyes were like balls of fire, his temples throbbed, and it seemed to him that his dilated chest might have held the world. He was speaking to himself--murmuring over and over again the same phrase. “She is mine!” he repeated to the vines bordering the road, to the mill of Trouillet, to the Sannois Hills, whose vague outlines loomed up against the sky. “She is mine!” he cried to the moon, which this evening shone for him alone, whose sole occupation was to gaze upon Samuel Brohl. It was plain to see that she was in the secret, that she knew that before long Samuel Brohl would marry Mlle. Moriaz. She had donned her festal garments to celebrate this marvellous adventure; her great gleaming face expressed sympathy and joy.
Although he had exhorted his coachman to make haste, Samuel missed the train, which was the last. He decided to put up for the night at Argenteuil, and sought hospitality at the inn of the Coeur-Volant, where he ordered served forthwith a great bowl of punch, his favourite drink. He betook himself to bed in the full expectation of enjoying most delicious dreams; but his sleep was troubled by a truly disagreeable incident. Glorious days are at times succeeded by most wretched nights, and the inn of Coeur-Volant was destined to leave most disagreeable reminiscences with Samuel Brohl.
Towards four o’clock he heard some one knocking at his door, and a voice not unknown to him cried: “Open, I beseech you!”
He was seized with an insupportable anguish; he felt like one paralyzed, and it was with great difficulty that he rose up in a sitting posture. He remembered that the bolt was drawn, and this reassured him. What was not his stupefied amazement to see the bolt glide back in its shaft! The door opened; some one entered, slowly approached Samuel, drew back the curtains of his bed, and bent towards him, fixing upon him great eager eyes that he recognised. They were singular eyes, these, at once full of sweetness and full of fire, of audacity and of candour; a child, a grand soul, an unbalanced weakling--all this in one was in this gaze.
Samuel Brohl quailed with horror. He tried to speak, but his tongue was powerless to move. He made desperate efforts to unloose it; he finally succeeded in moving his lips, and he murmured: “Is it you, Abel? I believed you dead.”
Evidently Count Abel, the veritable Abel Larinski, was not dead. He was on his feet, his eyes were terribly wide open, and his face never had worn more life-like colouring. Nothing remained but to believe that he had been buried alive, and that he had been resuscitated. In coming forth from the tomb, he had carried with him a portion of its dust; his hair was covered with a singular powder of an earthy hue, and at intervals he shook himself as though to make it fall from him.
With the exception of this there was nothing alarming in his appearance; but a mocking, half-crafty smile played about his lips. After a long pause, he said to Samuel: “Yes, it is indeed I. You did not expect me?”
“Are you sure that you are not dead?” rejoined Samuel.
“Perfectly sure,” he replied, once more shaking a mass of dust from his head. “Does my return incommode you, Samuel Brohl?” he added. “Your name is Samuel, I believe; it is a pretty name. Why have you taken mine? You must give it back to me.”
“Not to-day,” pleaded Samuel, in a stifled voice, “nor to-morrow, nor the day after to-morrow; but after the marriage.”
Count Abel burst out laughing, which was by no means his habit, and which therefore greatly surprised Samuel. Then he cried: “It is I she will marry--she will be the Countess Larinski.”
Suddenly the door opened again, and Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz appeared, robed in white like a bride, a crown on her head, a bouquet in her hand. She bent her steps towards Samuel, but the apparition arrested her progress, saying: “It is not he whom you love; it is my history. Do you not see that this is a false Pole? His father was a German Jew, who kept a tavern. Here it was that this hero grew up. I will relate to you how.”
Here Samuel put his hand over his mouth, and stammered: “Oh, for mercy’s sake, say nothing!”
Heeding him not, the apparition continued: “Yes, Samuel Brohl is a hero. For five years he was the pledged lover of an old woman, and he fulfilled all the duties of his post. This cherished hero well earned his money. Are you not eager to be called Mme. Brohl?”
With these words, he opened wide his arms to Mlle. Moriaz, who fixed upon him a gaze at the same time astonishing and tender, and straining her to his bosom, kissed her hair and her crown.
Then Samuel Brohl recovered strength, life, movement; clinching his hands, he sprang forward to dispute with Abel Larinski his prey. Suddenly, with a shiver of terror and dismay, he paused; he had heard proceeding from a distant corner of the chamber a shrill, malignant laugh. He turned, and distinctly perceived his father--a greasy cap on his head, wrapped in a forlorn, threadbare, dirty caftan. This was unquestionably Jeremiah Brohl, and this night it seemed truly that the whole world had arisen from the dead. The little old man continued to laugh jeeringly; then in a sharp, peevish voice, he cried: “_Schandbube! vermaledeiter Schlingel! ich will dich zu Brei schlagen! _” which signifies: “Scoundrel! accursed blackguard! I will beat you to a jelly!” It was a mode of address that Samuel had heard often in his infancy; but familiar though he might be with paternal amenities, when he saw his father uplift a withered, claw-like hand, a cry escaped his lips; he started back to evade the blow, entangled his feet in the legs of a chair, stumbled, and flung himself violently against a table.
He opened his eyes and saw no one. He ran to the window and threw open the shutter; the growing dawn illumined the chamber with its grayish light. Thank God! there was no one there. The vision had been so real that it was some time before Samuel Brohl could fully regain his senses, and persuade himself that his nightmare was forever dissipated, that phantoms were phantoms, that cemeteries do not surrender their prey. When he had once acquired this rejoicing conviction, he spoke to the dead man who had appeared to him, and whose provoking visit had indiscreetly troubled his sleep, and with considerable hauteur he said, in a tone of superb defiance: “We must be resigned, my poor Abel; we shall see each other again only in the valley of Jehosaphat; I have seen twenty shovelfuls of earth cast upon you--you are dead; I live, and she is mine!”
Thereupon he hastened to settle his account, and to quit the Coeur-Volant, within whose walls he promised himself never again to set foot.
At the very same moment, M. Moriaz, who had risen early, was engaged in writing the following letter: “It is done, my dear friend--I have yielded. Pray, do not reproach me with my weakness; what else could I do? When one has been for twenty years the most submissive of fathers, one does not emancipate one’s self in a day; I never have been in the habit of erecting barriers, and it is scarcely likely that I could learn to do so at my age. Ah! _mon Dieu! _ who knows if, after all, her heart has not counselled her well, if one day she will not satisfy us all that she was in the right. It must be confessed that this _diable_ of a man has an indescribable charm about him. I can detect only one fault in him: he has committed the error of existing at all; it is a grave error, I admit, but thus far I have nothing else with which to reproach him.
“When one loses a battle, nothing remains but to plan an orderly retreat. Count Larinski, I regret to inform you, is armed with all needful weapons; he carries with him his certificate of birth, and certificate of the registry of death of both his parents. No pretext can be made on this score, and my future son-in-law will not aid me to gain time. The sole point upon which we must henceforth direct our attention is the contract. We scarcely can take too many precautions; we must see that this Pole’s hands are absolutely tied. If you will permit me, I will one day ask you to confer with me and my notary, who is also yours. I venture to hope that upon this point Antoinette will consent to be guided by our counsels.
“I am not gay, my friend; but, having been born a philosopher, I bear my misfortunes patiently, and I will forthwith reread _Le Monde comme il va, ou la Vision de Babouc_, in order to endeavour to persuade myself that, if all is not well, all is at least supportable.”
The evening of the same day, M. Moriaz received the following response: “I never will pardon you. You are a great chemist, I grant, but a pitiful, a most deplorable father. Your weakness, which well merits another name, is without excuse. You should have resisted; you should have stood your ground firmly. Antoinette, although she is of age, never in the world would have decided to address to you a formal request of consent to this marriage. She would have made some scenes; she would have pouted; she would have endeavoured to soften you by assuming the airs of a tearful, heart-broken widow; she would have draped herself in black crape. And after that? Desperate case! These Artemisias are very tiresome, I admit; but one can accustom one’s self to anything. Should philosophers, who plead such sublime indifference about the affairs of this mundane sphere, be at the mercy of a fit of the sulks, or a dress of black crape? Besides, black is all the fashion just now, even for those who are not in mourning.
“You speak of contracts! You are surely jesting! What! distrustful of a Pole? take precautions against an antique man? --I quote from Abbe Miollens--against a soul as noble as great? Think what you are doing! At the mere thought of his disinterestedness being called into question, M. Larinski would swoon away as he did in my _salon_. It is a little way he has, which is most excellent, since it proves successful. Do not think of such trifles as contracts; marry them with equal rights, and leave the consequences to Providence! Follies have neither beauty nor merit, unless they are complete. Ah, my good friend, Poland has its charm, has it? Admirable! But you must swallow the whole thing. I am your obedient servant.”
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{
"id": "2470"
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The pitiless sentence pronounced by Mme. de Lorcy grieved M. Moriaz, but did not discourage him. It was his opinion that, let her say what she might, precautions were good; that, well though it might be to bear our misfortunes patiently, there was no law forbidding us to assuage them; that it was quite permissible to prefer to complete follies those of a modified character, and that a bad cold or an influenza was decidedly preferable to inflammation of the lungs, which is so apt to prove fatal. “Time and myself will suffice for all things,” proudly said Philip II. M. Moriaz said, with perhaps less pride: “To postpone a thing so long as possible, and to hold deliberate counsel with one’s notary, are the best correctives of a dangerous marriage that cannot be prevented.” His notary, M. Noirot, in whom he reposed entire confidence, was absent; a case of importance had carried him to Italy. Nothing remained but to await his return, until which everything stood in suspense.
In the first conversation he had with his daughter on the subject, M. Moriaz found her very reasonable, very well disposed to enter into his views, to accede to his desires. She was too thoroughly pleased with his resignation not to be willing to reward him for it with a little complaisancy; besides, she was too happy to be impatient; she had gained the main points of her case--it cost her little to yield in matters of secondary detail.
“You will be accused of having taken a most inconsiderate step,” said her father to her. “You are little sensible to the judgment of the world, to what people say; I am much more so. Humour my weakness or cowardice. Let us endeavour to keep up appearances; do not let us appear to be in a hurry, or to have something to hide; let us act with due deliberation. Just at present no one is in Paris; let us give our friends time to return there. We will present Count Larinski to them. Great happiness does not fear being discussed. Your choice will be regarded unfavourably by some, approved by others. M. Larinski has the gift of pleasing; he will please, and all the world will pardon my resignation, which Mme. de Lorcy esteems a crime.”
“You promised me that your resignation would be mingled with cheerfulness: I find it somewhat melancholy.”
“You scarcely could expect me to be intoxicated with joy.”
“Will you at least assure me that you have taken your part bravely, and that you will think of no further appeal?”
“I swear it to you!”
“Very good; then we will honour your weakness,” she replied, and she said Amen to all that he proposed.
It was agreed that the marriage should take place during the winter, and that two months should be allowed to elapse before proceeding to the preliminary formalities. M. Moriaz undertook to explain matters to Samuel Brohl, who found the arrangement little to his taste. He took pains, however, to give no signs of this. He told M. Moriaz that he was still in the first bewildering surprise of his happiness, that he was not sorry to have time to recover from it; but he secretly promised himself to devise some artifice for abridging delays, for hastening the _denoument_. He was apprehensive of accidents, unforeseen occurrences, squalls, storms, tornadoes, sudden blights, in short everything that might damage or destroy a harvest; he impatiently longed to gather in his, and to have it carefully stowed away in his granary. In the interim he wrote to his old friend M. Guldenthal a letter at once majestic and confidential, which produced a most striking effect. M. Guldenthal concluded that a good marriage was much better security than a poor gun. Besides, he had had the agreeable surprise of being completely reimbursed for his loan, capital and interest. He was charmed to have so excellent a debtor return to him, and he hastened to advance to him all that he could possibly want, even more.
A month passed peaceably by, during which time Samuel Brohl repaired two or three times each week to Cormeilles. He made himself adored by the entire household, including the gardener, the porter and his family, and the Angora cat that had welcomed him at the time of his first visit. This pretty, soft white puss had conceived for Samuel Brohl a most deplorable sympathy; perhaps she had recognised that he possessed the soul of a cat, together with all the feline graces. She lavished on him the most flattering attentions; she loved to rub coaxingly against him, to spring on his knee, to repose in his lap. In retaliation, the great, tawny spaniel belonging to Mlle. Moriaz treated the newcomer with the utmost severity and was continually looking askance at him; when Samuel attempted a caress, he would growl ominously and show his teeth, which called forth numerous stern corrections from his mistress. Dogs are born gendarmes or police agents; they have marvellous powers of divination and instinctive hatred of people whose social status is not orthodox, whose credentials are irregular, or who have borrowed the credentials of others. As to Mlle. Moiseney, who had not the scent of a spaniel, she had gone distracted over this noble, this heroic, this incomparable Count Larinski. In a _tete-a-tete_ he had contrived to have with her, he had evinced much respect for her character, so much admiration for her natural and acquired enlightenment, that she had been moved to tears; for the first time she felt herself understood. What moved her, however, still more was that he asked her as a favour never to quit Mlle. Moriaz and to consider as her own the house he hoped one day to possess. “What a man!” she ejaculated, with as much conviction as Mlle. Galet.
The principal study of Samuel Brohl was to insinuate himself into the good graces of M. Moriaz, whose mental reservations he dreaded. He succeeded in some measure, or at least he disarmed any lingering suspicions by the irreproachable adjustment of his manners, by the reserve of his language, by his great show of lack of curiosity regarding all questions that might have a proximate or remote connection with his interests. How, then, had Mme. de Lorcy come to take it into her head that there was something of the appraiser about Samuel Brohl, and that his eyes took an inventory of her furniture? If he had forgotten himself at Maisons, he never forgot himself at Cormeilles. What cared he for the sordid affairs of the sublunary sphere? He floated in ether; heaven had opened to him its portals; the blessed are too absorbed in their ecstasy to pay heed to details or to take an inventory of paradise. Nevertheless, Samuel’s ecstasies did not prevent him from embracing every opportunity to render himself useful or agreeable to M. Moriaz. He frequently asked permission to accompany him into his laboratory. M. Moriaz flattered himself that he had discovered a new body to which he attributed most curious properties. Since his return he had been occupied with some very delicate experiments, which he did not always carry out to his satisfaction; his movements were brusque, his hands all thumbs; very often he chanced to ruin everything by breaking his vessels. Samuel proposed to assist him in a manipulation requiring considerable dexterity; he had very flexible fingers, was as expert as a juggler, and the manipulation succeeded beyond all hopes.
Mme. de Lorcy was furious at having been outwitted by Count Larinski; she retracted all the concessions she had made concerning him; her rancour had decided that the man of fainting-fits could not be other than an imposter. She had disputes on this subject with M. Langis, who persisted in maintaining that M. Larinski was a great comedian, but that this, strictly considered, did not prevent his being a true count; in the course of his travels he had met specimens of them who cheated at cards and pocketed affronts. Mme. de Lorcy, in return, accused him of being a simpleton. She had written again to Vienna, in hopes of obtaining some further intelligence; she had been able to learn nothing satisfactory. She did not lose courage; she well knew that, in the important affairs of life, M. Moriaz found it difficult to dispense with her approbation, and she promised herself to choose with discretion the moment to make a decisive assault upon him. In the meanwhile she gave herself the pleasure of tormenting him by her silence, and of grieving him by her long-continued pouting. One day M. Moriaz said to his daughter: “Mme. de Lorcy is displeased with us; this grieves me. I fear you have dropped some word that has wounded her. I shall be greatly obliged to you if you will go and see her and coax her into good-humour.”
“You gave me a far from agreeable commission,” she rejoined, “but I can refuse you nothing; I shall go to-morrow to Maisons.”
At the precise moment when this conversation was taking place, Mme. de Lorcy, who was passing the day in Paris, entered the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. The exhibition of the work of a celebrated painter, recently deceased, had attracted thither a great throng of people. Mme. de Lorcy moved to and fro, when suddenly she descried a little old woman, sixty years of age, with a snub nose, whose little gray eyes gleamed with malice and impertinence. Her chin in the air, holding up her eye-glasses with her hand, she scrutinized all the pictures with a critical, disdainful air.
“Ah! truly it is the Princess Gulof,” said Mme. de Lorcy to herself, and turned away to avoid an encounter. It was at Ostend, three years previous, during the season of the baths, that she had made the acquaintance of the princess; she did not care to renew it. This haughty, capricious Russian, with whom a chance occurrence at the _table d’hote_ had thrown her into intercourse, had not taken a place among her pleasantest reminiscences.
Princess Gulof was the wife of a governor-general whom she had wedded in second marriage after a long widowhood. He did not see her often, two or three times a year, that was all. Floating about from one end of Europe to another, they kept up a regular exchange of letters; the prince never took any step without consulting his wife, who usually gave him sound advice. During the first years of their marriage, he had committed the error of being seriously in love with her: there are some species of ugliness that inspire actually insane passions. The princess found this in the most wretched taste, and soon brought Dimitri Paulovitch to his senses. From that moment perfect concord reigned between this wedded couple, who were parted by the entire continent of Europe, united by the mail-bags. The princess did not bear a very irreproachable record. She looked upon morality as pure matter of conventionality, and she made no secret of her thoughts. She was always on the alert for new discoveries, fresh experiences; she never waited to read a book to the end before flinging it into the waste-paper basket, most frequently the first chapter sufficed; she had met with many disappointments, she had wearied of many caprices, and she had arrived at the conclusion that man is, after all, of but small account. Nevertheless, there had come to her late in life a comparatively lasting caprice; during nearly five years she had flattered herself that she had found what she sought. Alas! for the first time she had been abandoned, forsaken, and that before she had herself grown tired of her fancy. This desertion had inflicted a sharp wound on her pride; she had conceived an implacable hatred for the faithless one, and then she had forgotten him. She had plunged into the natural sciences, she had made dissections--it was her way of being avenged. She held very advanced ideas; she believed in the most radical of the doctrines of evolution; she deemed it a clearly demonstrated fact that man is a development of the monkey, the monkey of the monad. She profoundly despised any one who permitted himself to doubt this. She did not count melancholy; to analyze or dissect everything, that was her way of being happy.
During their common sojourn at Ostend, Mme. de Lorcy had gained the good graces of the Princess Gulof through the dexterity with which she had dressed the wounds of Moufflard, her lapdog, whose paw had been injured by some awkward individual. She had been quite pleased with Mme. de Lorcy, her sympathy and her kindly services, and she had bestowed her most amiable attentions upon her. Mme. de Lorcy had done her best to respond to her advances; but she found herself revolted by this old magpie whose prattling never ceased, and whose chief delight was in the recital of the secret chronicles of every capital of Europe; Mme. de Lorcy, in fact, soon grew disgusted with her cosmopolitan gossip and her physiology; she found her cynical and evil-minded. In meeting her at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, her first impulse was to evade her; but suddenly she changed her mind. For some weeks past she had been governed by a fixed idea, about which all else revolved; an inspiration came over her, which doubtless fell directly from the skies.
“Princess Gulof,” said she to herself, “has passed her life in running around the world; her real home is a railroad-car; there is not a large city where she has failed to make a sojourn; she is acquainted with the whole world: is it not possible that she knows Count Larinski?”
Mme. de Lorcy retraced her steps, cut her way through the crowd, succeeded in approaching the princess, and, taking her by the arm, exclaimed: “Ah! is it you, princess! How is Moufflard?”
The princess turned her head, regarded her fixedly a moment, and then pressing her hand between her thumb and forefinger she rejoined with as little ceremony as though they had met the day before: “Moufflard does very poorly indeed, my dear. He died two months ago of indigestion.”
“How you must have mourned his loss!”
“I am still inconsolable.”
“Ah! well, princess, I shall undertake to console you. I own a lapdog, not yet six months old: you never saw a more charming one or one with a shorter nose or whiter and more delicate hair. I am a great utilitarian, as you know. I only care for large dogs that are of some use. Will you accept of me Moufflard II? But you must come and fetch him yourself, which will procure me the pleasure of seeing you at Maisons.”
The princess replied that she was on her way to England; that she was merely taking Paris in passing; that her hours were numbered; and two minutes later she announced to Mme. de Lorcy that she would call on her the following day, in the afternoon.
True to her appointment, Princess Gulof entered Mme. de Lorcy’s _salon_ the following day. The ladies occupied themselves first of all with the lapdog, which was found charming and quite worthy to succeed to Moufflard I. Mme. de Lorcy watched all the time for a suitable opportunity of introducing the subject nearest to her heart; when she thought it had come, she observed: “Apropos, princess, you who know everything, you who are a true cosmopolitan, have you ever heard of a mysterious personage who calls himself Count Abel Larinski?”
“Not that I am aware of, my dear, although his name may not be absolutely unknown to me.”
“Search among your reminiscences; you must have encountered him somewhere; you have visited all the countries of the world--” “Of the habitable world,” she interposed; “but according to my especial point of view Siberia scarcely can be called so, and it is there, if I mistake not, that your Count Larinski must have been sent.”
“Would to heaven! --Perhaps there was question of procuring this little pleasure for his father; but, unfortunately, he took the precaution to emigrate to America. The inconvenience of America is, that people can return from there, for my Larinski has returned, and it is that that grieves me.”
“What has he done to you?” inquired the princess pinching the ears of the dog who was slumbering in her lap.
“I spoke to you at Ostend about my goddaughter Mlle. Moriaz, who is an adorable creature. I proposed to marry her to my nephew, M. Langis, a most highly accomplished young man. This Larinski came suddenly on the scene, he cast a charm over the child, and he will marry her.”
“What a pity! Is he handsome?”
“Yes; that, to tell the truth, is his sole merit.”
“It is merit sufficient,” replied the princess, whose gray eyes twinkled as she spoke. “There is nothing certain but a man’s beauty; all else is open to discussion.”
“Pray, allow me to consider matters from a more matter-of-fact point of view,” said Mme. de Lorcy. “Also I may as well confide to you my whole perplexity: I suspect Count Larinski of being neither a true Larinski nor a true count; I would stake my life that the Larinskis are all dead, and that this man is some adventurer.”
“You will end by interesting me,” rejoined the princess. “Do not speak too severely of adventurers, however; they are one of the most curious varieties of the human family. Let your goddaughter marry hers; it will bring a piquant element into her life; the poor world is so generally a prey to ennui.”
“Thank you! my goddaughter was not born to marry an adventurer. I detest this Larinski, and I have vowed that I will play him some abominable trick!”
“Do not become excited, my dear. What colour are his eyes?”
“Green as those of the cats or of the owls.”
Once more the eyes of Princess Gulof flashed and twinkled, and she cried: “An adventurer with green eyes! Why, it is a superb match, and I find you hard to please.”
“You grieve me, princess,” said Mme. de Lorcy. “I had promised myself that you would lend me the assistance of your judgment, your incomparable penetration, your experienced eye; that you would aid me in unmasking this Pole, in detecting in him some irremediable vice that would at once prove an insurmountable obstacle to the marriage. Be good, for once in your life; may I present him to you?”
“I repeat to you that I am merely taking Paris in passing,” replied the princess, “and I am expected in England. Besides, you do too much honour to my incomparable penetration. I swear to you that I am no connoisseur in Larinskis; you may as well spare yourself the pains of presenting to me yours. I am a good-natured woman, who has often been made a good dupe, and I do not complain of it. The best reminiscences of my past are of sundry agreeable errors, and of men skilled in deception. I have found it the wisest way to judge by the labels, and never to ask any one to show me the contents of his sack, for I long ago discovered that sacks are very apt to be empty or at best only poorly filled. Let your goddaughter act according to her own head; if she deceives herself, it is because she wishes to be deceived, and she knows better than you what suits her. _Eh! bon Dieu_, what matters it if there be one more unhappy household under the broad canopy of heaven? Besides, it is only fools who are unhappy, and who stupidly pause before a closed portal; others manage in some way to find a loop-hole of escape. Marriage, my dear, is an institution worn threadbare. Ten years hence there will be only free women and husbands on trial. Ten years hence the Countess Larinski will be a liberated countess. Let her serve her time as a galley-slave, and she will come out entirely cured of her follies.”
Just as Princess Gulof was finishing this remarkable declaration of her principles, the door opened and Mlle. Moriaz entered. Whatever it might cost her to do so, the future Countess Larinski faithfully kept the promise she had made to her father. Mme. de Lorcy was strictly on her guard; she hastened to meet her, held out both hands, kissed her on both cheeks, and reproached her, in the most affectionate tone in the world, for the rarity of her visits. Then she presented her to the princess, who said: “Come here, my beauty, that I may look at you; I have been told that you are adorable.”
When Antoinette approached, she fixed on her a keen, penetrating glance, examined her from head to foot, passed all her perfections in review: one might have taken her for some Normandy farmer at a cattle-fair. The result of this investigation was satisfactory; the princess cried, “Truly she does very well!” and proceeded to assert that Mlle. Moriaz greatly resembled a certain person who had played a certain role in a certain adventure that she undertook to narrate. She had scarcely finished this recital when she entered on another. Mme. de Lorcy was on thorns. She knew by experience that the anecdotes of Princess Gulof were ordinarily somewhat indelicate and ill-suited to maiden ears. She watched Antoinette anxiously, and, when she saw the approach of an especially objectionable passage, she was suddenly seized with a fit of coughing. The princess, comprehending the significance of that, made an effort to gloss over, but her glossings were very transparent. Mme. de Lorcy coughed anew, and the princess ended by losing patience, and, brusquely interrupting herself, exclaimed: “And this, that, and the other, etc. Thus ended the adventure.”
Mlle. Moriaz listened with an astonished air, not in the least understanding these attacks of coughing and these interruptions, nor divining the significance of the constant repetition of “this, that, and the other, etc.” Princess Gulof struck her as a very eccentric and unpleasantly brusque person; she even suspected her of being slightly deranged or at least rather crack-brained; yet she was pleased with her for being present upon this especial occasion and sparing her a _tete-a-tete_ with Mme. de Lorcy with its disagreeable explanations and unpleasant discussions.
She remained nearly an hour, planted on a chair, watching with a sort of stupor the turning of the fan of this word-mill, whose clapper kept up such an incessant noise. After having criticised to her heart’s content her neighbours, including under that title emperors and grand-dukes, and having abundantly multiplied the et ceteras, Princess Gulof suddenly turned the conversation to physiology: this science, whose depths she believed herself to have fathomed, was, in her estimation, the secret of everything, the Alpha and Omega of human life. She exposed certain materialistic views, making use of expressions that shocked the modest and delicate ears of Mlle. Moriaz. The astonishment the latter had at first experienced became now blended with horror and disgust; she judged that her visit had lasted long enough, and she proceeded to beat a retreat, which Mme. de Lorcy made no effort to prevent.
Upon arriving at Cormeilles, her carriage crossed with a young man on horseback, who with his head bowed down allowed his animal full liberty to take his own course. This young man trembled when a clear, soprano voice, which he preferred to the most beautiful music in the world, cried to him, “Where are you going, Camille?”
He bowed over his horse’s neck, drew down his hat over his eyes, and replied, “To Maisons.”
“Do not go there. I have just left because there is a dreadful old woman there who says horrid things.” Then Mlle. Moriaz added, in a queenly tone, “You cannot pass--you are my prisoner.”
She obliged him to turn back; ten minutes later she had alighted from her coupe, he had sprung from his saddle, and they were seated side by side on a rustic bench.
A few days previous M. Langis had met M. Moriaz, who had complained bitterly of being forsaken by him as well as by Mme. de Lorcy, and who had extracted from him the promise to come and see him. Camille had kept this promise. Had he chosen well his time of doing so? The truth is, he had been both rejoiced and heart-broken to learn that Mlle. Moriaz was absent. Man is a strange combination of contradictions, especially a man who is in love. In the same way he had bestowed both blessings and imprecations upon Heaven for permitting him to meet Antoinette. During some moments he had lost countenance, but had quickly recovered himself; he had formed the generous resolution to act out consistently his role of friend and brother. He had acquitted himself of it so well at Saint Moritz, that Antoinette believed him cured of the caprice of a day with which she had inspired him and which she had never taken seriously.
“The last time I saw you,” said she, “you dropped a remark that pained me, but I am pleased to think that you did not mean to do so.”
“I am a terrible culprit,” he rejoined, “and I smite myself upon the breast therefore. I was wanting in respect to your idol.”
“Fortunately, my idol knew nothing about it, and, if he had known, I would have appeased him by saying: ‘Pardon this young man; he does not always know what he is saying. ’” “He even seldom knows it; but what help is there for it? A man given to fainting always did seem a curiosity to me. I know we should endeavour to conquer our prejudices; every country has its customs, and, since Poland is a country that pleases you, I will make an effort to see only its good sides.”
“Now that is the right way to talk. I hope this very day to reconcile you with Count Larinski; stay and dine with us--he will be here very soon; the first duty of the people whom I love is to love one another.”
M. Langis at first energetically declined accepting this invitation; Antoinette insisted: he ended by bowing in sign of obedience. Youth has a taste for suffering.
Tracing figures in the gravel with a stick he had picked up, M. Langis said, in a wholly unconstrained voice: “I do not wish M. Larinski any harm, and yet you must admit that I would have the right to detest him cordially, for I had the honour two years ago, if I mistake not, of asking your hand in marriage. Do you remember it?”
“Perfectly,” she replied, fixing upon him her pure, clear eyes; “but I ought to avow to you that this fancy of yours never seemed to me either very reasonable or very serious.”
“You are wrong; I can certify to you that your refusal plunged me for as much as forty-eight hours into the depths of despair--I mean one of those genuine despairs that neither eat, drink, nor sleep, and that speak openly of suicide!”
“And at the end of forty-eight hours were you consoled?”
“_Eh! bon Dieu_, it surely was time to come to reason. I had hesitated a long time before asking your hand, because I thought, ‘If she refuses me, I cannot see her any more.’ But I still do see you, so all is well!”
“And how soon do you mean to marry?”
“I? Never! I shall die a bachelor. An aspirant to the hand of Mlle. Moriaz, being unable to win her, could not care for another woman. Nothing remains but to strike the attitude of the inconsolable lover.”
“And when this ceases to hinder one from eating, drinking, or sleeping--what then?”
“One becomes interesting without being inconvenienced by the consequences,” he gaily interposed. Then, letting his eyes wander idly around for a moment, he added: “It seems to me that you have in some way changed the order of this terrace; put to the right what was at the left, thinned out the shrubbery, cut the trees; I feel completely lost here.”
“You mistake greatly; nothing is changed here; it is you who have become forgetful. How! you now longer recognise this terrace, scene of so many exploits? I was a thorough tyrant; I did with you what I pleased. You revolted sometimes, but in his heart the slave adored his chains. Open your eyes. See! here is the sycamore you climbed one day to escape me when I wanted you to make believe that you were a girl, as you said, and you had little fancy for such a silly role. There is the alley where we played ball, and yonder the hedge and the grove where we played hide-and-seek.”
“Say rather, _cligne-musette_; it is more poetical,” he rejoined. “When I was down in Transylvania I made a _chanson_ about it all, and set it myself to music.”
“Sing me your _chanson_.”
“You are mocking at me; my voice is false, as you well know; but I will consent to recite it to you. The rhymes are not rich--I am no son of Parnassus.”
With these words, lowering his voice, not daring to look her in the face, he recited the couplets.
“Your _chanson_ is very pretty,” said she; “but it does not tell the truth, for here we are sitting together on this bench; we have not lost each other at all.”
She was so innocent that she had no idea of the torture she was inflicting, and he saw this so plainly that he could not so much as have the satisfaction of finding fault with her; yet he asked himself whether in the best woman’s heart there was not a foundation of cruelty, of unconscious ferocity. He felt the tears start to his eyes; he scarcely could restrain them; he abruptly bowed his head, and began to examine a beautiful horned beetle, which was just crossing the gravel-path at a quick pace, apparently having some very important affairs to regulate. When M. Langis raised his head his eyes were dry, his face serene, his lips smiling.
“It is very certain,” he observed, “that two years ago I must have appeared supremely ridiculous to you. This little playmate of old, this foolish little Camille, to attempt to transform himself into a husband! The pretension was absurd indeed.”
“Not at all,” she replied; “but I thought at once that it was a mistake. Little Camilles are apt to be hot-headed and fanciful; they are subject to self-deceptions regarding their sentiments. Friendship and love, however, are two entirely different things! I once said to Mlle. Moiseney that a woman never should marry an intimate friend, because it would be a sure way of losing him as such, and friends are good to keep.”
“Bah! How much do you care now for yours? I find my role very modest, very insignificant. Open the trap-door--it is time for me to disappear.”
“Bad counsel! I shall not open the trap-door. One always has need of friends. I can readily imagine the possibility of the very happiest married woman needing some advice or assistance that she could not ask of her husband, for husbands do not understand everything. If ever such a thing happens to me, Camille, I shall turn to you.”
“Agreed!” he cried; “to help you out of embarrassment, I would run, if necessary, all the way from Transylvania.”
He held out his right hand, which she shook warmly.
At this moment they heard a step that Mlle. Moriaz at once recognised, and Count Larinski appeared from the walk bordering the house. Antoinette hastened to meet him, and led him forward by laying hold of the tip of his glove, which he was in the act of drawing off.
“Gentlemen,” said she, “I do not need to present you to each other; you are already acquainted.”
It is a very difficult thing to lead two men who do not like each other into conversation: the present effort proved a total failure. Fortunately for all parties, M. Moriaz shortly made his appearance at the end of the terrace, and M. Langis arose to join him. Antoinette remained alone with Samuel Brohl, who at once rather brusquely asked: “Has M. Langis the intention of remaining here forever?”
“He has only just arrived,” she replied.
“And you will send him away soon?”
“I thought so little of sending him away that I asked him to dinner, in order to give you an opportunity of becoming more fully acquainted with him.”
“I thank you for your amiable intentions, but M. Langis pleases me little.”
“What have you against him?”
“I have met him sometimes at Mme. de Lorcy’s, and he always has shown me a most dubious politeness. I scent in him an enemy.”
“Pure imagination! M. Langis has been my friend from childhood up, and I have forewarned him that it is his duty to love the people whom I love.”
“I mistrust these childhood’s friends,” said he, growing excited. “I should not wonder if this youth was in love with you.”
“Ah, indeed! then you should have heard him but now. He has been reminding me, this youth, that two years ago he sought my hand, and he assured me that forty-eight hours sufficed to console him for my refusal.”
“I did not know that the case was so grave, or the personage so dangerous. Truly, do you mean to keep him to dinner?”
“I invited him; can I retract?”
“Very well, I will leave the place,” he cried, rising.
She uplifted her eyes to his face and remained transfixed with astonishment, so completely was his face transformed. His contracted brows formed an acute angle, and he had a sharp, hard, evil air. This was a Larinski with whom she was not yet acquainted, or rather it was Samuel Brohl who had just appeared to her--Samuel Brohl, who had entered upon the scene as suddenly as though he had emerged from a magic surprise-box. She could not remove her eyes from him, and he at once perceived the impression he was making on her. Forthwith Samuel Brohl re-entered his box, whose cover closed over him, and it was a true Pole who said to Mlle. Moriaz, in a grave, melancholy, and respectful tone: “Pardon me, I am not always master of my impressions.”
“That is right,” said she; “and you will remain, won’t you?”
“Impossible,” he replied; “I should be cross, and you would not be pleased.”
She urged him; he opposed her entreaties with a polite but firm resistance.
“Adieu,” said she. “When shall I see you again?”
“To-morrow--or the day after--I do not know.”
“Really, do you not know?”
He perceived that her eyes were full of tears. Tenderly kissing her hand he said, with a smile that consoled her: “This is the first time we have had any dispute; it is possible that I may be wrong, but it seems to me that if I were a woman I would not willingly marry a man who was always right.”
These words uttered, he assured himself anew that her eyes were humid, and then he left, charmed to have proved the extent of the empire he held over her.
When she rejoined M. Langis, the young man asked: “Does it chance to be I who put Count Larinski to flight? If so, I should be quite heart-broken.”
“Reassure yourself,” said she, “he came expressly to inform me that his evening was not free.”
The dinner was only passably lively. Mlle. Moiseney owed M. Langis a grudge; she could not forgive him for having made fun of her more than once--in her eyes an unpardonable sin. M. Moriaz was enchanted to find himself once more in company with his dear Camille; but he kept asking himself, mournfully, “Why is not he to be my son-in-law?” Antoinette had several attacks of abstraction; she did not, however, omit the least friendly attention to Camille. Love had become master of this generous soul; it might cause it to commit many imprudences, but it was not in its power to cause it to commit an injustice.
At nine o’clock M. Langis mounted his horse and took his departure.
Meanwhile, Mlle. Moriaz, her arm resting on the ledge of her window, was meditating on the strange conduct of Count Larinski as she gazed on the stars; the sky was without clouds, unless a little black speck above Mount-Valerien might be so called. Mlle. Moriaz’s heart swelled with emotion, and she felt implicit confidence that all would be arranged the next day. What is one black spot in the immensity of a starry sky?
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{
"id": "2470"
}
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10
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In all that Samuel Brohl did, even in his wildest freaks, there was somewhat of calculation, or contrivance. Unquestionably, he had experienced intense displeasure at encountering M. Camille Langis at Cormeilles; he had, doubtless, very particular and very personal reasons for not liking him. He knew, however, that there was need for controlling his temper, his impressions, his rancour; and, if he ceased to do so for a moment, it was because he counted upon deriving advantage therefrom. He was impatient to enter into possession, to feel his good-fortune sheltered from all hazards; delays, procrastinations, long waiting, displeased and irritated him. He suspected M. Moriaz of purposely putting his shoulder to the wheel of time, and of preparing a contract that would completely tie the hands of Count Larinski. He resolved to seize the first opportunity of proving that he was mistrustful, stormy, susceptible, in the hope that Mlle. Moriaz would become alarmed and say to her father, “I intend to marry in three weeks, and without any conditions.” The opportunity had presented itself, and Samuel Brohl had taken good care not to lose it.
The next day he received the following note: “You have caused me pain, a great deal of pain. Already! I passed a sorrowful evening, and slept wretchedly all night. I have reflected seriously upon our dispute; I have endeavoured to persuade myself that I was in the wrong: I have neither been able to succeed, nor to comprehend you. Ah! how your lack of confidence astonishes me! It is so easy to believe when one loves. Please write me word quickly that you also have reflected, and that you have acknowledged your misdemeanour. I will not insist upon your doing penance, your face humbled to the ground; but I will condemn you to love me to-day more than yesterday, to-morrow more than to-day. Upon these conditions, I will pass a sponge across your grave error, and we shall speak of it no more.
“Ever yours. It is agreed, is it not?” Samuel Brohl had the surprise of receiving at the same time another letter, thus worded: “MY DEAR COUNT: I cannot explain to myself your conduct; you no longer give me any signs of life. I believed that I had some claims upon you, and that you would hasten to announce to me in person the great event of events, and seek my congratulations. Come, I beg of you, and dine this evening at Maisons with Abbe Miollens, who is dying to embrace you; he studies men in Horace, you know, and he finds none whom he prefers to you.
“You need not answer, but come; else I will be displeased with you as long as I live.”
Samuel replied as follows to Mlle. Moriaz: “Be assured I have suffered more than you. Forgive me; much should be forgiven a man who has suffered much. My imagination is subject to the wildest alarms. Great, unlooked-for joy has rendered me mistrustful. I have been especially low-spirited of late. After having resolutely fought against my happiness, I tremble now lest it escape me; it appears to me too beautiful not to prove only a dream. To be loved by you! How can I help fearing to lose the great boon? Each evening I ask myself: ‘Will she still love me to-morrow?’ Perhaps my anxiety is blended with secret remorse. My pride, ever on the alert to take umbrage, has often been my torment; you can tell me it is only self-love: I will endeavour to cure myself of it, but this cannot be done in a day. During these long months of waiting there will come to me more than one suspicion, more than one troubled thought. I promise you, however, that I shall maintain a rigid silence concerning them, and, if possible, hide them.
“You condemn me, for my punishment, to love you to-day more than yesterday; you know well this were impossible. No; I shall inflict upon myself another chastisement. Mme. de Lorcy has invited me to dinner. I suspect her of having a very mediocre feeling of good-will for me, and I also accuse her of being cold and insensible; of understanding nothing whatever of the heart’s unreasonableness, which is true wisdom. Nevertheless, I will refrain from declining her invitation. It is at Maisons and not at Cormeilles that I shall this day pass my evening. Are you content with me? Is not the penance severe enough?
“But to-morrow--oh! I shall arrive at your home to-morrow by two o’clock, and I shall enter by the little green gate at the foot of the orchard. Will you do me a favour? Promenade about two o’clock in the gravel-walk that I adore. The wall being low at that place, I shall perceive from afar, before entering, the white silk of your sun-umbrella. I am counting, you see, upon sunshine. How very childish! Yet, even this is not strange; I was born three months and a half ago; I commenced to live July 5th of this year; at four o’clock in the afternoon, in the cathedral at Chur. Forgive me all my errors, my suspicions, my childish absurdities.”
Mlle. Moriaz concluded that it would be well to shorten the term of waiting, and that she would ask Count Larinski to fix the date of their marriage himself. As to the contract, she had immediate occasion to speak of it to her father, who announced to her that he had invited his notary, Maitre Noirot, to dine with him the next day.
She was silent a few moments, and then said, “Can you explain to me the use of notaries?”
He replied about as did _le Philosophe sans le savoir_: “We only see the present; notaries foresee the future and possible contingencies.”
She replied that she did not believe in contingencies, and that she did not like precautions, because they presupposed distrust, and might appear offensive.
“We have charming weather to-day,” said her father; “nevertheless there is a possibility of rain to-morrow. If I started this evening on a journey, I should carry my umbrella, without fearing to insult Providence. Who speaks to you of offending M. Larinski? Not content with approving of the step I propose taking, he will thank me for it. Why did he at first refuse to marry you? Because you are rich, and he is poor. The contract I wish to have drawn up will thoroughly set at ease his disinterestedness and his pride.”
“The question of money no longer exists for him,” she eagerly replied; “it is my desire that it should not be started again. And since you like comparisons, let us suppose that you invited one of your friends to take a turn in your garden. Your espaliers are laden with fruit, and you know that your friend is an honest man, and that, besides, he does not care for pears. Suppose you were to put handcuffs on him, would he or would he not be insulted?”
He answered in an exceedingly vexed tone, that this was entirely different, and Mlle. Moiseney having taken the liberty to interfere in the discussion in Antoinette’s behalf, declaring that Counts Larinski are not to be distrusted, and that men of science are incapable of comprehending delicacy of sentiment, he gave full vent to his wrath, telling the worthy demoiselle to meddle with what concerned her. For the first time in his life he was seriously angry. Antoinette caressed him into good-humour, promised that she would put on the best possible face to Maitre Noirot, that she would pay religious attention to his counsels, and that she would endeavour to profit by them.
While M. Moriaz was engaged in this stormy interview with his daughter, Samuel Brohl was _en route_ for Maisons. After the first flush of astonishment, the note and invitation of Mme. de Lorcy had pleased him immensely; he saw in it the proof that she had ceased to struggle against the inevitable--against Samuel Brohl and destiny; that she had resolved to bear her disappointment with a cheerful countenance. He formed the generous resolution to console her for her vexation; to gain her good-will by force of modesty and graceful attentions.
Alone in his compartment of the cars, Samuel Brohl was happy, perfectly happy. He was nearing port; he held it for an established fact that, before a fortnight, the banns would be published. Was he alone in his compartment? An adored image kept him company; he spoke to it, it replied to him. Blended with a rather uncommon frigidity of soul, Samuel Brohl had an imagination that readily took fire, and, when his imagination was kindled, he felt within him something warm, which he took for a heart, and sincerely persuaded himself that he had such an organ. At this moment he saw Antoinette as he had left her the evening previous, her face animated, her cheeks flushed, her countenance full of reproach, her eyes tearful. She never had appeared to him so charming. He believed himself so madly in love that he was inclined to mock a little at himself. He teased in anticipation the joys that were in reserve for him; he revelled in thought of the day and the hour when this superb creature would be his, when he could view her as his own undisputed possession, and devour page after page, chapter after chapter, of this elegantly printed, richly bound book.
However, he was not the man to wholly absorb himself in such a reverie. His thoughts travelled farther; in idea he embraced his entire future, which he fashioned out at pleasure. He took leave of his sorrowful past as a blind man who by some miracle recovers his sight, parts from his dog and his staff--troublesome witnesses of evil days. He had done with petty employments, with ungrateful toil, with humiliating servitude, with anxiety about the morrow, with the necessity for counting every sou, with meagre repasts, with sordid expedients, with sorrow, distress, and usuries; to all these he said farewell. Henceforth he would pick up silver and gold by the shovelful; he would have a share in abundance of festivals--the joy of doing nothing--the pleasure of commanding--all the sweetness and all the calm satisfaction of delightful egotism--reposing in a bed of eider-down--fed upon delicate birds--owning two or three houses, a carriage, horses, and a box at the opera. What a future! At intervals Samuel Brohl passed his tongue over his lips; they were parched with thirst.
Alnaschar the Lazy received one hundred drachms of silver as his entire patrimony, and he promised himself that he would one day marry the daughter of the grand-vizier. He meant to clothe himself like a prince, to mount upon a horse with a saddle of fine gold and housings of gold, richly embroidered with diamonds and pearls. He proposed to see that his wife formed good habits, to train her to obedience, to teach her to stand before him and be always ready to wait upon him; he resolved to discipline her with his looks, his hand, and his foot. Samuel Brohl possessed a calmer spirit than the Athenian Hippoclide; he was less brutal than Alnaschar of Bagdad: was he much less ferocious? He proposed, he also, to educate his wife; he intended that the daughter of the grand-vizier should consecrate herself wholly to his happiness, to his service. To possess a beautiful slave, with velvety eyes, chestnut hair, tinged with gold, who would make of Samuel Brohl her padishah and her god, who would pass her life at his knees on the alert for his wishes, reading his good pleasure in his face, attentive to his fancies and to his eye-brows, belonging to him body and soul, uplifting to him the gaze of a timid gazelle or a faithful spaniel--such was his dream of conjugal felicity. And little need would he have to exert himself much in the education of Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz. Love would charge itself with that. She adored Samuel Brohl, and he relied upon her devotion; it were impossible that she could refuse him anything! She was prepared in advance for every compliance, every obedience; she was ready to be his humble servant in all things. Knaves make it their boast that they can readily fathom honest people; the truth is, they only half comprehend them. Honest people have sentiments, as do certain languages, reputed easy, which are full of mystery, of refined delicacy, inaccessible to the vulgar mind. A commercial traveller often learns to speak Italian in three weeks, and yet never really knows the language; Samuel Brohl had gained a superficial knowledge of Mlle. Moriaz in a few days, and yet he was far from having a true comprehension of her.
He arrived at Maisons in the most cheerful, self-satisfied frame of mind. As he walked through the park, he remembered that Mme. de Lorcy had lost her only two children when they were still of a tender age; that she was therefore free to will her property as she pleased; that she had a short neck, an apoplectic temperament; that Antoinette was her goddaughter; that although she was piqued with Count Larinski the count was adroit, and would find a way to regain her sympathies. The park appeared to him magnificent; he admired its long, regular alleys, which had the appearance of extending as far as Peking; he paused some moments before the purple beech, and it seemed to him that there must be some resemblance between this beautiful tree and himself. He contemplated with the eyes of proprietorship the terrace planted with superb lindens, and he decided that he would establish himself in his Maisons chateau, that his pretty Cormeilles villa would merely be his country-seat. As it may be seen, his imagination refused him nothing; it placed happiness and wealth untold at his command.
We are unable to state whether Mme. de Lorcy actually had an apoplectic temperament; the one thing certain is, that she was not dead. Samuel Brohl perceived her from afar on the veranda, which she had just stepped out upon in order to watch for his arrival. He had forgotten himself in the park, which should one day be his park, and she was beginning to be uneasy about his coming.
She cried out to him: “At last! You always make us wait for you,” adding, in a most affable tone, “We meet to-day under less tragic circumstances than the last time you were here, and I hope you will bear away a pleasanter remembrance of Maisons.”
He respectfully kissed her hand, saying: “Happiness must be purchased; I cannot pay too dearly for mine.”
She ushered him into the _salon_, where he had scarcely set foot, when he descried an old woman lounging on a _causeuse_, fanning herself as she chatted with Abbe Miollens. He remained motionless, his eyes fixed, scarcely breathing, cold as marble; it seemed to him that the four walls of the _salon_ swayed from right to left, and left to right, and that the floor was sliding from under his feet like the deck of a pitching vessel.
The previous day, Antoinette once departed, Mme. de Lorcy had resumed her attack on Princess Gulof, and the princess had ended by consenting to delay her departure, to dine with the adventurer of the green eyes, and to subject him to a close scrutiny. There she was; yes, it was indeed she! The first impulse of Samuel Brohl was to regain the door as speedily as possible; but he did nothing of the kind. He looked at Mme. de Lorcy: she herself was regarding him with astonishment; she wondered what could suddenly have overcome him; she could find no explanation for the bewilderment apparent in his countenance. “It is a mere chance,” he thought at last; “she has not intentionally drawn me into a snare.” This thought was productive of a sort of half relief.
“_Eh bien! _ what is it?” she asked. “Has my poor _salon_ still the misfortune to be hurtful to you?”
He pointed to a _jardiniere_, saying: “You are fond of hyacinths and tuberoses; their perfume overpowered me for a moment. I fear you think me very effeminate.”
She replied in a caressing voice: “I take you for a most worthy man who has terrible nerves; but you know by experience that if you have weaknesses I have salts. Will you have my smelling-bottle?”
“You are a thousand times too good,” he rejoined, and bravely marched forward to face the danger. It is a well-known fact that dangers in a silken robe are the most formidable of all.
Mme. de Lorcy presented him to the princess, who raised her chin to examine him with her little glittering eyes. It seemed to him that those gray orbs directed at him were two balls, which struck him in the heart; he quivered from head to foot and asked himself confusedly whether he were dead or living. He soon perceived that he was still living; the princess had remained impassible--not a muscle of her face had moved. She ended by bestowing upon Samuel a smile that was almost gracious, and addressing to him some insignificant words, which he only half understood, but which seemed to him exquisite--delicious. He fancied that she was saying to him: “You have a chance, you were born lucky; my sight has been impaired for some years, and I do not recognise you. Bless your star, you are saved!” He experienced such a transport of joy that he could have flung his arms about the neck of Abbe Miollens, who came up to him with extended hand, saying: “What have you been thinking about, my dear count? Since we last met a very great event has been accomplished. What woman wishes, God wishes; but, after all, my own humble efforts were not without avail, and I am proud of it.”
Mme. de Lorcy requested Count Larinski to offer his arm to Princess Gulof and lead her out to dinner. He mechanically complied; but he had not the strength to utter a syllable as he conducted the princess to table. She herself said nothing; she seemed wholly busied in arranging with her unoccupied hand a lock of her gray hair, which had strayed too far over her forehead. He looked fixedly at this short, plump hand, which one day in a fit of jealous fury had administered to him two smart blows; his cheeks recognised it.
During dinner the princess was very gay: she paid more attention to Abbe Miollens than to Count Larinski; she took pleasure in teasing the good priest--in endeavouring to shock him a little. It was not easy to shock him; to his natural, easy good-nature he united an innate respect for grandeurs and for princesses. She did not neglect so good an opportunity to air her monkey-development theories. He merrily flung back the ball; he declared that he should prefer to be a fallen angel rather than a perfected monkey; that in his estimation a parvenu made a much sorrier figure in the world than the descendent of an old family of ruined nobility. She replied that she was more democratic than he. “It is pleasant to me,” said she, “to think that I am a progressive ape, who has a wide future before him, and who, by taking proper pains, may hope to attain new advancement.”
While they were thus chatting, Samuel Brohl was striving with all his might to recover from the terrible blow he had received. He noted with keen satisfaction that the eyesight of the princess was considerably impaired; that the microscopic studies, for which she had always had a taste, had resulted in rendering her somewhat near-sighted; that she was obliged to look out carefully to find her way among her wine-glasses. “She has not seen me for six years,” thought he, “and I have become a different man, I have undergone a complete metamorphosis; I have difficulty sometimes in recognising myself. Formerly, my face was close-shaven, now I have let my entire beard grow. My voice, my accent, the poise of my head, my manners, the expression of my countenance, all are changed; Poland has entered my blood--I am Samuel no longer, I am Larinski.” He blessed the microscope, which enfeebled the sight of old women; he blessed Count Abel Larinski, who had made of him his twin brother. Before the end of the repast he had recovered all his assurance, all his aplomb. He began to take part in the conversation: he recounted in a sorrowful tone a sorrowful little story; he retailed sundry playful anecdotes with a melancholy grace and sprightliness; he expressed the most chivalrous sentiments; shaking his lion’s mane, he spoke of the prisoner at the Vatican with tears in his voice. It were impossible to be a more thorough Larinski.
The princess manifested, in listening to him, an astonished curiosity; she concluded by saying to him: “Count, I admire you; but I believe only in physiology, and you are a little too much of a Pole for me.”
After they had left the table and repaired to the _salon_, several callers dropped in. It was like a deliverance to Samuel. If the society was not numerous enough for him to lose himself in it, at least it served him as a shield. He held it for a certainty that the princess had not recognised him; yet he did not cease feeling in her presence unutterably ill at ease. This Calmuck visage of hers recalled to him all the miseries, the shame, the hard, grinding slavery of his youth; he could not look at her without feeling his brow burn as though it were being seared with a hot iron.
He entered into conversation with a supercilious, haughty, and pedantic counsellor-at-law, whose interminable monologues distilled ennui. This fine speaker seemed charming to Samuel, who found in him wit, knowledge, scholarship, and taste; he possessed the (in his eyes) meritorious quality of not knowing Samuel Brohl. For Samuel had come to divide the human race into two categories: the first comprehended those well-to-do, thriving people who did not know a certain Brohl; he placed in the second old women who did know him. He interrogated the counsellor with deference, he hung upon his words, he smiled with an air of approbation at all the absurdities that escaped him; he would have been willing to have his discourse last three hours by the watch; if this charming bore had shown symptoms of escaping him, he would have held him back by the button.
Suddenly he heard a harsh voice, saying to Mme. de Lorcy: “Where is Count Larinski? Bring him to me; I want to have a discussion with him.”
He could not do otherwise than comply; he quitted his counsellor with regret, went over and took a seat in the arm-chair that Mme. de Lorcy drew up for him at the side of the princess, and which had for him the effect of a stool of repentance. Mme. de Lorcy moved away, and he was left _tete-a-tete_ with Princess Gulof, who said to him, “I have been told that congratulations are due to you, and I must make them at once--although we are enemies.”
“By what right are we enemies, princess?” he asked with a slightly troubled feeling, which quickly passed away as she answered: “I am a Russian and you are a Pole, but we shall have no time for fighting; I leave for London to-morrow morning at seven o’clock.”
He was on the point of casting himself at her feet and tenderly kissing her two hands, in testimony of his gratitude. “To-morrow at seven o’clock,” he mentally ejaculated. “I have slandered her; she has some good in her.”
“When I say that I am a Russian,” resumed the princess, “it is merely a formal speech. Love of country is a prejudice, an idea that has had its day, that had sense in the times of Epaminondas or of Theseus, but that has it no longer. We live in the age of the telegraph, the locomotive; and I know of nothing more absurd now than a frontier, or more ridiculous than a patriot. Rumour says that you fought like a hero in the insurrection of 1863; that you gave proof of incomparable prowess, and that you killed with your own hand ten Cossacks? What harm had they done you, those poor Cossacks? Do they not sometimes haunt your dreams? Can you think of your victims without disquietude and without remorse?”
He replied, in a dry, haughty tone: “I really do not know, princess, how many Cossacks I have killed; but I do know that there are some subjects on which I do not love to expatiate.”
“You are right--I should not comprehend you. Don Quixote did not do Sancho the honour to explain himself to him every day.”
“Ah, I beg of you, let us talk a little of the man-monkey,” he observed, in a rather more pliant tone than he had at first assumed. “That is a question that has the advantage of being neither Russian nor Polish.”
“You will not succeed that way in throwing me off the track. I mean to tell you all the evil I think of you, no matter how it may incense you. You uttered, at table, theories that displeased me. You are not only a Polish patriot; you are an idealist, a true disciple of Plato, and you do not know how I always have detested this man. In all these sixty years that I have been in this world, I have seen nothing but selfishness, and grasping after self-gratification. Twice during dinner you spoke of an ideal world. What is an ideal world? Where is it situated? You speak of it as of a house whose inhabitants you are well acquainted with, whose key is in your pocket. Can you show me the key? I promise not to steal it from you. O poet! --for you are quite as much of a poet as of a Pole, which is not saying much--” “Nothing remains but to hang me,” he interposed, smilingly.
“No, I shall not hang you. Opinions are free, and there is room enough in the world for all, even idealists. Besides, if you were to be hanged, it would bring to the verge of despair a charming girl who adores you, who was created expressly for you, and whom you will shortly marry. When will the ceremony take place?”
“If I dared hope that you would do me the honour of being present, princess, I should postpone it until your return from England.”
“You are too amiable; but I could not on any consideration retard the happiness of Mlle. Moriaz. There, my dear count, I congratulate you sincerely. I had the pleasure to meet here the future Countess Larinski. She is adorable! It is an exquisite nature, hers--a true poet’s wife. She must have brains, discernment; she has chosen you--that says everything. As to her fortune, I dare not ask you if she has any; you would turn away from me in disgust. Do idealists trouble their heads with such vile questions?”
She leaned towards him, and, fanning herself excitedly, added: “These poor idealists! they have one misfortune.”
“And what is that, princess?”
“They dream with open eyes, and the awakening is sometimes disagreeable. Ah, my dear Count Larinski, this, that, and the other, _et cetera_. Thus endeth the adventure.”
Then, stretching out her neck until her face was close to his, she darted at him a venomous, viper-like look, and, in a voice that seemed to cut into his tympanum like a sharp-toothed saw, she hissed, “Samuel Brohl, the man with the green eyes, sooner or later the mountains must meet!”
It seemed to him that the candelabra on the mantel-piece darted out jets of flame, whose green, blue, and rose-coloured tongues ascended to the ceiling; and it appeared to him as though his heart was beating as noisily as a clock-pendulum, and that every one would turn to inquire whence came the noise. But every one was occupied; no one turned round; no one suspected that there was a man present on whom a thunderbolt had just fallen.
The man passed his hand over his brow, which was covered with a cold sweat; then dispelling, by an effort of will, the cloud that veiled his eyes, he, in turn, leaned towards the princess, and with quivering lip and evil, sardonic glance, said to her, in a low voice: “Princess, I have a slight acquaintance with this Samuel Brohl of whom you speak. He is not a man who will allow himself to be strangled without a great deal of outcry. You are not much in the habit of writing, nevertheless he received from you two letters, which he copied, placing the originals in safety. If ever he sees the necessity of appearing in a court of justice, these two letters can be made to create quite a sensation, and unquestionably they will be the delight of all the petty journals of Paris.”
Thereupon he made a profound bow, respectfully took leave of Mme. de Lorcy, and retired, followed by Abbe Miollens, who inflicted a real torture by insisting on accompanying him to the station.
No longer restrained by Mme. de Lorcy’s presence, the abbe spoke freely of the happy event in which he prided himself to have been a co-operator; he overwhelmed him with congratulation, and all the good wishes he could possibly think of for his happiness. During a quarter of an hour he lavished on him his myrrh and honey. Samuel would gladly have wrung his neck. He could not breathe until the abbe had freed him from his obtrusive society.
A storm muttered in the almost cloudless sky. It was a dry storm; the rain fell elsewhere. The incessant lightning, accompanied by distant thunder, gleamed from all quarters of the horizon, and darted its luminous flashes over the whole extent of the plain. At intervals the hills seemed to be on fire. Several times Samuel, who stood with his nose against the glass of the car-door, thought that he saw in the direction of Cormeilles the flaring light of a conflagration, in which were blazing his dream and two millions, to say nothing of his great expectations.
He bitterly reproached himself for his folly of the previous day. “If I had passed yesterday evening with her,” he thought, “surely she would have spoken of the Princess Gulof. I would have taken measures accordingly, and nothing would have happened.” It was all M. Langis’s fault; it was to him that he imputed the disaster, and he hated him all the more.
However, as he approached Paris, he felt his courage returning.
“Those two letters frightened the old fairy,” he thought. “She will think twice before she declares war with me. No, she will not dare.” He added: “And if she dared, Antoinette loves me so much that I can make her believe what I please.”
And he prepared in his mind what he should say, in case the event occurred.
At that very moment Mme. de Lorcy, who was alone with Princess Gulof, was saying: “Well, my dear, you have talked with my man. What do you think of him?”
The princess distressed her by her reply. “I think, my dear,” she rejoined, “that Count Larinski is the last of the heroes of romance--or, if you like better, the last of the troubadours; but I have no reason to believe him to be an adventurer.”
Mme. de Lorcy could get nothing further from Princess Gulof; she had invited her to remain overnight; she got no pay for her hospitality. The princess spent part of the night in reflecting and deliberating. Samuel Brohl’s insolent menace had produced some effect. She sought to remember the exact purport of the two letters that formerly she had had the imprudence to write him from London, while he was fulfilling a business commission for her in Paris. On his return she had required Samuel to burn these two compromising epistles, in her presence; he had deceived her; he burned the envelopes and blank paper. The thought of some day having her composition quoted in court, and printed verbatim in the petty journals, terrified her, and made her blood boil in her veins; she hardly cared to take Paris and St. Petersburg into her confidence concerning an experience the recollection of which caused her disgust--but to let such an admirable opportunity of vengeance escape her! renounce the delight of the gods and of princesses! permit this man who had just defied her to accomplish his underhand intrigue! She could not resign herself to the idea, and the consequence was that, during the night she spent at Maisons, she scarcely closed her eyes.
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{
"id": "2470"
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The following day, after breakfast, Mlle. Moriaz was walking alone on the terrace. The weather was delightfully mild. She was bare-headed, and had opened her white silk umbrella to protect herself from the sun; for Samuel Brohl had been a true prophet--there was sunshine. She looked up at the sky, where no trace was left of the wind-storm of the preceding evening, and it seemed to her that she never had seen the sky so blue. She looked at her flower-beds, and the flowers that she saw were perhaps not there. She looked at the orchard, growing on the slope that bordered the terrace, and she admired the foliage of the apple-trees, over which Autumn, with liberal hand, had scattered gold and purple; the grass there was as high as her knee, and was fragrant and glossy. Above the apple-trees she saw the spire of the church at Cormeilles; it seemed to amuse itself watching the flying clouds. It was a high-festival day. The bells were ringing out a full peal; they spoke to this happy girl of that far-off, mysterious land which we remember, without ever having seen it. Their silvery voices were answered by the cheerful cackling of the hens. She at once understood that a joyful event was occurring in the poultry-yard, as well as in the belfry; that below, as well as above, an arrival was being celebrated. But what pleased her more than all the rest was the little deep-set gateway with its ivy-hung arch at the end of the orchard. It was through this gate that he would come.
She walked several times around the terrace. The gravel was elastic, and rebounded under her step. Never had Mlle. Moriaz felt so light: life, the present, the future, weighed no heavier on her brow than a bird in the hand that holds it and feels it tremble. Her heart fluttered like a bird; like a bird it had wings, and only asked to fly. She believed that there was happiness everywhere; there seemed to be joy diffused through the air, in the wind, in every sound, and in all silences. She gazed smilingly on the vast landscape that was spread out before her eyes, and the sparkling Seine sent back her smile.
Some one came to announce that a lady, a stranger, had called, who wished to speak with her. Immediately thereupon the stranger appeared, and Mlle. Moriaz was most disagreeably surprised to find herself in the presence of the Princess Gulof, whom she would willingly never have seen again. “This is an unpleasant visit,” she thought, as she asked her guest to be seated on a rustic bench. “What can this woman want with me?”
“It was M. Moriaz whom I desired to speak with,” began the princess. “I am told that he is out. I shall leave in a few hours for Calais; I cannot await his return, and I have, therefore, decided to address myself to you, mademoiselle. I have come here to render you one of those little services that one woman owes to another; but, first of all, I would like to be assured that I may rely on your absolute discretion; I do not desire to appear in this affair.”
“In what affair, madame?”
“One of no little consequence; it concerns your marriage.”
“You are extremely kind to concern yourself with my marriage; but I do not understand----” “You will understand in a few moments. So you promise me----” “I promise nothing, madame, before I understand.”
The princess looked in amazement at Mlle. Moriaz. She had anticipated talking with a dove; she found that the dove had a less accommodating temper and a much stiffer neck than she had believed. She hesitated for a moment whether she would not at once end the interview; she decided, however, to proceed: “I have a story to relate to you,” she continued, in a familiar tone; “listen with attention, I beg of you. I err if in the end you do not find it interesting. Thirteen or fourteen years ago, one of those unlucky chances, common in travelling, obliged me to pass several hours in a miserable little town in Galicia. The inn, or rather the tavern, where I stopped, was very dirty; the tavern-keeper, an ill-looking little German Jew, was still dirtier than his tavern, and he had a son who was in no better condition. I am given to forming illusions about people. In spite of his filth, this youth interested me. His stupid father refused him all instruction, and beat him unmercifully; he appeared intelligent; he made me think of a fresh-water fish condemned to live in a quagmire. He was called Samuel Brohl: remember the name. I pitied him and I saw no other way of saving him than to buy him of his father. This horrid little man demanded an exorbitant price. I assure you his pretensions were absurd. Well, my dear, I was out of cash; I had with me just the money sufficient for the expenses of the rest of the journey; but I wore on my arm a bracelet that had the advantage of pleasing him. It was a Persian trinket, more singular than beautiful. I can see it now; it was formed of three large plates of gold ornamented with grotesque animals, and joined by a filigree network. I valued this bracelet; it had been brought to me from Teheran. By means of a secret spring, one of the plates opened, and I had had engraved inside the most interesting dates of my life, and underneath them my profession of faith, with which you have no concern. Ah! my dear, when one has once been touched by that dangerous passion called philanthropy, one becomes capable of exchanging a Persian bracelet for a Samuel Brohl, and I swear to you that it was a real fool’s bargain that I made. This miserable fellow paid me badly for my kindness to him. I sent him to the university, and later I took him into my service as secretary. He had a black heart. One fine morning, he took to his heels and disappeared.”
“That was revolting ingratitude,” interrupted Antoinette, “and your good work, madame, was poorly recompensed; but I do not see what relation Samuel Brohl can have to my marriage.”
“You are too impatient, my darling. If you had given me time I would have told you that I had had the very unexpected pleasure of dining yesterday with him at Mme. de Lorcy’s. This German has made great advances since I lost sight of him; not content with becoming a Pole, he is now a person of vast importance. He is called Count Abel Larinski, and he is to marry very soon Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz.”
The blood rushed into Antoinette’s cheeks, and her eyes flashed fire. Princess Gulof entirely mistook the sentiment that animated her, and said: “My dear, don’t be angry, don’t be indignant, your indignation will not help you at all. Without doubt, a rascal capable of deceiving such a charming girl as you deserves death ten times over; but be careful not to make an exposure! My dear, scandal always splashes mud over every one concerned, and there is a rather vulgar but exceedingly sensible Turkish proverb that says that the more garlic is crushed, the stronger becomes its odour. Believe me, you would not come off without a tinge of ridicule; certain mistakes always appear a little ridiculous, and it is useless to proclaim them to the universe. Thank Heaven! you are not yet the Countess Larinski--I arrived in time to save you. Be silent about the discovery you have just made; by no means mention it to Samuel Brohl, and seek a proper pretext to break with him. You would not be a woman if you could not find ten for one.”
Mlle. Moriaz could no longer refrain her anger. “Madame,” she exclaimed excitedly, “will you declare to M. Larinski, in my presence, that his name is Samuel Brohl?”
“I made that declaration to him yesterday--it is useless to repeat it. He was nearer dead than alive, and I was truly sorry for the state into which I had thrown him. I cannot disguise from myself that I am the cause of all this; why did I take the boy from his father’s tavern and his natal mud? Perhaps there he would have remained honest. It was I who launched him into the world and gave him the desire to advance, I put the trump-cards into his hand, but he found that he could not win fast enough by fair play, so he ended by cheating. It is not my place to overwhelm the poor devil--we owe some consideration to those who are under obligations to us; and, once more, I desire not to appear further in this business. Promise me that Samuel Brohl never will be informed of the measures I have taken.”
She replied, in a haughty tone: “I promise you, madame, that I never will do Count Larinski the wrong to repeat to him a single word of the very likely story you have related to me.”
The princess rose hastily, remained standing before Mlle. Moriaz, and contemplated her in silence; finally she said, in tones of the most cutting sarcasm: “Ah! you do not believe me, my dear. Decidedly you do not believe me. You are right; you should not put faith in an old woman’s childish chatter. No, my darling, there is no Samuel Brohl: I dined yesterday at Maisons with the most authentic of Counts Larinski, and nothing remains for me to say but to present my best wishes for the certain happiness of the Countess Larinski, _et cetera_--of the Countess Larinski and company.”
With these words she bowed, turned on her heels, and disappeared.
Mlle. Moriaz remained an instant as if stunned by a blow. She questioned herself as to whether she had not seen a vision, or had had the nightmare. Was it, indeed, a Russian princess of flesh and blood who had just been there, who had been seated close beside her, and had conversed so strangely with her that the belfry of Cormeilles could not hear it without falling into a profound stupor? In fact, the belfry of Cormeilles had become silent, its bells no longer rang; an appalling silence reigned for two leagues round.
Antoinette soon controlled her emotions. “The day before yesterday,” she thought, “this woman appeared to me to be deranged: she is a lunatic; I wish that Abel were here, he could tell me what happened at dinner between him and this dotard, and we should laugh over it together. Perhaps nothing happened at all. The Princess Gulof should be confined. They do very wrong to let maniacs like that go at large. It is dangerous; the bells of Cormeilles have ceased ringing. Ah! _bon Dieu_, who knows? Mme. de Lorcy surely has a hand in this business; it is the result of some grand plot. How many acts are there in the play? Here we are at the second or third; but there are some jokes that are very provoking. I shall end by being seriously angry.”
Princess Gulof appeared to have entirely failed in her object. It seemed to Mlle. Moriaz that for the last twenty minutes she loved Count Larinski more than ever before.
The hour drew near; he was on the way; she had never been so impatient to see him. She saw some one at the end of the terrace. It was M. Camille Langis, who was going towards the laboratory.
He turned his head, retraced his steps, and came to her. M. Moriaz had asked him to translate two pages of a German memoir which he had not been able to understand. Camille was bringing the translation; perhaps that was the reason of his coming back to Cormeilles after two days; perhaps, too, it was only a pretext.
Mlle. Moriaz could not help thinking that his visit was inopportune; that he had chose an unfortunate time for it. “If the count finds him still here,” thought she, “I am not afraid that he will make a scene, but all his pleasure will be spoiled.” There was a tinge of coldness in her welcome to M. Langis, of which he was sensible.
“I am in the way,” he said, making a movement to retire.
She kept him, and altered her tone: “You are never in the way, Camille. Sit there.”
He seated himself, and talked of the races at Chantilly, that he had attended the day before.
She listened to him, bowed her head in sign of approval; but she heard his voice through a mist that veiled her senses. She lifted her hand to brush away a wasp that annoyed her by its buzzing. The lace of her cuff, in falling back, left her wrist exposed.
“What a curious bracelet you have!” said M. Langis.
“Have you not seen it before?” she replied. “It is some time since----” She interrupted herself, a sudden idea occurring to her. She looked at her wrist. This bracelet from which she never was parted--this bracelet that Count Larinski had given to her--this bracelet that he loved because it had belonged to his mother, and that the late Countess Larinski had worn as long as she lived--resembled none other; but Mlle. Moriaz observed that it had a strong resemblance to the Persian bracelet that the Princess Gulof had described to her, and which she had exchanged for Samuel Brohl. The three gold plates, the grotesque animals, the filigree network--nothing was wanting. She took it from her arm and handed it to M. Langis, saying to him: “There is, it seems, something written on the interior of one of these plates; but you must know the secret to be able to open it. Can you guess secrets?”
He carefully examined the bracelet. “Two of these plates,” said he, “are solid, and of heavy gold; the third is hollow, and might serve as a case. I see a little hinge that is almost invisible; but I seek in vain for the secret--I cannot find it.”
“Is the hinge strong?”
“Not very, and the lid easily could be forced open.”
“That is what I want you to do,” she rejoined.
“What are you thinking of? I would not spoil a trinket that you value.”
She replied: “I have made the acquaintance of a Russian princess who has a mania for physiology and dissection. I have caught the disease, and I want to begin to dissect. I am fond of this trinket, but I want to know what is inside. Do as I tell you,” she continued. “You will find in the laboratory the necessary instruments. Go; the key is in the door.”
He consulted her look; her eye was burning, her voice broken, and she repeated: “Go--go! Do you not understand me?”
He obeyed, went to the laboratory, taking the bracelet with him. After five minutes he returned saying: “I am very unskilful; I crushed the lid in raising it; but you wished it, and your curiosity will be satisfied.”
She could, in truth, satisfy her curiosity. She eagerly seized the bracelet, and on the back of the plate, now left bare, she saw engraved in the gold, characters almost microscopic in size. Through the greatest attention she succeeded in deciphering them. She distinguished several dates, marking the year, the month, and the day, when some important event had occurred to the Princess Gulof. These dates, accompanied by no indication of any kind, formerly sufficed to recall the principal experiments that she had practised on mankind before having discovered Samuel Brohl. The result had not been very cheerful, for beneath this form of calendar stood a confession of faith, thus expressed, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!” This melancholy declaration was signed, and the signature was perfectly legible. Mlle. Moriaz spelled it out readily, although at that moment her sight was dim, and she was convinced that the trinket, which Count Larinski had presented to her as a family relic, had belonged to Anna Petrovna, Princess Gulof.
She grew mortally pale, and lost consciousness; she seemed on the verge of an attack of delirium. In the agitation of her mind, she imagined that she saw herself at a great distance, at the end of the world, and very small; she was climbing a mountain, on the other side of which there was a man awaiting her. She questioned herself, “Am I, or is this traveller, Mlle. Moriaz?” She closed her eyes, and saw a blank abyss open before her, in which her life was ingulfed, whirled about, like the leaf of a tree in a whirlpool.
M. Langis drew near her, and, lightly slapping the palms of her hands, said, “What is the matter?”
She roused herself, made an effort to lift her head, and let it sink again. The trouble that lay in the depths of her heart choked her; she experienced an irresistible need of confiding in some one, and she judged that the man who was talking to her was one of those men to whom a woman can tell her secret, one of those souls to whom she could pour out her shame without blushing. She began, in a broken voice, a confused, disconnected recital that Camille could scarcely follow. However, he finally understood; he felt himself divided between an immense pity for her despair, and a fierce lover’s joy that tightened his throat and well-nigh strangled him.
The belfry of Cormeilles had recovered its voice; two o’clock rang out on the air. Antoinette rose and exclaimed: “I was to meet him at the pretty little gate that you see from here! He will have the right to be angry if I keep him waiting.”
At once she hastened towards the balustered steps that led from the terrace to the orchard. M. Langis followed her, seeking to detain her. “You need not see him again,” said he. “I will meet him. Pray, charge me with your explanations.”
She repelled him and replied, in a voice of authority: “I wish to see him, no one but I can say to him what I have in my heart. I command you to remain here; I intend that he shall blame no one but me.” She added with a curl of the lips meant for a smile: “You must remember, I do not believe yet that I have been deceived; I will not believe it until I have read the lie in his eyes.”
She hastily descended into the orchard, and, during five minutes, her eye fixed on the gate, she waited for Samuel Brohl. Her impatience counted the seconds, and yet Mlle. Moriaz could have wished the gate would never open. There was near by an old apple-tree that she loved; in the old days she had more than once suspended her hammock from one of its arched and drooping branches. She leaned against the gnarled trunk of the old tree. It seemed to her that she was not alone; some one protected her.
At last the gate opened and admitted Samuel Brohl, who had a smile on his lips. His first words were: “And your umbrella! You have forgotten it?”
She replied: “Do you not see that there is no sunshine?” And she remained leaning against the apple-tree.
He uplifted his hand to show her the blue sky; he let it fall again. He looked at Antoinette, and he was afraid. He guessed immediately that she knew all. At once he grew audacious.
“I spent a dull day yesterday,” said he. “Mme. de Lorcy invited me to dine with a crazy woman; but the night made up for it. I saw Engadine in my dreams--the firs, the Alpine pines, the emerald lakes, and a red hood.”
“I, too, dreamed last night. I dreamed that the bracelet you gave me belonged to the crazy woman of whom you speak, and that she had her name engraved on it.”
She threw him the bracelet: he picked it up, examined it, turned and returned it in his trembling fingers. She grew impatient. “Look at the place that has been forced open. Don’t you know how to read?”
He read, and became stupefied. Who would have believed that this trinket that he had found among his father’s old traps had come to him from Princess Gulof? that it was the price she had paid for Samuel Brohl’s ignominy and shame? Samuel was a fatalist; he felt that his star had set, that Fate had conspired to ruin his hopes, that he was found guilty and condemned. His heart grew heavy within him.
“Can you tell me what I ought to think of a certain Samuel Brohl?” she asked.
That name, pronounced by her, fell on him like a mass of lead; he never would have believed that there could be so much weight in a human word. He trembled under the blow; then he struck his brow with his clinched hand and replied: “Samuel Brohl is a man as worthy of your pity as he is of mine. If you knew all that he has suffered, all that he has dared, you could not help deeply pitying him and admiring him. Listen to me; Samuel Brohl is an unfortunate man--” “Or a wretch!” she interrupted, in a terrible voice. She was seized by a fit of nervous laughter; she cried out: “Mme. Brohl! I will not be called Mme. Brohl. Ah! that poor Countess Larinski!”
He had a spasm of rage that would have terrified her had she conjectured what agitated him. He raised his head, crossed his arms on his breast, and said, with a bitter smile: “It was not the man that you loved, it was the count.”
She replied, “The man whom I loved never lied.”
“Yes, I lied!” he cried, gasping for breath. “I drank that cup of shame without remorse or disgust. I lied because I loved you madly. I lied because you were dearer to me than my honour. I lied because I despaired of touching your heart, and any road seemed good that led to you. Why did I meet you? why could I not see you without recognising in you the dream of my whole life? Happiness had passed me by, it was about to take flight; I caught it in a trap--I lied. Who would not lie, to be loved by you?”
Samuel Brohl never had looked so handsome. Despair and passion kindled a sombre flame in his eyes; he had the sinister charm of a fiery Satan. He fixed on Antoinette a fascinating glance that said: “What matter my name, my lies, and the rest? My face is not a mask, and I am the man who pleased you.” He had not the least suspicion of the astonishing facility with which Antoinette had taken back the heart that she had given away so easily; he did not suspect that miracles can be wrought by contempt. In the middle ages people believed in golems, figures in clay of an entrancing beauty, which had all the appearance of life. Under a lock of hair was written, in Hebrew characters, on their brow, the word “Truth.” If they chanced to lie, the word was obliterated; they lost all their charm, the clay was no longer anything but clay.
Mlle. Moriaz divined Samuel Brohl’s thought; she exclaimed: “The man I loved was he whose history you related to me.”
He would have liked to kill her, so that she never should belong to another. Behind Antoinette, not twenty steps distant, he descried the curb of a well, and grew dizzy at the sight. He discovered, with despair, that he was not made of the stuff for crime. He dropped down on his knees in the grass, and cried, “If you will not pardon me, nothing remains for me but to die!” She stood motionless and impassive. She repeated between her teeth Camille Langis’s phrase: “I am waiting until this great comedian has finished playing his piece.”
He rose and started to run towards the well. She was in front of him and barred the passage, but at the same moment she felt two hands clasp her waist, and the breath of two lips that sought her lips and that murmured, “You love me still, since you do not want me to die.”
She struggled with violence and horror; she succeeded, by a frantic effort, in disengaging herself from his grasp. She fled towards the house. Samuel Brohl rushed after her in mad pursuit; he was just reaching her, when he suddenly stopped. He had caught sight of M. Langis, hurrying from out a thicket, where he had been hidden. Growing uneasy, he had approached the orchard through a path concealed by the heavy foliage. Antoinette, out of breath, ran to him, gasping, “Camille, save me from this man!” and she threw herself into his arms, which closed about her with delight. He felt her sink; she would have fallen had he not supported her.
At the same instant a menacing voice saluted him with the words, “Monsieur, we will meet again!”
“To-day, if you will,” he replied.
Antoinette’s wild excitement had given place to insensibility; she neither saw nor heard; her limbs no longer sustained her. Camille had great difficulty in bringing her to the house; she could not ascend the steps of the terrace; he was obliged to carry her. Mlle. Moiseney saw him, and filled the air with her cries. She ran forward, she lavished her best care on her queen. All the time she was busy in bringing her to her senses she was asking Camille for explanations, to which she did not pay the least attention; she interrupted him at every word to exclaim: “This has been designed, and you are at the bottom of the plot. I have suspected you--you owe Antoinette a grudge. Your wounded vanity never has recovered from her refusal, and you are determined to be revenged. Perhaps you flatter yourself that she will end by loving you. She does not love you, and she never will love you. Who are you, to dare compare yourself with Count Larinski? Be silent! Do I believe in Samuel Brohl? I do not know Samuel Brohl. I venture my head that there is no such person as Samuel Brohl.”
“Not much of a venture, mademoiselle,” replied M. Moriaz, who had arrived in the meantime.
Antoinette remained during an hour in a state of mute languor; then a violent fever took possession of her. When the physician who had been sent for arrived, M. Langis accompanied him into the chamber of the sick girl. She was delirious: seated upright, she kept continually passing her hand over her brow; she sought to efface the taint of a kiss she had received one moonlight night, and the impression in her hair of the flapping of a bat’s wings that had caught in her hood. These two things were confounded in her memory. From time to time she said: “Where is my portrait? Give me my portrait.”
It was about ten o’clock when M. Langis called on Samuel Brohl, who was not astonished to see him appear; he had hoped he would come. Samuel had regained self-possession. He was calm and dignified. However, the tempest through which he had gone had left on his features some vestige of its passage. His lips quivered, and his beautiful chestnut locks curled like serpents about his temples, and gave his head a Medusa-like appearance.
He said to Camille: “Where and when? Our seconds will undertake the arrangement of the rest.”
“You mistake, monsieur, the motive of my visit,” replied M. Langis. “I am grieved to destroy your illusions, but I did not come to arrange a meeting with you.”
“Do you refuse to give me satisfaction?”
“What satisfaction do I owe you?”
“You insulted me.”
“When?”
“And you said: ‘The day, the place, the weapons. I leave all to your choice. ’” M. Langis could not refrain from smiling. “Ah! you at last acknowledge that your fainting-fit was comedy?” he rejoined.
“Acknowledge on your part,” replied Samuel, “that you insult persons when you believe that they are not in a state to hear you. Your courage likes to take the safe side.”
“Be reasonable,” replied Camille. “I placed myself at Count Larinski’s disposal: you cannot require me to fight with a Samuel Brohl!”
Samuel sprang to his feet; with fierce bearing and head erect he advanced to the young man, who awaited him unflinchingly, and whose resolute manner awed him. He cast upon him a sinister look, turned, and reseated himself, bit his lips until the blood came; then said in a placid voice: “Will you do me the favour of telling me, monsieur, to what I owe the honour of this visit?”
“I came to demand of you a portrait that Mlle. Moriaz is desirous of having returned.”
“If I refuse to give it up, you will doubtless appeal to my delicacy?”
“Do you doubt it?” ironically replied Camille.
“That proves, monsieur, that you still believe in Count Larinski; that it is to him you speak at this moment?”
“You deceive yourself. I came to see Samuel Brohl, who is a business-man, and it is a commercial transaction that I intend to hold with him.” And drawing from his pocket a porte-monnaie, he added: “You see I do not come empty-handed.”
Samuel settled himself in his arm-chair. Half closing his eyes, he watched M. Langis through his eye-lashes. A change passed over his features; his nose became more crooked, and his chin more pointed; he no longer resembled a lion, he was a fox. His lips wore the sugared smile of a usurer, one who lays snares for the sons of wealthy families, and who scents out every favourable case. If at this moment Jeremiah Brohl had seen him from the other world, he would have recognised his own flesh and blood.
He said at last to Camille: “You are a man of understanding, monsieur; I am ready to listen to you.”
“I am very glad of it, and, to speak frankly, I had no doubts about it. I knew you to be very intelligent, very much disposed to make the best of an unpleasant conjuncture.”
“Ah! spare my modesty. I thank you for your excellent opinion of me; I should warn you that I am accused of being greedy after gain. You will leave some of the feathers from your wings between my fingers.”
For a reply M. Langis significantly patted the porte-monnaie which he held in his hand, and which was literally stuffed with bank-notes. Immediately Samuel took from a locked drawer a casket, and proceeded to open it.
“This is a very precious gem,” he said. “The medallion is gold, and the work on the miniature is exquisite. It is a master-piece--the colour equals the design. The mouth is marvellously rendered. Mengs or Liotard could not have done better. At what do you value this work of art?”
“You are more of a connoisseur than I. I will leave it to your own valuation.”
“I will let you have the trinket for five thousand francs; it is almost nothing.”
Camille began to draw out the five thousand francs from his porte-monnaie. “How prompt you are!” remarked Samuel. “The portrait has not only a value as a work of art; I am sure you attach a sentimental value to it, for I suspect you of being head and ears in love with the original.”
“I find you too greedy,” replied Camille, casting on him a crushing glance.
“Do not be angry. I am accustomed to exercise methodical precision in business affairs. My father always sold at a fixed price, and I, too, never lower my charges. You will readily understand that what is worth five thousand francs to a friend is worth double to a lover. This gem is worth ten thousand francs. You can take it or leave it.”
“I will take it,” replied M. Langis.
“Since we agree,” continued Samuel, “I possess still other articles which might suit you.”
“Why, do you think of selling me your clothing?”
“Let us come to an understanding. I have other articles of the same lot.”
And he brought from a closet the red hood, which he spread out on the table.
“Here is an article of clothing--to use your own words--that may be of interest to you. Its colour is beautiful; if you saw it in the sunshine, it would dazzle you. I grant that the stuff is common--it is very ordinary cashmere--but if you deign to examine it closely, you will be struck by the peculiar perfume that it exhales. The Italians call it ‘_l’odor femminino_. ’” “And what is your rate of charge for the ‘_odor femminino_? ’” “I will be moderate. I will let you have this article and its perfume for five thousand francs. It is actually giving it away.”
“Assuredly. We will say ten and five--that makes fifteen thousand.”
“One moment. You can pay for all together. I have other things to offer you. One would say that the floor burned your feet, and that you could not endure being in this room.”
“I allow that I long to leave this--what shall I say? --this shop, lair, or den.”
“You are young, monsieur; it never does to hurry; haste causes us acts of forgetfulness that we afterwards regret. You would be sorry not to take away with you these two scraps of paper.”
At these words he drew from his note-book two letters, which he unfolded.
“Is there much more?” demanded Camille. “I fear that I shall become short of funds, and be obliged to go back for more.”
“Ah! these two letters, I will not part with them for a trifle, the second especially. It is only twelve lines in length; but what pretty English handwriting! Only see! and the style is loving and tender. I will add that it is signed. Ah! monsieur, Mlle. Moriaz will be charmed to see these scrawls again. Under what obligations she will be to you! You will make the most of it; you will tell her that you wrested them from me, your dagger at my throat--that you terrified me. With what a gracious smile she will reward your heroism! According to my opinion, that smile is as well worth ten thousand francs as the medallion--the two gems are of equal value.”
“If you want more, it makes no difference.”
“No, monsieur; I have told you I have only one price.”
“At this rate, it is twenty-five thousand francs that I owe you. You have nothing more to sell me?”
“Alas! that is all.”
“Will you swear it?”
“What, monsieur! you admit, then, that Samuel Brohl has a word of honour--that when he has sworn, he can be believed?”
“You are right; I am still very young.”
“That is all, then, I swear to you,” affirmed Samuel, sighing. “My shop is poorly stocked; I had begun laying in a supply, but an unfortunate accident deranged my little business.”
“Bah! be consoled,” replied M. Langis; “you will find another opportunity; a genius of such lofty flights as yours never is at a loss. You have been unfortunate; some day Fortune will compensate you for the wrongs she has done you, and the world will accord justice to your fine talents.”
Speaking thus, he laid on the table twenty-five notes of a thousand francs each. He counted them; Samuel counted them after him, and at once delivered to him the medallion, the hood, and the two letters.
Camille rose to leave. “Monsieur Brohl,” he said, “from the first day I saw you, I formed the highest opinion of your character. The reality surpasses my expectations. I am charmed to have made your acquaintance, and I venture to hope that you are not sorry to have made mine. However, I shall not say, _au revoir_.”
“Who knows?” replied Samuel, suddenly changing his countenance and attitude. And he added, “If you are fond of being astonished, monsieur, will you remain still another instant in this den?”
He rolled and twisted the twenty-five one-thousand-franc notes into lamp-lighters; then, with a grand gesture, _a la Poniatowski_, he approached the candle, held them in the flame until they blazed, and then threw them on the hearth, where they were soon consumed.
Turning towards M. Langis, he cried, “Will you now do me the honour of fighting with me?”
“After such a noble act as that, I can refuse you nothing,” returned Camille. “I will do you that signal honour.”
“Just what I desire,” replied Samuel. “I am the offended; I have the choice of arms.” And, in showing M. Langis out, he said, “I will not conceal from you that I have frequented the shooting-galleries, and that I am a first-class pistol-shot.”
Camille bowed and went out.
The next day, in a lucid interval, Mlle. Moriaz saw at the foot of her bed a medallion laid on a red hood. From that moment the physician announced an improvement in her symptoms.
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{
"id": "2470"
}
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12
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Six days after these events, Samuel Brohl, having passed through Namur and Liege without stopping at either place, arrived by rail at Aix-la-Chapelle. He went directly to the Hotel Royal, close to the railroad-station; he ordered a hearty dinner to be served him, which he washed down with foaming champagne. He had an excellent appetite; his soul kept holiday; his heart was expanded, inflated with joy, and his brain intoxicated. He had revenged himself; he had meted out justice to that insolent fellow, his rival. Mlle. Moriaz did not belong to Samuel Brohl, but she never would belong to Camille Langis. Near the Franco-Belgian frontier, on the verge of a forest, a man had been shot in the breast; Samuel Brohl had seen him fall; and some one had cried, “He is dead!” It is asserted that Aix-la-Chapelle is a very dull city, that the very dogs suffer so sadly from ennui that they piteously beg passers-by to kick them, with a view to having a little excitement. Samuel never felt one moment’s ennui during the evening that he spent in Charlemagne’s city. He had constantly in mind a certain spot in a forest, and a man falling; and he experienced a thrill of delight.
After the champagne, he drank punch, an after that he slept like a dormouse; unfortunately, sleep dissipated his exhilaration, and when he awoke his gaiety had left him. He had the fatal custom of reflecting; his reflections saddened him; he was revenged, but what then? He thought for a long while of Mlle. Moriaz; he gazed with melancholy eye at his two hands, which had allowed her and good fortune to elude their grasp.
He recited in a low voice some German verses, signifying: “I have resolved to bury my songs and my dreams; bring me a large coffin. Why is this coffin so heavy? Because in it with my dreams I have laid away my love and my sorrows.”
When he had recited these verses Samuel felt sadder than before, and he cursed the poets. “They did me great harm,” he said, bitterly. “Without them I had spent days interwoven with gold and silk. My future was secure: it was they who gave me a distaste for my position. I believed in them; I was the dupe of their hollow declamation; they taught me thoughtless contempt, and they gave me the sickly ambition to play the silly part of a man of fine sentiments. I despised the mud. Where am I now?”
He had formed the project of going to Holland and of embarking thence for America. What would he do in the United States? He did not know yet. He passed in review all the professions that at all suited him; they all required an outlay for first expenses. Thanks to God and to M. Guldenthal, whose loan was in the greatest danger, he was not destitute of all supplies. But a week previous he had held into the flames and burned twenty-five one-thousand-franc bills of the Bank of France. He felt some remorse for the act; he could not help thinking that a revenge that cost twenty-five thousand francs was an article of luxury of which poor devils should deprive themselves. In thinking over this adventure, it seemed to him that it was another than himself who had burned those bills, or at least that he had mechanically executed this _auto-da-fe_ through a sort of thoughtless impulse, like a puppet moved by an invisible string. Suddenly the phantom with whom he had had frequent conversations appeared, and there was a sneer on its lips. Samuel addressed it once more--this was to be the last time; he said: “Imbecile! You are my evil genius. It was you who caused me to commit this extravagance. You yourself lighted the candle, you put the bills into my hands, you guided my arm, extended it, held it above the fatal flame. This act of supreme heroism was your work; it is not I, it is you, who paid so dearly for the pleasure of astonishing one who wantonly insulted me, and of killing him. Cursed forever be the day when I assumed your name, and when I conceived the foolish notion of becoming your second self! I made myself a Pole: did Poland ever have the least idea of government? You of all men were the most incapable of making your way; I aped a poor model indeed. Abel Larinski, I break off all connection with you; I wind up the affairs of our firm, I put the key under the door, or drop it down the well. O my great Pole! I return to you your title, your name, and with your name all that you gave me--your pride, your pretensions, your dangerous delicacy, your attitudes, your sentimental grimaces, and your waving plume.”
It was thus that Samuel Brohl took a decisive farewell of Count Abel Larinski, who might henceforth rest quietly in his grave; there was no further danger of a dead man being compromised by a living one. What name did Samuel Brohl mean now to assume? Out of spite to his destiny, he chose for the time the humblest of all; he decided to call himself Kicks, which was his mother’s name.
His melancholy would have known no bounds, had he suspected that Camille Langis was still in the world. Camille Langis for two weeks lay between life and death, but the ball had finally been successfully extracted. Mme. de Lorcy hastened to Mons and nursed him like a mother; she had the joy of bringing him back alive to Paris.
Care was taken that no mention of the duel should be made to Mlle. Moriaz, and not a word concerning it reached her; her condition for a long time caused the gravest anxiety. After she became convalescent she remained sunk in a gloomy, taciturn sadness. She never made the least allusion to what had passed, and would not permit any one to speak of it to her. She had been deceived, and a mortification, mingled with dread, was the result of her mistake. It seemed to her that nothing remained in life for her but remembrance and silence.
Towards the end of November, M. Moriaz proposed to her that they should return to Paris. She expressed her desire not to leave Cormeilles--to pass the winter in solitude; the human face terrified her. M. Moriaz tried to represent to her that she was unreasonable.
“Will you wear eternal mourning for a stranger?” he asked; “for, in reality, the man that you loved you never saw. Ah! _mon Dieu_, you deceived, you deluded yourself. Is there, I will not say a single woman, but a single member of the Institute, who has not once been grossly imposed on? It is through the means of failures in experiments that science progresses.”
And he rose to still higher considerations; he endeavoured to prove to her that, if it is bad to have erred, an excessive fear of erring is a still worse evil, because it is better to lose one’s way than not to walk at all.
When he had finished his harangue, she said, shaking her head, “I have no longer faith in any one.”
“What! not even in the brave fellow to whom you owe the recovery of your portrait and your letters?”
“Of whom do you speak?” she exclaimed.
Then he declared to her how M. Langis had effected the descent into the den, without telling her what had resulted therefrom.
“Ah! that was kind, very kind,” she said. “I never doubted that Camille was a true friend.”
“A friend? Are you very sure that it is only friendship that he feels for you?”
Whereupon M. Moriaz told her all the rest. She grew pensive and sank into a reverie. Suddenly the door of the _salon_ opened, and Camille entered. After inquiring after her health, he informed her that in consequence of a cold he, too, had been sick; and, as he was now free from business engagements, his physician was sending him to pass the winter in Sorrento.
She replied: “That is a journey that I would like to make. Will you take me with you?”
She gazed fixedly at him; there was everything in her gaze. He bent his knee before her, and for some moments they remained hand-in-hand, and eye to eye. In the midst of this, Mlle. Moiseney appeared, who, at sight of this _tableau vivant_, stood perfectly confounded.
“You are very much astonished, mademoiselle,” said M. Moriaz to her.
“Not so much as you fancy, monsieur,” replied she, recovering herself. “I did not dare to say it, but in my heart I always believed, always thought--Yes, I always was sure that it would end thus.”
“God bless Pope Joan!” he cried; “I shall cease to correct her.”
We have failed to learn what Samuel Brohl is doing in America. In waiting for something better, has he become an humble teacher? has he attempted a new matrimonial enterprise? has he become a reporter of the _New York Herald_, or a politician in one of the Northern States, or a carpet-bagger in South Carolina? does he dream of being some day President of the glorious republic with the starry banner?
Up to the present time, no American journal has devoted the shortest paragraph to him. Adventurers are beings who constantly vanish and reappear; they belong to the family of divers; but, after many plunges, they always end by some catastrophe. The wave supports the drowning man an instant, then bears him away and drags him down to the depths of the briny abyss; there is heard a splash, a ripple, a hoarse cry, followed by a smothered groan, and Samuel Brohl is no more! For some days the question is agitated whether his real name is Brohl, Kicks, or Larinski; soon something else is talked about, and his memory becomes a prey to eternal silence.
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{
"id": "2470"
}
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1
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~ “CHINKIE'S FLAT”
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“Chinkie's Flat,” In its decadence, was generally spoken of, by the passing traveller, as a “God-forsaken hole,” and it certainly did present a repellent appearance when seen for the first time, gasping under the torrid rays of a North Queensland sun, which had dried up every green thing except the silver-leaved ironbarks, and the long, sinuous line of she-oaks which denoted the course of Connolly's Creek on which it stood.
“The township” was one of the usual Queensland mining type, a dozen or so of bark-roofed humpies, a public-house with the title of “The Digger's Best,” a blacksmith's forge, and a quartz-crushing battery.
The battery at Chinkie's Flat stood apart from the “township” on a little rise overlooking the yellow sands of Connolly's Creek, from whence it derived its water supply--when there happened to be any water in that part of the creek. The building which covered the antiquated five-stamper battery, boiler, engine, and tanks, was merely a huge roof of bark supported on untrimmed posts of brigalow and swamp gum, but rude as was the structure, the miners at Chinkie's Flat, and other camps in the vicinity, had once been distinctly proud of their battery, which possessed the high-sounding title of “The Ever Victorious,” and had achieved fame by having in the “good times” of the Flat yielded a certain Peter Finnerty two thousand ounces of gold from a hundred tons of alluvial. The then owner of the battery was an intelligent, but bibulous ex-marine engineer, who had served with Gordon in China, and when he erected the structure he formally christened it “The Ever Victorious,” in memory of Gordon's army, which stamped out the Taeping rebellion.
The first crushing put through was Finnerty's, and when the “clean-up” was over, and the hundreds of silvery balls of amalgam placed in the retorts turned out over one hundred and sixty-six pounds' weight of bright yellow gold, Chinkie's Flat went wild with excitement and spirituous refreshment.
In less than three months there were over five hundred diggers on the field, and the “Ever Victorious” banged and pounded away night and day, the rattle and clang of the stamps only ceasing at midnight on Saturday, and remaining silent till midnight on Sunday, the Sabbath being devoted “to cleaning-up,” retorting the amalgam, and overhauling and repairing the machinery, and for relaxation, organising riding parties of twenty or thirty, and chasing Chinamen, of whom there were over three hundred within a radius of twenty miles.
The rich alluvial of Chinkie's Flat had, as a matter of fact, been first discovered by a number of Chinese diggers, who were each getting from five to ten ounces of gold per day, when they were discovered by the aforesaid Peter Finnerty, who was out prospecting with a couple of mates. Their indignation that a lot of heathen “Chows” should be scooping up gold so easily, while they, Christians and legitimate miners, should be toiling over the barren ridges day after day without striking anything, was so great that for the moment, as they sat on their horses and viewed the swarming Chinese working their cradles on the bank of the creek, the power of speech deserted them. Hastily turning their tired horses' heads, they rode as hard as they could to the nearest mining camp, and on the following day thirty hairy-faced foreign-devils came charging into the Chinese camp, uttering fearful threats, and shooting right and left (with blank cartridges). The Chinese broke and fled, and in half an hour each of the thirty men had pegged out a claim, and Chinkie's Flat became famous as one of the richest, though smallest, alluvial diggings in the Far North.
Three months after the “discovery” of the field by Mr. Peter Finnerty, old “Taeping,” as Gordon's ex-marine engineer had been promptly nicknamed, arrived with his crushing battery, and then indeed were halcyon days for the Flat. From early morn till long past midnight, the little bar of the “Digger's Best” was crowded with diggers, packhorsemen and teamsters; a police trooper arrived and fixed his tent on the ridge overlooking the creek, and then--the very zenith of prosperity--a bank official followed, and a stately building, composed of a dozen sheets of bark for a roof, and floor sacks for the sides, was erected and opened for business on the same day, amid much rejoicing and a large amount of liquid refreshment dispensed by the landlord of the “hotel” at a shilling per nobbler.
For six months longer all went well: more alluvial patches were discovered in the surrounding country, and then several rich reefs were found a mile away from the Flat, and every day new men arrived from Cooktown to the north, and Brisbane, Sydney, and far New Zealand to the south. Three new “hotels” sprang up; the police force was increased by another trooper and two black trackers, who rode superciliously around the camp, carbines on thighs, in their dark blue uniforms with scarlet facings, and condescended to drink with even the humblest white man; and then came the added glory of the “Chinkie's Flat Gold Escort”--when a police van with an Irish sergeant, two white troopers, and eight black police rattled through the camp, and pulled up at the bank, which now had a corrugated iron roof, a proper door, and two windows, and (the manager's own private property) a tin shower bath suspended by a cord under the verandah, a seltzogene, and a hen with seven chickens. The manager himself was a young sporting gentleman of parts, and his efforts to provide Sunday recreation for his clients were duly appreciated--he was secretary of the Chinkie's Flat Racing Club (meeting every alternate Sunday), and he and old “Taeping” between them owned a dozen of kangaroo dogs, which lived on the community generally, and afforded much exciting sport every Saturday, either in hunting kangaroos or Chinamen, both of which were plentiful in the vicinity.
For although Peter Finnerty and his party had succeeded in driving away the heathen from the Flat itself, the continued further discoveries of rich alluvial had brought them swarming into the district from all the other gold-fields in the colony in such numbers that it was impossible to keep the almond-eyed mining locusts out, especially as the Government was disposed to give them a measure of protection--not from any unnatural sentiment, but purely because they were revenue producers, and the Government badly wanted money. Then, too, their camps were so large, and so many of them were armed, and disposed to fight when in a corner, that the breaking up of a “Chows' Camp” became more and more difficult, and in the end the white diggers had to be content with surprising outlying prospecting parties, chasing them with kangaroo dogs back to their main camp, and burning their huts and mining gear, after first making a careful search for gold, concealed under the earthen floor, or among their ill-smelling personal effects. Sometimes they were rewarded, sometimes not, but in either case they were satisfied that they were doing their duty to Queensland and themselves by harrying the heathen who raged so furiously, and were robbing the country of its gold.
Then, after old “Taeping” had succumbed to too much “Digger's Rest,” and Finnerty--now Peter Grattan Finnerty, Esq., Member of the Legislative Assembly of Queensland--had left the Flat and become the champion of the “struggling white miner” in the House at a salary of £300 a year, came bad times, for the alluvial became worked out; and in parties of twos and threes the old hands began to leave, heading westward across the arid desert towards the Gilbert and the Etheridge Rivers, dying of thirst or under the spears of the blacks by the way, but ever heedless of what was before when the allurements and potentialities of a new field lay beyond the shimmering haze of the sandy horizon.
Then, as the miners left, the few “cockatoo” settlers followed them, or shifted in nearer to the town on the sea-coast with their horse and bullock teams, and an ominous silence began to fall upon the Flat when the tinkle of the cattle bells no longer was heard among the dark fringe of sighing she-oaks bordering the creek. As day by day the quietude deepened, the parrots and pheasants and squatter pigeons flew in and about the Leichhardt trees at the foot of the bluff, and wild duck at dusk came splashing into the battery dam, for there was now no one who cared to shoot them; the merry-faced, rollicking, horse-racing young bank manager and his baying pack of gaunt kangaroo dogs had vanished with the rest; and then came the day when but eight men remained--seven being old hands, and the eighth a stranger, who, with a blackboy, had arrived the previous evening.
And had it not been for the coming of the stranger, Chinkie's Flat would, in a few weeks, have been left to solitude, and reported to the Gold-fields Warden as “abandoned and duffered out.”
|
{
"id": "24805"
}
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2
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~ GRAINGER MAKES A “DEAL”
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Three years before Edward Grainger had been the leader of a small prospecting party which had done fairly well on the rivers debouching into the Gulf of Carpentaria from the western side of Cape York Peninsula. He was an Englishman, his mates were all Australian-born, vigorous, sturdy bushmen, inured to privation and hardship, and possessing unbounded confidence in their leader, though he was by no means the oldest man of the party, and not a “native.” But Grainger had had great experience as an explorer and prospector, for he had been compelled to begin the battle of life when but a lad of fifteen. His father, once a fairly wealthy squatter in the colony of Victoria, was ruined by successive droughts, and died leaving his station deeply mortgaged to the bank, which promptly foreclosed, and Mrs. Grainger found herself and two daughters dependent upon her only son, a boy of fifteen, for a living. He, however, was equal to the occasion. Leaving his mother and sisters in lodgings in Melbourne, he made his way to New South Wales with a mob of travelling cattle, earning his pound a week and rations. At Sydney he worked on the wharves as a lumper, and then joined in the wild rush to the famous Tambaroora diggings, and was fortunate enough to meet with remunerative employment, and from then began his mining experiences, which in the course of the following ten years took him nearly all over the Australian colonies, New Zealand, and Tasmania. Never making much money, and never very “hard up,” he had always managed to provide for his mother and sisters; and when he formed his prospecting party to Cape York and sailed from Brisbane, he knew that they would not suffer from any financial straits for at least two years.
For nearly three years he and his party wandered from one river to another along the torrid shores of the great gulf, sometimes doing well, sometimes not getting enough gold to pay for the food they ate, but always, always hopeful of the day when they would “strike it rich.” Then came misfortune--sharp and sudden.
Camped on the Batavia River during the wet season, the whole party of five sickened with malaria, and found themselves unable to move to the high land at the head of the river owing to all their horses having died from eating “poison plant.” Too weak to travel by land, they determined to build a raft and reach the mouth of the river, where there was a small cattle station. Here they intended to remain till the end of the rains, buy fresh horses and provisions, and return and prospect some of the deep gullies and watercourses at the head of the Batavia River.
Scarcely had they completed the raft, and loaded it with their effects, when they were rushed by a mob of blacks, and in a few seconds two of the five were gasping out their lives from spear wounds, and all the others were wounded. Fortunately for the survivors, Grainger had his revolver in his belt, and this saved them, for he at once opened fire on the savages, whilst the other men worked the raft out into the middle of the stream, where they were out of danger from spears and able to use their rifles.
After a terrible voyage of three days, and suffering both from their wounds and the bone-racking agonies of fever, they at last reached the cattle station, where they were kindly received in the rough, hospitable fashion common to all pioneers in Australia. But, when at the end of a month one of Grainger's mates died of his wounds, and the other bade him goodbye and went off in a pearling lugger to Thursday Island, the leader sickened of Cape York Peninsula, and turned his face southwards once more, in the hope that fortune would be more kind to him on the new rushes at the Cloncurry, seven hundred miles away. From the station owner he bought six horses, and with but one black-boy for a companion, started off on his long, long journey through country which for the most part had not yet been traversed even by the explorer.
Travelling slowly, prospecting as he went, and adding a few ounces of gold here and there to the little bag he carried in his saddle-pouch, quite three months passed ere he and the black boy reached the Cloncurry. Here, however, he found nothing to tempt him--the field was overcrowded, and every day brought fresh arrivals, and so, after a week's spell, he once more set out, this time to the eastward towards the alluvial fields near the Burdekin River, of which he had heard.
It was at the close of a long day's ride over grassless, sun-smitten country, that he came in sight of Chinkie's Flat, and the welcome green of the she-oaks fringing Connolly's Creek and soughing to the wind. The quietness and verdancy of the creek pleased him, and he resolved to have a long, long spell, and try and get rid of the fever which had again attacked him and made his life a misery.
Riding up to the hotel he found a party of some twenty or more diggers who were having a last carouse--for the “benefit” of the landlord---ere they bade goodbye to Chinkie's Flat on the following evening. Among them were two men who had become possessed of the “Ever Victorious” battery, left to them by the recently deceased “Taeping,” who had succumbed to alleged rum and bad whiskey. They jocularly offered Grainger the entire plant for twenty-five pounds and his horses. He made a laughing rejoinder and said he would take a look at the machine in the morning. He meant to have a long spell, he said, and Chinkie's Flat would suit him better than Townsville or Port Denison to pull up, as hotels there were expensive and he had not much money. Then, as was customary, he returned the drink he had accepted from them by shouting for all hands, and was at once voted “a good sort.”
In the morning he walked down to the deserted battery, examined it carefully, and found that although it was in very bad order, and deficient especially in screens--the one greatest essential--it was still capable of a great deal of work. Then he washed off a dish or two of tailings from one of the many heaps about, and although he had no acid, nor any other means of making a proper test in such a short time, his scientific knowledge acquired on the big gold-fields of the southern colonies and New Zealand showed him that there was a very heavy percentage of gold still to be won from the tailings by simple and inexpensive treatment.
“I'll buy the thing,” he said to himself; “I can't lose much by doing so, and there's every chance of saving a good deal of gold, if I once get some fine screens, and that will only take six weeks or so.”
By noon the “deal” was completed, and in exchange fer twenty-five pounds in cash, six horses and their saddlery, Grainger, amid much good-humoured chaff from the vendors, took possession of the “Ever Victorious” crushing mill, together with some thousands of tons of tailings, but when he announced his intention of putting the plant in order and crushing for the “public” generally, as well as for himself, six men who yet had some faith in the field and believed that some of the many reefs would pay to work, elected to stay, especially when Grainger said that if their crushings turned out “duffers” he would charge them nothing for using the battery.
At one o'clock that day there were but eight Europeans and one black boy left on the once noisy Chinkie's Flat--the landlord of “The Digger's Best,” six miners, Grainger, and the black boy, “Jacky,” who had accompanied him on his arduous journey from the Batavia River. At Grainger's request they all met at the public-house! and sat down to a dinner of salt meat, damper, and tea, and after it was finished and each man had lit his pipe, Grainger went into details.
“Now, boys, this is how the thing hangs. I've bought the old rattletrap because I believe there's a lot of life in the old girl yet, and I'm going to spend all the money I have in putting her in order and getting some new gear up from Brisbane or Sydney. If I lose my money I won't grumble, but I don't think I _shall_ lose it if you will agree to give some of the reefs a thorough good trial. As I told you, I won't ask you for a penny if the stone I crush for you turns out no good; but it is my belief--and I know what I am talking about--that there are a thousand tons of surface stuff lying around this field which will give half an ounce to an ounce to the ton if it is put through a decent machine. And I'm going to make the old 'Ever Victorious' a pretty decent battery before long. But it's no good my spending my money--I possess only four hundred pounds--if you don't back me up and lend a hand.”
“You're the man for us,” said one of the men; “we'll stick to you and do all the bullocking. But the battery is very old, and we have the idea that old Taeping wasn't much of a boss of a crushing mill, and didn't know much about amalgamation.”
Grainger nodded: “I am sure of it. I don't believe that he saved more than 50 per cent, of the gold from the surface stuff he put through, and not more than a third from the stone.... Well, boys, what is it to be?”
The men looked at each other for a moment or two, and then they one and all emphatically asserted their intention of remaining on the field, assisting Grainger in repairing the plant and raising trial crushings of stone from every reef on the field.
“That's all right, then, boys,” said Grainger. “Now you go ahead and raise the stone, and as soon as I am a bit stronger I'll start off for the Bay and buy what I want in the way of screens, grinding pans, quicksilver, and other gear. I'm almost convinced that with new, fine screens we shall get good results out of the stone, and if we are disappointed, then well tackle that heap of tailings. I've seen a lot of tailings treated without being roasted in Victoria, and understand the process right enough.”
“Well, we'll do our share of yacker, mister,” said a man named Dick Scott.
“And I'll do mine. As soon as I am fit some of you must lend me a couple of horses, and I'll ride down to the Bay. {*} I daresay I can get all that we want there in the way of machinery without my going or sending to Brisbane for it.”
* The present city of Townsville, then always called “The Bay,” it being situated on the shores of Cleveland Bay.
On the following morning work was started by the six men, the landlord of the public-house agreeing to cook for all hands for the first week, while Grainger and the black boy (though the former was still very weak from recurrent attacks of ague) tried numberless prospects from all parts of the heaps of tailings. At the end of a week the miners began to raise some very likely-looking stone! and Grainger, finding some jars of muriatic acid among the stores belonging to the battery, made some further tests of the tailings with results which gave him the greatest satisfaction. He, however, said nothing about this to his new mates, intending to give them a pleasant surprise later on in the week before he left on his journey to the coast.
At six o'clock one evening, just as the men were returning from the claim for supper, Jacky, the black boy, was seen coming along the track at a fast canter. He had been out looking for some cattle belonging to Jansen the landlord, which had strayed away among the ranges.
“What's the matter, Jacky?” asked the men, as the boy jumped off his horse.
“I bin see him plenty feller Chinaman come along road. Altogether thirty-one. Close to now--'bout one feller mile away, I think it.”
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{
"id": "24805"
}
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3
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~ JIMMY AH SAN
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Consternation was depicted on the faces of the men. And they all began to question Jacky at once, until Grainger appeared, and then the black boy gave them farther particulars--the Chinamen, he said, were all on foot, each man carrying two baskets on a stick, but there were also five or six pack-horses loaded with picks, shovels, dishes, and other mining gear.
“Curse the dirty, yaller-hided swine!” cried Dick Scott, turning excitedly to Grainger. “What's to be done? They've come to rush the Flat again; but, by thunder! I'll be a stiff 'un afore a Chow fills another dish with wash-dirt on Connolly's Creek.”
“And me, too!” “And me, too!” growled the others angrily, and Grainger, as he looked at their set, determined faces, knew they would soon be beyond control, and bloodshed would follow if the advancing Chinamen tried to come on to the field. But, nevertheless, he was thoroughly in sympathy with them. The advent of these Chinese--probably but an advance guard of many hundreds--would simply mean ruination to himself and his mates, just as their prospects were so bright. The men looked upon him as their leader, and he must act--and act quickly.
“Let them come along, boys. Then we'll bail them up as soon as they come abreast of us, and have a little 'talkee, talkee' with them. But for heaven's sake try and keep cool, and I daresay when they see we look ugly at them, they'll trot on. How many of you have guns of any kind?”
Four rifles and two shot guns were quickly produced, and then every one waited till the first of the Chinese appeared, marching one behind the other. The foremost man was dressed in European clothes, and the moment Scott saw him, he exclaimed-- “Why, it's Jimmy Ah San! I used to know him at Gympie in the old times. He's not a bad sort of a Chow. Come on, boys!”
Grainger, who was not just then well enough to go with them, but remained in his seat with his revolver on his knee, could not help smiling at the sudden halt and terrified looks of the Chinese, when Scott and the others drew up in front of them with their weapons at the present. Half of them at once dropped their baskets and darted off into the bush, the rest crowding together like a flock of terrified sheep. The leader, however, came steadily on. Scott stepped out and met him.
“Good-morning. What do you and all your crowd want here?”
“Nothing,” replied the Chinaman quietly, in excellent English, “nothing but to get down to the creek and camp for a few days. But why do you all come out with guns? We cannot do you any harm.”
“Just so. But we can do _you_ a lot if you try on any games, Mr. Jimmy Ah San.”
“Ah, you know me then,” said the man, looking keenly at Scott.
“Yes, I do, an' you're all right enough. But me an' my mates is going to keep this field for white men--it ain't goin' to be no Chinaman's digging'. So what's yer move?”
“Only what I said. Look at my men! We do not want to stop here; we wish to push along to the coast. Some of them are dying from exhaustion, and my pack-horses can hardly go another quarter of a mile.”
Soott scratched his chin meditatively, and then consulted with his mates. He, although so rough in his speech, was not a bad-natured man, and he could see that the Chinese were thoroughly done up, and worn down to skin and bone. Then presently Grainger walked over and joined them, and heard what Ah San had to say.
“I'm sorry that you are in such a bad fix,” he said, “but you know as well as I do that if any of your men put a pick into ground here, there will be serious trouble, and if they lose their lives you will be responsible--and may perhaps lose your own.”
“I promise you that nothing like that will happen,” replied the Chinaman. “My men are all diggers, it is true, but we will not attempt to stay on any field where we are not wanted. My name is James Ah San. I am a British subject, and have lived in Australia for twenty-five years. That man” (pointing to Scott) “knows me, and can tell you that 'Jimmy Ah San' never broke a promise to any man.”
“That is right enough,” said Scott promptly; “every one in Gympie knew you when you was storekeepin' there, and said you was a good sort.”
“We have come over three hundred miles from the Cloncurry,” went on the Chinese leader, quickly seeing that Scott's remark had much impressed the other miners; “the diggers there gave us forty-eight hours to clear out. The blacks killed fifteen of us and speared ten of my horses, and six more men died on the way. We can do no harm here. We only want to spell a week, or two weeks.”
“Poor devils!” muttered Grainger; then he said to Ah San: “Very well. Now, you see the track going through that clump of sandalwood? Well, follow it and you'll come to a little ironstone ridge, where you'll find a good camping-ground just over a big pool in the creek. There's a bit of sweet grass, too, for your horses, so they can get a good feed to-night. In the morning this black boy will, if you like, show you a place in the ranges, about four miles from here, where you can let them run for a week. There's some fine grass and plenty of water, and they ought to pick up very quickly. But you will have to keep some one to see that they don't get round the other side of the range--through one of the gaps; if they do, you'll lose them to a dead certainty, for there are two or three mobs of brumbies{*} running there. Do you want any tucker?” {**} * Wild horses.
** Provisions.
“No, thank you,” replied Ah San, with an unmistakable inflexion of gratitude in his voice; “we have plenty of rice and tea, but I should like to buy a bullock to-morrow, if I can--I saw some cattle about two miles from here. Is there a cattle station near here?”
“No. The cattle you saw belong to one of us--this man here,” pointing to Jansen, “will sell you a beast to-morrow, I daresay.”
Then the armed protectors of the integrity from foreign invasion of the rights of Chinkie's Flat nodded “Good evening” to Ah San, and walked back across the road to the “Digger's Best,” and the Chinamen, with silent, childlike patience, resumed their loads and trotted along after their leader. They disappeared over the hill, and ere darkness descended the glare of their camp fires was casting steady gleams of light upon the dark waters of the still pool beneath the ridge.
|
{
"id": "24805"
}
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4
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~ GRAINGER AND JIMMY AH SAN TALK TOGETHER
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It was eight o'clock in the morning, and Jimmy Ah San, a fat, pleasant-faced Chinaman, dressed in European costume, came outside his tent, and filling his pipe, sat down on the ground, and with his hands clasped on his knees, saw six of the white men emerge from two or three humpies, and walk down to the new shaft to begin work.
He was well acquainted with the previous history of the spot upon which he was now gazing, and something like a scowl darkened his good-humoured face as he looked upon the ragged, half-famished surrivors of his company, and thought of the past horrors and hardships of the fearful journey from the Cloncurty. Fifteen of their number had been murdered by blacks in less than a fortnight, and the bones of half a dozen more, who had succumbed to exhaustion or thirst lay bleaching on a strip of desert country between the Cloncurry and the Burdekin River.
But Ah San was a man of courage--and resource as well--and his five-and-twenty years' experience of bush and mining life in the Far North of Australia enabled him to pilot the remainder of his men by forced marches to the Cape River, where they had spelled for a month so as to gain strength for the long stage between that river and Conolly's Creek, on one of the deserted fields of which he hoped to settle and retrieve his broken fortunes.
As he sat and watched and thought, eight or ten members of his company came and crouched near him, gazing with hungry eyes at the heaps of mullock and the mounds of tailings surrounding the “Ever Victorious” battery, watching the Europeans at work, and wondering when they, too, would give it up and follow their departed comrades. For the Chinamen knew that those dry and dusty heaps of mullock and grey and yellow sand, on which the death adder and the black-necked tiger snake now coiled themselves to sleep in the noon-day sun, still contained gold enough to reward patient industry--industry of which the foreign-devils were not capable when the result would be but five pennyweights a day, washed out in the hot waters of the creek under a sky of brass, “with flour at two-pounds-ten per 50 lb. bag,” as Dick Scott said.
Presently, turning to a sun-baked, lanky Chinaman near him--his lieutenant--he bade him tell the men to prepare to go down to the Creek, and drag some of the pools with a small seine.
“There are many fish in all these creeks which run into the great river” (the Burdekin), “but I will first go to the foreigners and ask their permission. The tall, sick man is well disposed towards us, and we must be patient and submit to the tyranny of the others for a little while. But all may yet be well with us if I can but get speech of him alone. Meanwhile, keep the company under close watch; let no man wander from the camp till I return.”
Then entering his tent, he took from a canvas pack-bag a small bottle, put it in his coat pocket, and, descending the ridge, walked towards the “Digger's Best.”
As he drew near, Grainger, followed by the landlord, came out of the house and sat down on rudely made reclining chairs, composed of two pieces of sapling, with cross-pieces, from which was slung a flour sack.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said the Chinaman politely.
“Good morning,” they replied civilly, and then Grainger, who was wearing a heavy overcoat, for the chill of an attack of ague was near, asked him to sit down and inquired how his men were.
“They are getting on very well, thank you, sir,” replied Ah San, “but several of them are very weak, and will not be fit to travel for a fortnight unless we carry them. But the rest will do them much good, especially if they get a change of food. I have come now to ask you if you and your mates will let us drag some of the pools in the creek for fish. We have a small net.”
“Certainly,” replied Jansen; “some fish will do them good, and the pools are alive with them now that the creek is so low. And anyway, we don't want to stop you from getting food--do we, Mr. Grainger?”
“Certainly not; we have no earthly right to prevent you from taking fish in the creek, and even if we had we should not use it. We are not brutes.”
“Thank you very much,” said Ah San--and then, addressing himself to the landlord, he asked him if he had a bullock to sell.
Jansen was an alert business man at once. He had a small herd of cattle running wild about the creek! and was only too glad to sell a beast.
“You can have any bullock you like--the biggest in the lot--for a fiver--but, cash down.”
The Chinaman pulled out his purse, handed him a five-pound note, and asked when he could have the beast.
“In about an hour, if you want to kill right off; but you ought not to kill till sundown in such weather as this. But, anyway, I'll saddle up and get a man to help me run the mob into the stockyard. Then you can pick one out for yourself---there's half a dozen bullocks, and some fine young fat cows, so you can have your choice.”
In a few minutes the landlord had caught and saddled two horses, and riding one, and leading the other, he went off to the new shaft, where the spare horse was mounted by one of the men working there.
Then Ah San turned to the sick man, and said interrogatively-- “You have fever?”
“Yes, I caught it up Normanton way in the Gulf Country six months ago, and thought I was getting clear of it, but a month back it came on again, and I have been pretty bad ever since.”
“I can see that, and the Gulf kind of fever is bad--very bad. I know all about it, for I lived in the Gulf Country for ten years, and have had it myself. Now, here is some medicine which will do you good--it will cure you in ten days if you take a dose every time you feel the 'shakes' coming on. But you must not eat more than you can help.”
“Thank you,” said Grainger eagerly, as he took the bottle; “it is very kind of you. But you may want it yourself?”
“I have three or four more bottles left. I had a dozen from the doctor at Georgetown on the Etheridge River. He is a man who knows all about fever, and I can assure you that you will be a well man in ten days. Show me your hand, please.”
The European extended his hand languidly to the Chinaman, who looked at the finger-nails for a moment or two: “You will have the 'shakes' in a few hours.”
“Yes. They generally come on as soon as the sun gets pretty high--about nine or ten o'clock.”
“Then you must take a dose now. Can I go inside and get a glass and some water?”
“Yes, certainly. It is very good of you to take so much trouble.”
Returning with a glass and some water, the Chinaman poured out a dose of the mixture, and with a smile of satisfaction watched the sick man drink it.
Then Grainger and his visitor began to talk, at first on general matters such as the condition of the country between the Cloncurry and the Burdekin, and then about Chinkie's Flat, its past glories and its present condition. The frank, candid manner of Ah San evoked a similar freedom of speech from the Englishman, who recognised that he was talking to an intelligent and astute man who knew more about the Far North of Queensland and its gold-fields than he did himself.
Then Ah San saw the opportunity for which he had been waiting, and drawing his seat nearer to Grainger's he spoke earnestly to him, told him exactly of the situation of himself and his company, and ended up by making him a certain proposition regarding the working of the abandoned claims, and the restarting of the rusting and weather-worn “Ever Victorious” battery.
Grainger listened intently, nodding his head now and then as Ah San emphasised some particular point. At the end of an hour's conversation they heard the cracking of the landlord's stock whip and the bellowing of cattle as they crossed the creek, and the Chinaman rose and held out his hand.
“Then good morning, Mr. Grainger. I hope you will be able to convince your mates that we can all pull together.”
“I am sure of it. We are all pretty hard up. And you and your men can help us, and we can help you. Come down again to-night, and I'll tell you the result of my talk with them.”
|
{
"id": "24805"
}
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5
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~ THE RESURRECTION OF THE “EVER VICTORIOUS”
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At six o'clock in the evening, Grainger was seated at one end of the rough dining-table in the “Digger's Best” with some papers laid before him, At the other end was Dick Scott, and the rest of the men sat on either side, smoking their pipes, and wondering what was in the wind.
Grainger did not keep them waiting long. Taking his pipe ont of his month, and laying it on the table, he went into business at once, He spoke to them as if he were one of themselves, adopting a simplicity of language and manner that he knew would appeal to their common sense and judgment far more than an elaborately prepared speech.
“Now, boys, I've got something to say, and I'll say it as quick as I can. None of you know anything of me beyond what I have told you myself; but I don't think any one of you will imagine I'm a man who would try to ring in a swindle on you when I bought the old rattletrap down there?”
“Go ahead, mister,” said Dick Scott, “we didn't think no such thing. We on'y thought you was chuckin' away your money pernicious.”
Grainger laughed so heartily that his hearers followed suit Then he went on-- “No. I'm not throwing my money away, boys. I am going to _make_ money on this field, and so are you. But there are not enough of us. We want more men--wages' men; and presently I'll explain _why_ we shall want them. But first of all, let me show you what I obtained the other day out of between 200 and 250 lbs. weight of those tailings.”
He rose, went into the second room, and returned with a small enamelled dish, and placed it upon the table. The miners rose and gathered round, and saw lying on the bottom about an ounce and a quarter of fine powdery gold.
“Holy Moses!” cried one of them, as he drew his forefinger through the bright, yellow dust, “there's more than an ounce there.”
“There is,” affirmed Grainger: “there are twenty-five pennyweights, and all that came out of not more than 250 lbs. of tailings!”
The men looked at each other with eyes sparkling with excitement, and then Grainger poured the gold out upon a clean plate for closer examination.
“Why,” exclaimed Scott, “that means those tailings would go ten ounces to the ton!”
“Just so,” said Grainger, “but we can't get those ten ounces out of them by ordinary means, though with new screens, new tables and blankets I am pretty sure we can get four ounces to the ton. But we want the ten, don't we?”
“You bet,” was the unanimous response.
“Well, I'll guarantee that we shall get eight ounces at least. But first of all I'll tell you how I got the result. You can try some of the stuff in the morning, and you will find that those tailings will pan out about eight or ten ounces to the ton.”
“But acid is mighty dear stuff,” said Scott.
“Just so, but it is very good as a test, and of course we are not such duffers as to try to treat more than a couple of thousand tons of tailings with acid. We'd die of old age before we finished. Now, I'll get on and tell you what I do propose. You remember that I said I had seen tailings treated in Victoria without roasting. Well, we could do that now, though we should only get half the gold and lose the other half in the sludge pits. Now, as I told you, I have about four hundred pounds' worth of alluvial gold, which I brought with me from the north, and which I can sell to any bank in the Bay. I intended when I bought the 'Ever Victorious' to spend this £400 in buying some fine screens, a couple of grinding pans, and some other gold-saving machinery, so that when I was not crushing stone for you men I could be running those tailings through. But we can do better--now that the Chinamen are here.”
Something like dismay was depicted on the men's faces when they heard this, but no one interrupted as he went on-- “We can do much better. Instead of treating those tailings by simply running them through the screens again and losing half the gold, we can build a proper roasting farnaoe, and _then_ we can grind them, keeping the stampers for crushing alone. This morning I had a long yarn with Ah San, the boss Chinaman, and he is willing to let us have as many of his men as we want for twenty-five shillings a week each, and indenture them to me for six months--there's the labour we want, right to our hand. It's cheap labour, I admit, but that is no concern of ours. The Chows, so Ah San tells me, will be only too glad to get a six months' job at twenty-five bob a week--of which he takes half.”
“Aye,” said Scott contemptuously, “they're only bloomin' slaves.”
“To their boss, no doubt; but not to us. They will be well pleased to work for us and earn what they consider good wages. I propose that we get at least twenty of them and set them to work right away. There is any amount of good clay here, I know, and we'll start them digging. I know how to build a brick-kiln, and we'll get a proper bricklayer up from the Bay, and I guarantee that by the time the new machinery is up that the roasting furnace will be built.”
“No need to get a bricklayer from the Bay and pay him about eight pound a week,” said a man named Arthur O'Hare; “I'm a bricklayer by trade.”
“Bully for you,” said Grainger; “will you take four pounds a week to put up the furnace and chimney?”
“I'm willing, if my mates are.”
“Well, boys, that's pretty well all I have to say. We'll build the roasting furnace; the Chinamen will do all the bullocking{*} both at that and the battery, and we'll put on half-a-dozen to help at the new shaft. I'll boss the battery, drive the engine, and do the amalgamating, and you men can go on roasting stone. Every Saturday we'll stop the battery and clean her up, and at the end of every four weeks we'll send the gold to the bank and go shares in the plunder. Now, tell me, what do you think? Do you think it's a fair proposition?”
* “Bullocking”--hard work--i.e., to work like bullook. In a team.
After a very brief consultation together, Scott, speaking on behalf of his mates, said they were all willing, and not only willing, but pleased to “come in” with him, but they thought that he would only be acting fairly to himself if he, as manager of the battery, amalgamator, and general supervisor of the whole concern, took a salary of ten pounds a week.
“No, boys. I'll take six pounds if you like. Of course, however, you will not object to refunding me the money I am expending on the new machinery. As for the profits, we shall divide equally.
“Well then,” said Scott, banging his brawny fist on the table and turning to his mates, “if you treats us in that generous way, we must do the same with you as regards the stone we raise. Boys, I proposes that as our new mate is finding the money to start the old battery again, and going even shares with us in the gold from the tailings, that we go even shares with him in whatever gold we get from the claims.”
“Right,” was the unanimous response. And then they all came up one by one and shook hands with Grainger, whose face flushed with pleasure. Then Jansan produced a bottle of rum and Grainger gave them a toast-- “Boys, here's good luck to us all, and here's to the day when we shall hear the stampers banging away in the boxes and the 'Ever Victorious' be as victorious as she was in the good old days of the field.”
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{
"id": "24805"
}
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6
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~ “MAGNETIC VILLA”
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“Magnetic Villa” was one of the “best” houses in the rising city of Townsville. It stood on the red, rocky, and treeless side of Melton Hill, overlooked the waters of Cleveland Bay, and faced the rather picturesque-looking island from whence it derived its name.
About ten months after the resurrection of the “Ever Victorious” and the concomitant reawakening to life of Chinkie's Flat, three ladies arrived by steamer from Sydney to take possession of the villa--then untenanted. In a few hours it was generally known that the newcomers were Mrs. Trappème, Miss Trappème, and Miss Lilla Trappème. There was also a Master Trappème, a lanky, ill-looking, spotted-faced youth of fourteen, in exceedingly new and badly-fitting clothes much too large for him. By his mother and sisters he was addressed as “Mordaunt,” though until a year or so previously his name had been Jimmy.
A few weeks after the ladies had installed themselves in the villa there appeared a special advertisement in the Townsville _Champion_ (over the leader) informing the public that “Mrs. Lee-Trappème is prepared to receive a limited number of paying guests at 'Magnetic Villa.' Elegant appointments, superior _cuisine_, and that comfort and hospitality which can Only be obtained in a Highly-refined Family Circle.”
“Hallo!” said Mallard, the editor of the _Champion_, to Flynn, his sub, who called his attention to the advertisement, “so 'Magnetic Villa' is turned into a hash house, eh? Wonder who they are? 'Highly refined family circle'--sounds fishy, doesn't it? Do you know anything about them?”
“No, but old Maclean, the Melbourne drummer who came up in the _Barcoo_ from Sydney with them, does--at least he knew the old man, who died about a year and a half ago.”
“What was he?”
“Bank messenger in Sydney at thirty bob a week; used to lend money to the clerks at high interest, and did very well; for when he pegged out he left the old woman a couple of thousand. His name was Trappem--John Trappem, but he was better known as 'Old Jack Trap.' When they came on board the _Barcoo_ they put on no end of side, and they were 'Mrs., the Misses, and Master Lee-Trappème.'”
“Lord! what a joke! Did the drummer give the show away on board?”
“No, for a wonder. But he told me of it.”
“Daughters good looking?”
“Younger one is not too bad; elder's a terror--thin, bony, long face, long nose, long feet, long conceit of herself, and pretty long age, walks mincingly, like a hen on a hot griddle, and------” “Oh, stop it! The old woman?”
“Fat, ruddy-faced, pleasant-looking, white hair, talks of her 'poor _papaless_ girls,' &c. She's a pushing old geyser, however, and has already got the parsons and some of the other local nobility to call on her.”
“Wonder what sort of tucker they'd give one, Flynn? I'm tired of paying £6 a week at the beastly overcrowded dog-kennel, entitled the 'Royal' Hotel--save the mark! --and I'm game even to try a boarding-house, but,” and here he rubbed his chin, “this 'refined family circle' business, you know?”
“They all say that,” remarked the sub. “You couldn't expect 'em to tell the truth and say, 'In Paradise Mansions Mrs. de Jones feeds her boarders on anything cheap and nasty; the toilet jugs have no handles, and the floors are as dirty as the kitchen slave, who does the cooking and waits at table, and the family generally are objectionable in their manners and appearance.'”
“Are you game to come with me this afternoon and inspect 'Magnetic Villa' and the 'refined family circle'?”
“Yes. And, by Jove! if you take up your quarters there, I will do so as well. We could try it, anyway. I'm batching with Battray, the police inspector, and three other fellows. It was only going to cost us £3 a week each; it costs us more like £6.”
“Of course, too much liquor, and all that,” said the editor of the _Champion_, with a merry twinkle in his eye.
Scarcely had the sub-editor left when a knock announced another visitor, and Grainger, booted and spurred, entered the room.
Mallard jumped from his chair and shook hands warmly with him. “This is a surprise, Grainger. When did you get to town?”
“About an hour ago. Myra is with me; her six months' visit has come to an end, and my mother and my elder sister want her back again; so she is leaving in the next steamer. But all the hotels are packed full, and as the steamer does not leave for a week, I don't know how to manage. That's why I came to see you, thinking you might know of some place where we could put up for a week.”
“I shall be only too delighted to do all I can. The town is very full of people just now, and the hotels are perfect pandemoniums, what with Chinkie's Flat, the rush to the Haughton, Black Gully, and other places Townsville is off its head with bibulous prosperity, and lodgings of any kind fit for a lady are unobtainable. Ah, stop! I've forgotten something. I do know of a place which might suit Miss Grainger very well. Where is she now?”
“In the alleged sitting-room at the 'Queen's.' I gave the head waiter a sovereign to let her have it to herself for a couple of hours whilst I went out and saw what I could do.”
Then Mallard told Grainger of “Magnetic Villa.”
“Let us go and see this refined family,” he said with a laugh. “I don't know them, but from what my sub tells me, I daresay Miss Grainger could manage with them for a week. I know the house, which has two advantages: it is large, and is away from this noisy, dirty, dusty, and sinful town.”
“Very well,” said Grainger» as he took out his pipe, “will three o'clock suit? My sister might come.”
“Of course. Now tell me about Chinkie's Flat. Any fresh news?”
“Nothing fresh; same old thing.”
“'Same old thing!'” and Mallard spread out his arms yearningly and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. “Just listen to the man, O ye gods! 'The same old thing!' That means you are making a fortune hand over fist, you and Jimmy Ah San.”
“We are certainly making a lot of money, Mallard,” replied Grainger quietly, as he lit his pipe and crossed his strong, sun-tanned hands over his knee. “My own whack, so far, out of Chinkie's Flat, has come to more than £16,000.”
“Don't say 'whack,' Grainger; it's vulgar. Say 'My own emolument, derived in less than one year from the auriferous wealth of Chinkie's Flat, amounts to £16,000.' You'll be going to London soon, and floating the property for a million, and--” Grainger, who knew the man well, and had a sincere liking and respect for him, laughed again, though his face flushed. “You know me better than that, Mallard; I'm not the man to do that sort of thing. I could float the concern and make perhaps a hundred thousand or so out of it if I was blackguard enough to do it. But, thank God, I've never done anything dirty in my life, and never will.”
“Don't mind my idiotic attempt at a joke, Grainger,” and Mallard pat ont his hand. “I know you are the straightest man that ever lived. But I did really think that you would be going off to England soon, and that we--I mean the other real friends beside myself you have made in this God-forsaken colony--would know you no more except by reading of your 'movements' in London.”
“No, Mallard, Australia is my home. I know nothing of England, for I left there when I was a child. As I told you, my poor father was one of the biggest sheep men in Victoria, and died soon after the bank foreclosed on him. The old station, which he named 'Melinda Downs,' after my mother, who has the good old-fashioned name of Melinda, has gone through a lot of vicissitudes since then; but a few weeks ago my agent in Sydney bought it for £10,000, and now my mother and sisters are going back there.”
“And yourself?”
“Oh, a year or two more--perhaps three or four; and then, when Chinkie's Flat is worked out, I too, will go south to the old home.”
Mallard sighed, and then, taking a cigar, lit it, and the two men smoked together in silence for a few minutes.
“Mallard!”
“Yes, old man.”
“This continual newspaper grind is pretty tough, isn't it?”
“Yes, it is. But thanks to you--by putting me on to the 'Day Dawn' Reef at Chinkie's Flat--I've made a thousand or two and can chuck it at any time.”
“Don't say 'chuck.' It's vulgar; and the editor of the 'leading journal in North Queensland' must not be vulgar,” and he smiled.
“Ah, Grainger my boy, you have been a good friend to me!”
“It's the other way about, Mallard. You were the only man in the whole colony of Queensland who stood to me when I began to employ Chinese labour. That ruffian, Peter Finnerty, said in the House, only two months ago, that I deserved to be shot.”
“Well, you stuck to your guns, and I to mine. Fortunately the _Champion_ is my own 'rag,' and not owned by a company. I stuck to you as a matter of principle.”
“And lost heavily by it.”
“For six months or so. A lot of people withdrew their advertisements; but they were a bit surprised when at the end of that time they came back to me, and I refused to insert their ads. at any price. I consider that you not only did wisely, but right, in employing the Chinamen. Are they going on satisfactorily?”
“Very; they do work for me at twenty-five shillings a week that white men would not do at all--no matter what you offered them: emptying sludge-pits, building dams, etc.” “Exactly! And now all the people who rose up and howled at you for employing Chinamen, and the _Champion_ for backing you up, are shouting themselves hoarse in your praise. And the revival of Chinkie's Flat, and the new rushes all round about it, have added very materially to the wealth of this town.” After a little further conversation, Grainger went back to the Queen's Hotel, where Mallard was to call at three o'clock.
Myra Grainger, a small, slenderly-built girl of nineteen, looked up as he entered the sitting-room.
“Any success, Ted?”
“Here, look at this advertisement. Mallard knows the place, but not the people. He's coming here at three, and we'll all go and interview Mrs. Trappème--'which her real name is Trappem,' I believe.”
“I shall be glad to see Mr. Mallard again. I like him--in fact, I liked him before I ever saw him for the way in which he fought for you.”
“And I'm strongly of the opinion that Mr. Thomas Mallard has a very strong liking for Miss Myra Grainger.”
“Then I like him still more for that.”
Grainger patted his sister's cheek. “He is a good fellow, Myra. I think he will ask you to marry him.”
“I certainly expect it, Ted.”
|
{
"id": "24805"
}
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7
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~ SHEILA CAROLAN
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Although Mrs. Trappème had been so short a time in Townsville, she had contrived to learn a very good deal, not only about people in the town itself, but in the surrounding districts, and knew that Grainger was a wealthy mine-owner, had a sister staying with him on a visit--and was a bachelor. She also knew that Mallard was the editor of the _Champion_, and was likewise a bachelor--in fact, she had acquired pretty well all the information that could be acquired; her informant being the talkative, scandal-mongering wife of the Episcopalian curate.
She was therefore highly elated when at four o'clock in the afternoon Miss Grainger and her brother, and Mallard, after a brief inspection of the rooms--which were really handsomely furnished--took three of the largest and a private sitting-room, at an exorbitant figure, for a week, and promised to be at the Villa that evening for dinner.
“He's immensely rich, Juliette,” she said to her daughter (she was speaking of Grainger after he had gone), “and you must do your best, your very best. Wear something very simple, as it is the first evening; and be particularly nice to his sister--I'm sure he's very fond of her. She'll only be here a week, but he and Mr. Mallard will probably be here a month. So now you have an excellent chance. Don't throw it away by making a fool of yourself.”
Juliette (who had been christened Julia, and called “Judy” for thirty-two years of her life) set her thin lips and then replied acidly-- “It's all very well for you to talk, but whenever I did have a chance--which was not often--you spoilt it by your interference. And if you allow Jimmy to sit at the same table with us to-night he'll simply disgust these new people. When you call him 'Mordaunt' the hideous little wretch grins; and he grins too when you call me 'Juliette' and Lizzie 'Lilla.'”
Mrs. Trappème's fat face scowled at her daughter, and she was about to make an angry retort when the frontdoor bell rang.
“A lady wants to see yez, ma'am,” said the “new chum” Irish housemaid, who had answered the door.
“Did you show her into the reception room, Mary?”
“Sure, an' is it the wee room wid the sthuffed burd in the fireplace, or is it the wan beyant wid the grane carpet on de flore; becos' I'm after puttin' her in the wan wid the sthuffed burd? Anny way it's a lady she is, sure enough; an' it's little she'll moind where she do be waitin' on yez.”
“Did she send in her card, Mary?”
“Did she sind in her _what_?”
“Her card, you stupid girl.”
“Don't you be after miscallin' me, ma'am. Sure I can get forty shillings a wake annywhere an' not be insulted by anny wan, instead av thirty here, which I do be thinkin' is not the place to shuit me”--and the indignant daughter of the Emerald Isle, a fresh-complexioned, handsome young woman, tossed her pretty head and marched out.
So Mrs. Trappème went into the room “wid the sthuffed burd in it,” and there rose to meet her a fair-haired girl of about eighteen, with long-lashed, dark-grey eyes, and a somewhat worn and drawn expression about her small mouth, as if she were both mentally and physically tired. Her dress was of the simplest--a neatly fitting, dark-blue, tailor-made gown.
“I saw your advertisement in the _Champion_ this morning,” she said, “and called to ascertain your terms.” Mrs. Trappème's big, protruding, and offensive pale-blue eyes stared at and took in the girl's modest attire and her quiet demeanour as a shark looks at an unsuspecting or disabled fish which cannot escape its maws.
“Please sit down,” she said with a mingled ponderous condescension and affability. “I did not _advertise_. I merely _notified_ in the _Champion_ that I would receive paying guests. But my terms are very exclusive.” “What are they?”
“Five guineas a week exclusive of extras, which, in this place, amount to quite a guinea more. You could not afford that, I suppose?”
The dark-grey eyes flashed, and then looked steadily at those of the fishy blue.
“Your terms are certainly very high, but I have no option. I find it impossible to get accommodation in Townsville. I only arrived from Sydney this morning in the _Corea_, and as I am very tired, I should like to rest in an hour or so--as soon as you can conveniently let me have my room,” and taking out her purse she placed a £5 note, a sovereign, and six shillings on the table.
“Will you allow me to pay you in advance?” she said, with a tinge of sarcasm in her clear voice. “I will send my luggage up presently.”
Mrs. Trappème at once became most affable. She had noticed that the purse the girl had produced was literally stuffed with new £5 notes.
“May I send for it?” she said beamingly, “and will you not stay and go to your room now?”
“No, thank you,” was the cold reply, “I have some business to attend to first. Can you tell me where Mr. Mallard, the editor of the _Champion_, lives? I know where the office is, but as it is a morning paper, I should not be likely to find him there at this early hour.”
Mrs. Trappème was at once devoured with curiosity. “How very extraordinary! Mr. Mallard was here only half an hour ago with a Mr. Grainger and Miss Grainger. They are coming here to stay for a few weeks.”
The girl's fair face lit up. “Oh, indeed! I am sorry I was not here, as I particularly wish to see Mr. Grainger also. I had no idea that he was in Townsville, and was calling on Mr. Mallard--who, I know, is a friend of his--to ascertain when he was likely to be in town.”
“They will all be here for dinner, Miss----” “My name is Carolan,” and taking out her cardcase she handed Mrs. Trappème a card on which was inscribed, “Miss Sheila Carolan.”
“Then Mr. Grainger is a friend of yours?” said Mrs. Trappème inquisitively, thinking of the poor chance Juliette would have with such a Richmond in the field as Miss Sheila Carolan.
“No, I have never even seen him,” said the girl stiffly, and then she rose.
“Then you will send for my luggage, Mrs. Trappème?”
“With pleasure, Miss Carolan. But will you not look at your room, and join my daughter and myself in our afternoon tea?”
“No, thank you, I think I shall first try and see either Mr. Mallard or Mr. Grainger. Do you know where Mr. Mallard lives?”
“At the Royal Hotel in Flinders Street. My daughter Lilla will be delighted to show you the way.”
But Miss Sheila Carolan was stubborn, and declined the kind offer, and Mrs. Trappème, whose curiosity was now at such a pitch that she was beginning to perspire, saw her visitor depart, and then called for Juliette.
“I wonder who she is and what she wants to see Mr. Grainger for?” she said excitedly, as she mopped her florid face: “doesn't know him, and yet wants to see him particularly. There is something mysterious about her.”
“What is she like?” asked Miss Trappème eagerly. “I didn't see her face, but her clothes are all right, I can tell you.” (She knew all about clothes, having been a forewoman in a Sydney drapery establishment for many years.)
“Oh, a little, common-looking thing, but uppish. I wonder what on earth she _does_ want to see Mr. Grainger for?”
Half an hour later, when Miss Carolan's luggage arrived, it was duly inspected and criticised by the whole Trappème family. Each trunk bore a painted address: “Miss Carolan, Minerva Downs, Dalrymple, North Queensland.”
“Now where in the world is Minerva Downs?” said Mrs. Trappème, “and why on earth is she going there? And her name too--Carolan--Sheila Carolan! I suppose she's a Jewess.”
“Indade, an' it's not that she is, ma'am, whatever it manes,” indignantly broke in Mary, who had helped to carry in the luggage, and now stood erect with flaming face and angry eyes. “Sure an' I tould yez she was a lady, an' anny wan cud see she was a lady, an' Carolan is wan av the best names in Ireland--indade it is.”
“You may leave the room, Mary,” said Miss Trappème loftily.
“Lave the room, is it, miss? Widout maning anny disrespect to yez, I might as well be telling yez that I'm ready to lave the place intirely, an' so is the cook an' stableman, an' the gardener. Sure none av us--having been used to the gintry--want to sthay in a place where we do be getting talked at all day.”
The prospect of all her servants leaving simultaneously was too awful for Mrs. Trappème to contemplate. So she capitulated.
“Don't be so hasty, Mary. I suppose, then, that Miss Carolan is an Irishwoman?”
“She is that, indade. Sore an' her swate face toold me so before she spoke to me at all, at all.”
“Then you must look after her wants yery carefully, Mary. She will only be here for a few weeks.”
Mary's angry eyes softened. “I will that ma'am. Sure she's a sweet young lady wid the best blood in her, I'm thinkin'.”
Miss Trappème sniffed.
|
{
"id": "24805"
}
|
8
|
~ MYRA AND SHEILA
|
There was nothing mysterious about Sheila Carolan; her story was a very simple one. Her parents were both dead, and she had no relatives, with the exception of an aunt, and with her she had lived for the last five years. The two, however, did not agree very well, and Sheila being of a very independent spirit, and possessing a few hundred pounds of her own, frankly told her relative that she intended to make her own way in the world. There was living in North Queensland a former great friend of her mother's--a Mrs. Farrow, whose husband was the owner of a large cattle station near Dalrymple--and to her she wrote asking her if she could help her to obtain a situation as a governess. Six weeks later she received a warmly worded and almost affectionate letter.
“My dear Sheila,--Why did you not write to me long, long ago, and tell me that you and your Aunt Margaret did not get on well together! I remember as a girl that she was somewhat 'crotchetty.' I am not going to write you a long letter. _I want you to come to us_. Be my children's governess--and I really do want a governess for them--but remember that you are coming to your mother's friend and schoolmate, and that although you will receive £100 a year--if that is too little let us agree for £160--it does not mean that you will be anything else to me but the daughter of your dear mother. Now I must tell you that Minerva Downs is a difficult place to reach, and that you will have to ride all the way from Townsville--250 miles--but that will be nothing to an Australian-born girl 'wid Oirish blood in her.' When you get to Townsville call on Mr. Mallard, the editor of the _Champion_, who is a friend of ours (I've written him), and he will 'pass' you on to another friend of ours, a Mr. Grainger, who lives at a mining town called Chinkie's Flat, ninety miles from here, and Mr. Grainger (don't lose your heart to him, and defraud my children of their governess) will 'pass' you on with the mailman for Minerva Downs. The enclosed will perhaps be useful (it is half a year's salary you advance), and my husband and _all_ my large and furious family of rough boys and rougher girls will be delighted to see you.
“Very sincerely yours, my dear Sheila, “Noba Fabbow.”
With the letter was enclosed a cheque for £50 on a Sydney bank.
As the girl descended Melton Hill into hot, dusty, and noisy Flinders Street, she smiled to herself as she thought how very much she had stimulated the curiosity of Mrs. Trappème--to whom she had, almost unconsciously, taken an instinctive dislike.
As she entered the crowded vestibule of the Royal Hotel, a group of men--diggers, sugar planters, storekeepers, bankers, ship captains, and policemen, who were all laughing hilariously at some story which was being told by one of their number--at once made a lane for her to approach the office, for ladies--especially young and pretty ladies--were few in comparison to the men in North Queensland in those days, and a murmured whisper of admiration was quite audible to her as she made her inquiry of the clerk.
“No; Mr. Mallard is with Mr. and, Miss Grainger at the 'Queen's.' He left here a few minutes ago.”
“May I show you the way, miss?” said a huge bearded man, who, booted and spurred, took off his hat to her in an awkward manner. “I'm Dick Scott, one of Mr. Grainger's men.”
“Thank you,” replied Sheila, “it is very kind of you,” and, escorted by the burly digger, she went out into the street again.
“Are you Miss Caroline, ma'am?” said her guide to her respectfully, as he tried to shorten his lengthy strides.
“Yes, my name is Carolan,” she replied, trying to hide a smile.
“Thought so, ma'am. I heerd the boss a-tellin' Miss Grainger as you would be a-comin' to Chinkie's on yer way up ter Minervy Downs. Here's the 'Queen's,' miss, an' there's the boss and his sister and Mr. Mallard on the verandah there havin' a cooler,” and then, to her amusement and Grainger's astonishment, Mr. Dick Scott introduced her.
“This is Miss Caroline, boss. I picked her up at the 'Royal,'” and then, without another word, he marched off again with a proud consciousness of having “done the perlite thing.”
“I am Sheila Carolan, Mr. Grainger. I was at the 'Royal 'asking for Mr. Mallard when Mr. Scott kindly brought me here.”
“I am delighted to meet you, Miss Carolan,” said Grainger, who had risen and extended his hand. “I had not the slightest idea you had arrived.” And then he introduced her to his sister and Mallard.
“Now, Miss Carolan, please let me give you a glass of this--it is simply lovely and cold,” said Myra, pouring some champagne into a glass with some crashed ice in it. “My brother is the proad possessor of a big but rapidly diminishing lump of ice, which was sent to him by the captain of the _Corea_ just now.”
“Thank you, Miss Grainger. I really am very thirsty. I have had quite a lot of walking about to-day. I have a letter to you, Mr. Mallard, from Mrs. Farrow,” and she handed the missive to him.
“I am so very sorry I did not know of your arrival, Miss Carolan,” said Mallard. “I would have met you on board, but, as a matter of fact, I did not expect you in the _Corea_, as she is a very slow boat.”
“I was anxious to get to Mrs. Farrow,” Sheila explained, “and so took the first steamer.”
“Where are you staying, Miss Carolan?” asked Myra.
“Oh, I've been very fortunate. I have actually secured a room at 'Magnetic Villa,' on Melton Hill; in fact I went there just after you had left.”
Myra clapped her hands with delight. “Oh, how lovely! I shall be there for a week, and my brother and Mr. Mallard are staying there as well.”
“So Mrs. Lee Trappème informed me,” said Sheila with a bright smile.
Mallard--an irrepressible joker and mimic--at once threw back his head, crossed his hands over his chest, and bowed in such an exact imitation of Mrs. Trappème that a burst of laughter followed.
“Now you two boys can run away and play marbles for a while, as Miss Carolan and I want to have a little talk before we go to the 'refined family circle' for dinner,” said Myra to her brother. “It is now six o'clock; our luggage has gone up, and so, if you will come back for us in half an hour, we will let you escort us there--to the envy of all the male population of this horrid, dusty, noisy town.”
“Very well,” said Grainger with a laugh, “Mallard and I will contrive to exist until then,” and the two men went off into the billiard-room.
“Now, Miss Carolan,” said the lively Myra, as she opened the door of the sitting-room and carried in the table on which were the glasses, champagne bottle, and ice, “we'll put these inside first. The sight of that ice will make every man who may happen to see it and who knows Ted come and introduce himself to me. Oh, this is a very funny country! I'm afraid it rather shocked you to see me drinking champagne on an hotel verandah in full view of passers-by. But, really, the whole town is excited--it has gold-fever on the brain--and then all the men are so nice, although their free and easy ways used to astonish me considerably at first. But diggers especially are such manly men---you know what I mean.”
“Oh, quite. I know I shall like North Queensland. There were quite a number of diggers on board the _Carea_, and one night we held a concert in the saloon and I sang 'The Kerry Dance'--I'm an Irishwoman--and next morning a big man named O'Hagan, one of the steerage passengers, came up and asked me if I would 'moind acceptin' a wee bit av a stone,' and he handed me a lovely specimen of quartz with quite two ounces of gold in it. He told me he had found it on the Shotover River, in New Zealand. I didn't know what to say or do at first, and then he paid me such a compliment that I fairly tingled all over with vanity. 'Sure an' ye'll take the wee bit av a stone from me, miss,' he said. 'I'm a Kerry man meself, an' when I heard yez singin' “The Kerry Dance,” meself and half a dozen more men from the oold sod felt that if ye were a man we'd have carried yez around the deck in a chair.”
“How nice of him!” said Myra; “but they are all like that. Nearly every one of my brother's men at Chinkie's Flat gave me something in the way of gold specimens when I left there.”
“Then,” resumed Sheila, “in the afternoon _all_ the steerage passengers sent me and the captain what they call a 'round robin,' and asked if he would let them have a concert in the steerage, and if I would sing. And we did have it--on the deck--and I had to sing that particular song _three_ times.”
“I wish I had been there! Do you know, Miss Carolan, that that big man who brought you here--Dick Scott--rough and uneducated as he is, is a gentleman. On our way down from Chinkie's Flat we had to swim our horses across the Ross River, which was in flood. When we reached the other side I was, of course, wet through, and my hair had come down, and I looked like a half-drowned cat, I suppose. There is a public-house on this side of the Ross, and we went there at once to change our clothes, which were in canvas saddle bags on a pack-horse, and came over dry. The public-house was full of people, among whom were three commercial travellers, who were doing what is called 'painting the place red'--they were all half-intoxicated. As I came in wet and dripping they leered at me, and one of them said, 'Look at the sweet little ducky--poor little darling--with her pitty ickle facey-wacey all wet and coldy-woldy.' Ted was not near me at the time, but Scott heard, and ten minutes later, as I was changing my clothes, I heard a dreadful noise, and the most _awful_ language, and then a lot of cheering. I dressed as quickly as possible and went out into the dining-room, and there on the floor were the three commercial travellers. Their faces looked simply dreadful, smothered in blood, and I felt quite sick. At the other end of the room were a lot of men, miners and stockmen, who were surrounding Dick Scott, slapping him on the back, and imploring him to drink with them. It seems that as soon as I had gone to my room to change, the valiant Dick had told them that the 'drummers' had insulted Mr. Grainger's sister, and in a few minutes the room was cleared and a ring formed, and Dick actually did what the landlord termed 'smashed up the whole three in five minutes.'”
“I'm sure I shall like Mr. Dick Scott,” said Sheila. “I had to try hard and not laugh when he pointed to you, and said in his big, deep voice, 'There they are, having a “cooler”'--I thought at first he meant you were cooling yourselves.”
“Any drink is called a 'cooler,' “explained Myra; “but, oh dear, how I do chatter! The fact is, I'm so wildly excited, and want to talk so much that I can't talk fast enough. But I _must_ first of all tell you this--I'm really most sincerely glad to meet you, for I feel as if I knew you well. Mrs. Farrow--I spent a week at Minerva Downs--told me you were coming, and that she was longing to see you. I am sure you will be very, very happy with her. She is the most lovable, sweet woman in the world, and when she spoke of your mother her eyes filled with tears. And the children are simply _splendid_. I suppose I am unduly fond of them because they made so much of me, and think that my brother is the finest rider in the world--'and he is that, indade'--isn't that Irish?”
“Yes,” said Sheila smilingly, “that is Irish; and I am sure I shall be very happy there.”
Myra Grainger, who was certainly, as she had said, wildly excited, suddenly moved her chair close to that on which Sheila sat.
“Miss Carolan, I'm sure that you and I will always be great 'chums'--as they say here in North Queensland--and I'm just dying to tell you of something. Within this last hour I have become engaged to Mr. Mallard! Even Ted doesn't know it yet. Oh, I have heaps and heaps of things to tell you. Can't we have a real, nice long talk to-night?”
“Indeed we can,” said Sheila, looking into the girl's bright, happy face.
|
{
"id": "24805"
}
|
9
|
~ DINNER WITH “THE REFINED FAMILY”
|
Somewhat to the annoyance of Grainger and his friends, they found on their arrival at “Magnetic Villa” that there were several other visitors there who had apparently come to dine. Whether they were personal friends of Mrs. Trappème or not, or were “paying guests” like themselves, they could not at first discover.
“Dinner will be ready at eight o'clock, Miss Grainger,” said Mrs. Trappème sweetly to Myra, who with Sheila had been shown into their private sitting-room; and then she added quickly, as she heard a footstep in the passage, “You have not met my daughter. Come, Juliette, dear--Miss Grainger, my eldest daughter; Miss Carolan, Miss Trappème.”
The two girls bowed rather coldly to Miss Trappème, who, after the usual commonplaces, asked Miss Grainger if she were not tired.
“Very--and so is Miss Carolan. We shall be glad of an hour's rest before dinner.”
The hint was unmistakable, and Miss Trappème smiled herself out, inwardly raging at what she told her mother was Sheila's forwardness in so soon thrusting herself upon Miss Grainger.
As she went out, Sheila looked at Myra and laughed. “We are certainly meant to be treated as members of the family, whether we like it or not. I wonder if the other people we saw are as pushful as 'Mamma' and 'Juliette.'”
“I trust not; that would be awful--even for a week.”
Mallard was in Grainger's room, sprawled out on the bed, talking to him and smoking, whilst the latter was opening a leather trunk which contained some bottles of whisky and soda water, and a small box which held the remains of the ice.
“We can't let this 'melt on as,' as the Irish would say, Mallard,” and he placed it in the toilet basin in its covering of blanket. “Now move your lazy self and break a piece off with your knife, whilst I open this bottle of Kinahan's and some soda. I trust the cultured family will not object to the sound of a cork popping at seven o'clock.”
“Not they,” said Mallard, as he rose; “they would not mind if you took the whisky to the table and drank it out of the bottle. Oh, I can gauge the old dame pretty well, I think; avarice is writ large in her face, and she'll squeeze us all she can. She told me in a mysterious aside that the butler kept all the very best wines and liquor obtainable. I thanked her, and said I usually provided my own. She didn't like it a bit; but I'm not going to pay her a sovereign for a bottle of whisky or Hennessey when I can get a case of either for a five-pound note. Oh!” he added disgustedly, “they're all alike.”
“Well, don't worry, old man,” said his friend philosophically, as he handed him a glass; “there, take this. I wonder if Mrs. Trap--Trapper, or whatever her name is, thinks we are going to dress for dinner. Neither my sister nor Miss Carolan will, and I'm sure I'm not going to establish a bad precedent.”
“Same here. If other people like to waste time dressing for dinner, let them; this town is altogether too new and thriving a place for busy men like ourselves to worry about evening dress. By the way, Grainger, I've some news for you that I trust will give you pleasure: your sister has promised to marry me next year.”
Grainger grasped his friend's hand. “I'm glad, very glad, old man. I was wondering what made her so unusually bright this afternoon; but she has kept it dark.”
“Hasn't had a chance to tell you yet. I only asked her a couple of hours ago.”
“Well, let us go and see her and Miss Carolan before dinner. I can hear them talking in the sitting-room. Hallo! who is that little fellow out there crossing the lawn with the younger Miss Trappème. He's in full fig. .”
Mallard looked out of the window and saw a very diminutive man in evening dress.
“Oh, that's little Assheton, the new manager for the Australian Insurance Company. He's just out from England. He's a fearfully conceited ape, but a smart fellow at the insurance business. Great fun at the 'Queen's' the other day with him. He came in, dressed in frock coat, tall hat, and carrying a thick, curly stick as big as himself. Of course every one smiled, and he took it badly--couldn't see what there was to laugh at; and when old Charteris, the Commissioner, asked him how much he would 'take for the hat,' he put his monocle up and said freezingly, 'Sir, I do not know you.' That made us simply howl, and then, when we had subsided a bit, Morgan the barrister, who is here on circuit with Judge Cooper, said in that fanny, deep, rumbling voice of his-- “'Are you, sir, one of the--ah--ah--circus company which--ah--arrived to-day?'
“The poor little beggar was furious, lost his temper, and called us a lot of ill-mannered, vulgar fellows, and then some one or other whipped off the offending hat, threw it into the street, and made a cockshy of it.
“'I'll have satisfaction for this outrage!' he piped. 'Landlord, send for a policeman. I'll give all these men in charge. Your house is very disorderly. Do you know _who_ I am?'
“'No, nor do I care,' said old Cramp, down whose cheeks the tears were running; 'but if you'll come here like that every day, I'll give you a sovereign, and we'll have the hat. Oh, you're better than any circus I ever saw. Oh, oh, oh!' and he went off into another fit.
“The poor little man looked at us in a dazed sort of a way--thought us lunatics, and then when old Char-tens asked him not to mind a bit of miners' horseplay, but to sit down and have some fizz, he called him 'an audacious ruffian,' and shrieked out-- “'I am Mr. B. D. Assheton--the manager of the Australian Insurance Company. Do you possibly imagine I would drink with a person _like you_?'”
Grainger laughed: “It must have been great fun.”
“Rather--but the cream of it is to come yet. He rushed oat into Flinders Street, found Sergeant Doyle and a policeman, and came back panting and furious, and pointing, to Charteris, told them to take him in charge. Doyle looked at us blankly, saw we were nearly dead with laughing, and then took Assheton aside, and said in his beautiful brogue-- “'Me little mahn, it's drinkin' ye've been. Do yez want me to arrest the Po-liss Magisthrate himsilf? Who are ye at all, at all? Ye'd betther be after goin' home and lyin' down, or I'll lock ye up for making a dishturbance. Do ye moind me now?'”
Grainger could no longer control his laughter, and in the midst of it, Myra tapped vigorously at the door, He rose and opened it.
“Whatever is all this noise about, Ted? You two great boys!”
“Oh, take Mallard away, Myra, for heaven's sake!”
A little before eight o'clock the deafening clamour of a gong announced dinner, and the company filed in. Mrs. Trappème and the Misses Trappème were in “very much evening dress” as Sheila murmured to Myra, and they seemed somewhat surprised that neither Miss Grainger nor Miss Carolan had donned anything more unusual than perfectly-made dainty gowns of cool white Indian muslin. Grainger and Mallard wore the usual white duck suits (the most suitable and favoured dress for a climate like that of torrid North Queensland), and Sheila could not but admire their big well-set-up figures--both were “six feet men”--and contrast their handsome, bronzed and bearded faces with the insignificant appearance of Assheton and another gentleman in evening dress--a delicate but exceedingly gentlemanly young Scotsman. Of course there were more introductions--all of which were duly and unnecessarily carried out by Mrs. Trappème. Others of that lady's guests were the local Episcopalian clergyman and his wife--the former was a placid, dreamy-looking, mild creature, with soft, kindly eyes. He smiled at everybody, was evidently in abject terror of his wife--a hard-featured lady about ten years his senior, with high cheek-bones and an exceedingly corrugated neck and shoulders. She eyed Myra and Sheila with cold dissatisfaction, and after dinner had once begun, devoted herself to the task of extracting information from the latter regarding her future movements. She had already discussed her with Mrs. Trappème, and had informed her hostess that she had “suspicions” about a girl who affected mystery in the slightest degree, and who could afford to pay six guineas a week for simple board and lodging.
“Quite so, Mrs. Wooler,” Mrs. Trappème had assented; “I must confess it doesn't look quite right. Even Juliette thinks it very strange for her to be so reticent as to who she is and where she is going. Of course I could have refused to receive her, and am now rather sorry I did not. I understood from her that Mr. Grainger was an utter stranger to her--and I was quite surprised to see them all come in together as if they had known each other for years. Not quite correct, I think.”
“Mr. Grainger is very rich,” said the clergyman's wife meditatively.
“Very,” said her friend, who knew that Mrs. Wooler meant to do a little begging (for church purposes) as soon as opportunity offered.
“It would be a pity for him to be involved with such a--a forward-looking young person,” she said charitably.
But for the first quarter of an hour she had no opportunity of satisfying her curiosity, for Sheila was quite hungry enough not to waste too much time in conversation. At last, however, a chance came, when Mr. Assheton said in his mincing voice-- “I believe, Miss Carolan, that like me, you are quite a new arrival in this country.”
“Oh, dear no! I have lived here ever since I was two years old.”
“Heah! in Townsville?”
“I meant Australia,” Sheila observed placidly.
“Then you are not an Australian born, Miss Carolan?” put in Mrs. Wooler with a peculiarly irritating condescension of manner and surprised tone, as if she meant to say, “I am sure you are--you certainly are not lady-like enough to be an English girl.”
“No, I am not,” was the reply. “Do you think you will like Queensland, Mr. Assheton?”
“I really have as yet formed no definite impression. Possibly I may in the end contrive to like it.”
“Do. It would be a great pity for the country if you did not,” said Sheila gravely, without moving an eyelid.
“Do you purpose making a long stay in Queensland, Miss Carolan?” pursued Mrs. Wooler.
“A very long one, perhaps--perhaps on the other hand a very short one. Or it may be that I may adopt a middle course, and do neither.”
Grainger, who was opposite, heard her, and as she looked across at him, he saw that she was “playing” her questioner and quite enjoying it.
Never for one moment did the clergyman's wife dream that Sheila meant to be anything else but evasive, so she followed up. To her mind it was absolutely incredible that any woman would dare to snub her--Mrs. Wooler--daughter of a dean, and possessing an uncle who had on several occasions been spoken of by the Bishop of Dullington as his probable successor; such a thing was impossible!
“I presume, however, that your stay in Townsville itself will be short, Miss Carolan? You will find it a very expensive place--especially if you have no friends to whom you can go.”
Sheila's face flushed. Her blood was getting up, and Myra looked at her nervously.
“Is there no 'Girls' Friendly Society,' 'Young Women's Christian Association,' or other kindred institution, where I could 'be taken in and done for'?” she asked sweetly.
“Not as yet; but I am thinking of taking steps to found a Girls' Friendly Society. Such an institution will soon be a necessity in a growing place like this.”
“How nice it would be for me to go there instead of staying at--at a boarding house!”
Juliette Trappème's sallow face flushed with rage, and Mrs. Trappème, who saw that something was occurring, spoke loudly to Mr. Wooler, who answered in his usual soft voice. But Mallard, who was seated next to Miss Lilla Trappème, shot Sheila an encouraging glance.
“Quite so,” went on Mrs. Wooler. “I disapprove most strongly of any young woman incurring risks that can be avoided.”
“What risks?” and Sheila turned and looked steadily at Mrs. Wooler.
The sharp query somewhat upset the inquisitive lady, who hardly knew what she meant herself.
“Oh, the risks of getting into debt--living beyond one's means--and things like that.”
“Oh, I see, madam,” and Sheila bowed gravely, although the danger signals were showing now on her cheeks. Then she added very clearly and distinctly, “That would be most dreadful to happen to any one, would it not, Mr. Assheton?”
“Oh, howwible--for a lady.”
“But,” she went on--and as she spoke she gazed so intently into Mrs. Wooler's face that every one at the table saw her change colour--“but I am sure, Mrs. Wooler, that no girl could possibly come to such a sad condition while _you_ are in Townsville, to give her the benefit of _your_ years, _your_ advice, and _your_ experience--even though that advice was thrust upon her in a manner that I believe might possibly cause well-deserved resentment,” and then, with a scornful smile still on her lips, she turned to Mr. Assheton and asked him sweetly if he did not “think it was beginning to be very warm so early in the year?”
“By heavens!” mattered Mallard to Myra, “she has done the parson woman good. Look at her face. It's unpleasant to look at.”
Mrs. Wooler's features were a study. Unable to speak, and her hands trembling with rage, she gave the girl one glance of hatred, and then tried to eat; and Viveash, who had the sense to do so, at once began telling her some idiotic and pointless story about himself when he sang in a cathedral choir until his voice “failed him.”
Just then a long ring was heard at the front door, and the butler presently came to Mallard, and said-- “One of the reporters, sir, from the _Champion_ wishes to see you. Most important, sir, he says. Will you please see him at once?”
Making his excuses, Mallard left the dining-room and went into one of the sitting-rooms, where the reporter was awaiting him.
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{
"id": "24805"
}
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10
|
~ THE “CHAMPION” ISSUES A “SPECIAL”
|
Ten minutes later Mallard was at the hall door giving instructions to the reporter.
“Hurry back as fast as you can, Winthrop, and tell Mr. Flynn to rash the special through. And as fast as any farther news come in rap out another. Get all the boys you can, and distribute the specials everywhere--anywhere. Chuck some over into the cemetery--they'll make the dead 'get up and holler.' Tell the boys that they are not to make any charge--get the foreman to head it 'Special! Gratis! (Any one newsboy who makes a charge for this special will be immediately dismissed.)' See? And tell the boys they will get five shillings each extra in the morning. I'll be down in another twenty minâtes or so. Go on, Winthrop, loop!”
Mr. Winthrop, who was as excited as Mallard himself, “looped,” and the editor returned to the dining-room with a galley-proof slip in his hand. Every one, of coarse, saw by his face that something had occurred.
“I won't sit down again, Mrs. Trappème, if you and the other ladies will excuse me, for I have to hurry back to the office to attend to some important business. There is great news.” Then, bending down, he placed his hand on Grainger's shoulder, and whispered, “You must come with me, old man. There is glorious news from Chinkie's. I'll tell you all about it in a minute, as soon as we are outside. Make your apologies and let us go,” and then going over to Mrs. Trappème, he handed her the proof to read to her guests and hurried out with Grainger, leaving every one in the room eager to learn what had occurred.
“Oh, dear me!” began Mrs. Lee-Trappème, adjusting her pince-nez, which always interfered with her sight.
“SPECIAL. 'TOWNSVILLE CHAMPION.'
“WRECK.
“9 P.M., May 2nd. “Authentic news has just reached the _Champion_ office that the mail steamer _Flintshire_ was wrecked on the Great Barrier Beef three days ago (the 5th). All the crew and passengers--200 in number-were saved, and are now on their way to Townsville. [Further particulars later.]”
“DREADFUL MASSACRE BY THE NOTORIOUS BLACK OUTLAWS.
“The Clonourry mail, which has been delayed by floods, brings news of a terrible massacre perpetrated by the ootlaw black ex-troopers Sandy and Daylight. A party of five miners who were camped at a lagoon near Dry Creek were surprised and murdered in their sleep by the two outlaws and a number of myall blacks. The bodies were found by the mail man. Inspector Lamington and a patrol of Native Polioe leave to- morrow to punish the murderers. Detailed particulars of the affair will be given in to-morrow's issue--Mudoch, the mail man, being too exhausted to stand the test of a long interview to-night.”
“WONDERFUL GOLD DISCOVERY NEAR CHINKIN'S FLAT.
“A NEW EL DORADO. “MR. GRAINGER AND HIS PARTNERS THE LUCKY MEN.
“By the Clonourry mail, which brought intelligence of the tragedy at Dry Creek, also comes most pleasurably exciting news. The 'Ever Victorious Grainger,' as his many friends often designate him, some months ago sent out a prospecting party to try the country near the headwaters of Banshee Greek, with the result that probably the richest alluvial field in Australia has been discovered. Over 2,000 os. of gold--principally in nuggets ranging from 100 oz. to 2 oz. -- have already been taken by Mr. Grainger's party. Warden Charteris, accompanied by an escort of white and black polioe, leaves for the place to-morrow night. The news of this wonderfully rich field has been two weeks reaching Townsville owing to the flooded condition of the country between Banshee Creek and Chinkie's Flat.
“Mr. Grainger is at present in this city on a short visit. His good fortune will benefit the country at large as well as himself and his energetic partners.”
“Dear me, how very exciting to be getting gold so easily!” said Mrs. Trappème, as she laid the proof on the table; “your brother will be delighted, Miss Grainger.”
“He will be pleased, of course,” absented Myra. “He always had a belief that a rich alluvial gold-field would be discovered in the Banshee Creek country. He sent this particular prospecting party away nearly two months ago.”
“What a hawwid story about the murdered diggahs!” said Mr. Assheton to Myra. “Did it occur neah where you were living, Miss Graingah?”
“About a hundred miles further westward, towards the Minerva Downs district. These two men, Sandy and Daylight, have committed quite a number of murders during the past two years. They killed five or six poor Chinese diggers on the Cloncurry Road last year. They are both well armed, and it is almost impossible to capture them, as they retreat to the ranges whenever pursued.”
“They are a most ferocious and desperate pair,” said Mr. Wooler, who then told their story, which was this:-- Some two or three years previously Sandy and Daylight, who belonged to one of the Native Police camps in the Gulf district,{*} had, while out on patrol, urged one of their comrades to join with them in murdering their white officer and then absconding. The other man refused, and, later on in the day, secretly told the officer that he was in great danger of being shot if he rode on ahead of the patrol as usual. As soon as the party returned to camp the two traitors were quietly disarmed, handcuffed, and then chained to a log till the morning. During the night they managed to free themselves (aided, no doubt, by the trooper who was detailed to guard them), killed the man who had refused to join them by cleaving his skull open with a blow from a tomahawk, and then decamped to the ranges with their rifles and ammunition. They found a refuge and safe retreat with the savage myalls (wild blacks) inhabiting the granite ranges, and then began a career of robbery and murder. Small parties of prospectors found it almost impossible to pursue their vocation in the “myall country,” for the dreaded ex-troopers and their treacherous and cannibal allies were ever, on the watch to cut them off. In the course of a few months, by surprising and killing two unfortunate Chinese packers, the desperadoes became possessed of their repeating rifles and a lot of ammunition, and the old single-shot police carbines were discarded for the more effective weapons. Sandy, who was the leader, was a noted shot, and he and his companion now began to haunt the vicinity of isolated mining camps situated in country of the roughest description. Parties of two or three men who had perhaps located themselves in some almost inaccessible spot would go on working for a few weeks in apparent security, leaving one of their number to guard the camp and horses, and on returning from their toil would find their comrade dead or severely wounded, the camp rifled of everything it contained, and the horses speared; and the hardy and adventurous pioneers would have to retreat to one of the main mining camps, situated perhaps fifty miles away, with nothing left to them but the hard-won gold they had saved and their mining tools, but ready and eager to venture forth again.
* Gulf of Carpentaria.
One day, so the clergyman related, a man named Potter was travelling from Burketown to Port Denison, and camped beside a small water-hole to rest until the morning. After unsaddling and hobbling out the horse he had been riding, and unloading the pack-horse, he threw his packbags at the foot of a Leichhardt tree, lit a fire, and began to boil a billy of tea. He knew that he was in dangerous country, and that it was unwise of him to light a fire, but being of a reckless disposition, and having a firm belief in his luck, he took no further precaution beyond opening the flap of his revolver pouch.
He had just taken out a piece of damper and some salt meat, which, with the hot tea, were to be his supper, when he was startled to hear some one address him by name, and looking up, he saw a powerfully-built black fellow with a long black beard and smiling face standing a dozen yards or so away. He was all but nude, but round his waist was buokled a broad leather police belt with two ammunition pouches; in his right hand he carried a repeating rifle.
“Don't you know me, Mr. Potter?” he said in excellent English.
Potter recognised him at once, and the two shook hands.
“Why, you're Sandy! Have you left the police?” (He knew nothing of what had occurred.)
“Yes,” was the reply, “I skipped,” and carelessly putting his rifle down, he asked Potter if he had any tobacco to spare.
“Yes, I can give you a few plugs,” and going to his saddle bags he produced four square plugs of tobacco, which he handed to his visitor, who took them eagerly, at once produced a silver-mounted pipe (probably taken from some murdered digger) filled it, and began to smoke and talk.
“My word, Mr. Potter,” he said with easy familiarity, “it is a good thing for you that I knew you,” and he showed his white, even teeth in a smile. “But I haven't forgot that when I got speared on the Albert River five years ago you drove me into Burketown in your buggy to get a doctor for me.” (He had formerly been one of Potter's stockmen, and had been badly wounded in an encounter with wild blacks.)
Potter made some apparently careless reply. He knew that Sandy, though an excellent stockman, had always had a bad record, and indeed he had been compelled to dismiss him on account of his dangerous temper. He heard later on that the man had joined the Black Police, and a deserter from the Black Police is in nine cases out of ten an unmitigated villain.
Then Sandy became communicative, and frankly told his involuntary host part--but part only--of his story, and wound up by saying-- “You must not sleep here to-night. There is a big mob of myalls camped in the river-bed three miles away from here. If they see you, they'll kill you for certain between now and to-morrow night, when you are going through some of the gorges. You must saddle up again, and I'll take you along another track and leave you safe.”
Tired as the horses were, Potter took Sandy's advice, and the two started at sunset, the blackfellow leading. They travelled for some hours, and then again camped--this time without a fire. Sandy remained till daylight, and during a further conversation boasted that he had enough gold in nuggets to allow him to have “a fine time in Sydney or Melbourne,” where he meant to make his way some day “when things got a bit quiet and people thought he was dead.” In proof of his assertion about the gold he gave Potter a two ounce nugget he picked out from several others which were carried in one of his ammunition pouches. Before they parted Potter gave him--at his particular request--one of the two blankets he carried, and then Sandy and he shook hands, and the blackfellow, rifle in hand, disappeared, and left his former master to continue his journey.
“What a hawwid chawacter!” said Mr. Assheton, when the clergyman had concluded his story. “Why don't the police exert themselves and catch or shoot the fellow?”
“It is such very difficult country,” explained Myra, “and, in fact, has not yet all been explored.”
The ladies rose, and Myra and Sheila, pleading fatigue, went to their rooms--or rather to Myra's--leaving Mrs. and Miss Trappème and Mrs. Wooler to, as Sheila said, “Tear me to pieces. But I could not let that woman insult me without retaliating.”
“Of course you did right. She's an odious creature.”
Grainger returned alone about eleven o'clock. He tapped at Myra's door, and asked her if she was asleep.
“No. Miss Carolan is here; we've been having a lovely talk.”
“Well, go to bed, and have a lovely sleep. I want to see you both, especially Miss Carolan, very early in the morning. We can all go out on the beach before breakfast.”
“Very well, Ted. Has Mr. Mallard come in?”
“No. He will not be here for another half-hour or more. Good-night.”
Mrs. Trappème had heard his voice, and quietly opened the door of her own sitting-room, where she and Juliette (Mrs. Wooler had gone) had been discussing Sheila's delinquencies.
“Well!” gasped the mother to her daughter, as she softly closed the door again. “What on earth _is_ going on, I should like to know! Did you hear that--'I want to see you both very early, especially Miss Garolan'? What _is_ there going on? I must go and see Mrs. Wooler in the morning and tell her. And on the beach too! Why can't they be more open?”
Master Mordaunt, who was in the corner devouring some jelly and pastry given to him by his fond mother, looked up and said, with distended cheeks-- “Ain't the beach open enough?”
“Hold your tongue, you horrid little animal,” said the irate Juliette.
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{
"id": "24805"
}
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11
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~ A CHANGE OF PLANS
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Myra and Sheila, both early risers, were dressed and awaiting Grainger on the verandah when he came out of his room at seven o'clock, and they at once descended the steep Melton Hill to the beach. The morning was delightfully fresh and cool, and the smooth waters of Cleveland Bay were rippling gently to a fresh southerly breeze. Eastward, and seven miles away, the lofty green hills and darker-hued valleys of Magnetic Island stood clearly out in the bright sunlight, and further to the north Great Palm Island loomed purple-grey against the horizon. Overhead was a sky of clear blue, flecked here and there by a few fleecy clouds, and below, on the landward side, a long, long curve of yellow beach trending from a small rocky and tree-clad point on the south to the full-bosomed and majestic sweep of Cape Halifax to the north.
“What a lovely day!” exclaimed Sheila as Grainger, as soon as they had descended the hill and stepped on the firm yellow sand, led them to a clump of black, shining rocks. “I wish I were a girl of twelve, so that I could paddle about in the water.”
“There is nothing to stop you doing that at Minerva Downs, Miss Cardan,” said Grainger with a smile. “There is a lovely fresh-water lagoon there, with a dear sandy bottom, and the Farrow children--big and little--spend a good deal of their time there bathing and fishing.” Then, as the girls seated themselves, he at once plunged into the subject uppermost in his mind.
“Myra, the news that came through last night has put me in a bit of a quandary, both as regards you and Miss Carolan. Now tell me, would you mind very much if I left you to-day and returned to Chinkie's Flat?”
“No, indeed, Ted. Surely I would not be so selfish as to interfere with your business arrangements!”
“That's a good little girl. I did want to stay in Townsville for a week or two after you had left, then I could have taken Miss Carolan as far as Chinkie's Flat on her way to Minerva Downs. But I can do something better, as far as she is concerned. You will only be here for a week, and you can suffer the Trappème people for that time. Mallard”--and he smiled--“will no doubt try to make the time pass pleasantly for you.”
“Don't be so silly, Ted. Get to the point about Miss Carolan. When is she leaving?”
“To-day--if you will, Miss Carolan--with me. The Warden and his troopers are leaving at noon for the new rush; and Charteris, when I explained things to him (I saw him last night at Mallard's office) said he will be very pleased if we will come with him. Will it be too much of a rush for you?”
“Oh no, Mr. Grainger! But I have no horse,” and then, as she thought of leaving her newly-found girl friend so soon, she looked a little miserable, and her hand stole into Myra's.
“Oh, that's all right,” said Grainger cheerfully. “I've two for you--Myra's, and one Charteris is lending me for you. Can you ride hard and fast? Charteris is a terror of a man for pushing along to a new rush.”
“I won't make him feel cross, I assure you, Mr. Grainger.”
“Then it's decided.” (Sheila well knew that whether | she had or had not decided, he had; yet though dimly resentful, she was quite content when she looked into his quiet grey eyes.) “You see, Miss Carolan, it's quite likely I may be able to go all the way with you to Minerva Downs, and therefore we ought not to miss travelling with the Commissioner as far as he goes. Sub-Inspector Lamington, of the Native Police, is also coming with us. He's off on a wild goose--or rather, a wild nigger--chase after Sandy and Daylight and their myall friends. If, when we get to Chinkie's Flat, I find that I _must_ go with Charteris to the new rush, your friend Dick Scott and my own trusty black boy Jacky will take you on to Minerva Downs. You can travel with Lamington and his troopers part of the way after you leave Chinkie's. Take some light luggage on a pack-horse--the rest, I am sorry to say, will have to come on from here by bullock team. But it is not unlikely that I may be able to take you all the way.”
“I am very, very grateful to you, Mr. Grainger,” said Sheila. “I fear I am going to prove a great encumbrance to you.”
“Oh, Ted is a dear old brother!” said Myra, patting his brown, sun-tanned hand affectionately.
After a walk along the beach as far as the small, rocky point, they returned to breakfast, and great was Mrs. Trappème's astonishment when Grainger informed her that he was leaving in a few hours.
“Not for long, I trust?” she said graciously, bearing in mind that he had told her he might remain for a week or two after Myra had left.
“I do not think I shall be in Townsville again for some months,” he replied, as he handed her fourteen guineas. “This is for the week for my sister and for me.”
“Thank you,” said the lady, with a dignified bow--for she felt a little resentful at his not telling her more. Then she said with a sweet smile, “We will take good care of Miss Grainger. Either my daughters or I will be delighted to see her safely on board the steamer.”
“Thank you; but Mr. Mallard will do that.”
“Oh, indeed!” said the lady, with unmistakable disappointment in her voice, and then Grainger, without saying a word about Sheila, went to his room to pack, and talk to Mallard, who had not yet risen.
“I wonder if Mr. Mallard is leaving too now that his friend is going,” anxiously said Juliette a few minutes later.
“If he does I shall insist upon having the ful six guineas,” remarked her mother angrily. “No, on second thoughts I won't _ask_ for it. Whether he leaves or not, I may find him very useful. I quite mean to ask him to every day publish a 'list of guests at “Magnetic Villa.”'”
“Miss Carolan wud like to see yez, mum, if ye are dishengaged,” said Mary, entering the room.
Sheila was in the drawing-room, and thither Mrs. Trappème sailed.
“I shall be leaving Townsville to-day, I find,” she said politely. “Would it be inconvenient for you to have my luggage sent to Hanran & Co., who will store it for me until I need it?”
Mrs. Trappème's curiosity was intense, but she remembered Mrs. Wooler's experience of the previous evening--and feared. And then she had had the girl's money in advance.
“Oh, I am so sorry you are going,” she said, with a would-be motherly smile. “Of course I will send it anywhere you wish--but why not leave it here in my care?” And then she could not resist asking one question: “Are you going to Minerva Downs, Miss Carolan, may I ask?”
“Yes; I am going there.”
“What a dreadfully long journey for you! Does it not alarm you? And you are surely not travelling alone?”
“Oh, no; I am fortunate in having quite a large escort. Will you send the luggage down as soon as possible, Mrs. Trappème?”
“Certainly,” replied the lady--this time with a stiff bow; for she was now inwardly raging at not having learnt more. Then she went off to tell Juliette this new development.
At ten o'clock, after Mallard had breakfasted, he and Grainger (the latter bidding Mrs. and the Misses Trappème a polite goodbye) went away, and shortly after Dick Scott appeared, leading a pack-horse. He took off the empty bags, and marched up to the front door.
“Mr. Grainger has sent these to Miss Caroline, miss,” he said to Lilla Trappème, “and will you please ask her to put her things into 'em and I'll wait?”
Myra helped Sheila pack some clothing, rugs, &c, into the bags, and Mary took them out to the burly Dick.
“By jingo! you're the finest woman I've seen here yet,” said he affably to the blushing Mary. “Now, will you tell Miss Caroline and Miss Grainger that I'll be up with the horses in half an hour? Goodbye, bright eyes.”
He returned within the time, riding his own horse and leading two others.
“Sidesaddles,” said Juliette to her mother as they watched through the dining-room windows the big digger dismount and hang the horses' reins over the front gate.
As he strode across the lawn, they heard Mary's voice in the hall. It sounded as if she were half crying.
“Goodbye, miss, and Hivin's blessin' on ye; and may God sind ye a good husband.”
A moment or two later she entered, wiping her eyes. “The ladies are goin', and wish to spake to yez,” she said.
Mrs. Trappème and her daughters rose, as Myra and Sheila, clad in their neatly-fitting habits, came into the room.
“I am going to accompany Miss Carolan and my brother for a few miles, Mrs. Trappème, so I shall not be here for lunch,” said Myra.
“Oh, indeed,” said Mrs. Trappème faintly; and then, with a pleasant smile from Myra, and a coldly polite bow from Sheila, they were gone.
Scott swung them up into their saddles, and in another minute they were descending the hill.
Mother and daughter looked at each other.
“So she's going with Mr. Grainger,” said Juliette, with an unpleasant twitch of her thin lips; “the--the little _cat! _ I'd like to see her fall off!”
“Never mind her--she's gone now--and I have had six guineas from her,” remarked her amiable mamma. “Now, if you are coming into Flinders Street with me, make haste, and don't sit grizzling.”
Poor Juliette! Poor Mrs. Lee-Trappème! When they descended the hill and emerged out into Flinders Street, they found the side-path crowded with people, who were all gazing into the great yard of the Queen's Hotel, from which was emerging a cavalcade. First came four people--the white-bearded Charteris with Myra, and Grainger with Sheila; after them a sergeant and six white police, and ten Native Police with carbines on thighs, and then Dick Scott and dark-faced Inspector Lamington; behind followed a troop of spare horses.
As they swung through the gates, the crowd cheered as Charteris gave the word, and the whole party went off at a sharp canter down the long, winding street.
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{
"id": "24805"
}
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12
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~ SHEILA BECOMES ONE OF A VERY “UNREFINED” CIRCLE
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The night wind was soughing mournfully through the dark line of she-oaks fringing the banks of a small, swiftly-running creek, when Sheila was awakened by some one calling to her from outside the little tent in which she was sleeping. She sat up and looked out.
“Did you call me, Mr. Grainger?”
“Yes. There is a storm coming down from the ranges. Sorry to awaken you, but we want to make your tent more secure.”
Aided by Scott, whose giant figure Sheila could scarcely discern--so dark was the night--Grainger soon had the tent prepared to resist the storm. As they worked, there came such an appalling thunderclap that it shook the ground beneath her, and for some minutes she was unable to hear even the droning roar of the rain-laden tornado that came tearing down from the mountains, snapping off the branches of the gum-trees, bending low the pliant boles of the moaning she-oaks, and lifting the waters of the creek up in sheets.
A hand touched her face in the Cimmerian darkness, and Dick Scott's voice (he was shouting with all the strength of his mighty lungs) seemed to whisper-- “Lie down, miss; lie down, and don't be afeerd. The tent will stand, as we are pretty well sheltered here, and------” Another fearful thunderclap cut short his words, and she instinctively clutched his hand. She was used to terrific thunderstorms in New South Wales, but she had neyer heard anything so awful as this--it seemed as if the heavens had burst.
“Where is Mr. Grainger?” she asked, putting her lips to Dick's ear and speaking loudly.
“Here, beside me, miss.”
“And poor Jacky! Where is he?”
“We'll find out presently, miss. Most likely the horses have cleared out, and he's gone after 'em,” shouted Scott.
For another five minutes the howling fury of the wind and the hissing of the rain rendered any further conversation impossible. Then came a sudden lull of both. Grainger struck a match and lit a small lantern he was holding, and Sheila felt a great satisfaction as the light showed upon his face---calm and quiet as ever--as he looked at her and smiled.
“You must pardon us coming into the tent, Miss Carolan, but we wanted to light and leave the lantern with you. I'm afraid the horses have bolted for shelter into the sandalwood scrub lower down the creek, or into the gullies, and Jacky has gone after them. Will you mind staying here alone for an hour or two whilst Scott and I help him to find them?”
“Not at all,” she replied bravely, “and I really do not need the light. I am not at all afraid.”
“I know that, Miss Garolan. But it will serve to show us the way back.” (This was merely a kindly fiction.) “And if, during a lull in the rain, you should hear any of the horses' bells, will you fire two shots from that Winchester rifle there beside you? It is possible that they may be quite near to us. Old Euchre” (one of the pack-horses) “has as much sense as a Christian, and it is quite likely that whilst Scott, Jacky, and I are looking for them in the scrub, he will lead them back here.”
Then placing the lantern beside her, and partly shielding it with a saddle cloth to protect it more folly from the gusts of wind, he and Scott went out into the blackness.
She heard Scott a minute or two later give a loud _Coo-ee! _ for Jacky, and fancied she heard an answering cry from the blackboy, a long distance away. Then the rain again descended in a torrential downpour, and drowned out all other sounds.
***** Two weeks had passed since Sheila had left Townsville with Grainger and the hard-riding old Warden and the swarthy-faced Lamington and his savage-eyed, half-civilised troopers. At Chinkie's Flat they had learnt that there were now three hundred white miners at the new rush on Banshee Creek, but that everything was quiet, and that no disputes of any kind had occurred, and all that Charteris would have to do would be to visit the place, and, according to the “Gold-fields Act,” proclaim Banshee Creek to be a new gold-field. So, after spending a night at Grainger's new house, built on the ridge overlooking the “Ever Victorious” battery, with its clamorous stampers pounding away night and day, the Warden bid Sheila and Grainger goodbye, and rode off with his hardy white police, leaving Lamington and his black, legalised murderers to go their own way in pursuit of Sandy and Daylight, and “disperse” the myalls--if they could find them--such dispersion meaning the shooting of women and children as well as men.
Now, the truth is, that Grainger should have gone on with the Warden to the new rush, where his prospecting party was anxiously awaiting his arrival; but he was deeply in love with Sheila Carolan, and she with him, although she did not know it. But she was mightily pleased when the “Ever Victorious” Grainger told her that he was going to take her all the way to Minerva Downs, as he “wanted to see Farrow about buying a hundred bullocks to send to the new rush at Banshee Creek.” (This was perfectly true, but he could very easily have dispatched a letter to Farrow, who would have sent the bullocks to the meat-hungry diggers as a matter of business.)
As she had stood on the verandah of Grainger's house in the early morning, watching Charteris and his troopers depart, and listening to the clang and thud of the five-and-twenty stampers of the new battery of the “Ever Victorious” pounding out the rich golden quartz, handsome, swarthy-faced Sub-Inspector Lamington ascended the steps and bade her good morning.
“So you and Grainger travel with me for another ninety miles or so, Miss Carolan,” he said with undisguised pleasure. “Will you be ready soon?”
“In half an hour.”
“Ah, that's right. My boys and I are anxious to get to work,” and he went on to the horse yard.
Sheila could not help a slight shudder as she heard the soft-voiced, _debonnair_ Lamington speak of his “work.” She knew what it meant--a score or two of stilled, bullet-riddled figures of men, women, and children lying about in the hot desert sand, or in the dark shades of some mountain scrub.
Charteris had told her Lamington's story. He was the only survivor of an entire family who had been massacred by the blacks of Fraser's Island, and had grown up with but one object in life--to kill every wild black he came across. For this purpose alone he had joined the Native Police, and there were dark tales whispered of what he had done. But the authorities considered him “a good man,” and when he and his fierce troopers rode into town and reported that a mob of wild blacks had been “dispersed,” no one ventured to ask him any questions, but every one knew what had occurred.
So with Lamington and his silent, grim Danites, Sheila, Grainger, Scott, and Jacky travelled together for nearly a hundred miles, and then the two companies separated--Lamington heading towards that part of the forbidding-looking mountain range where he hoped to find his prey, and Grainger and his party keeping on to the west.
“It's dangerous country, Grainger,” the police officer said as he bade them goodbye. “There are any amount of niggers all around, so you will need to be careful about your fire at night. Shift your camp a good half mile after you have lit your fire and had supper.”
Grainger smiled. “I've been through the mill, Lamington. But I don't think we shall have any trouble unless you head them off and send Sandy and his friends down on to us.”
“I do mean to head them off, and drive them down from the range into the spinifex country about thirty miles from here, when I can round them up,” said Lamington softly, as if he were speaking of driving game. “Sorry you won't be with me to see the fun. The £500 reward for the production of Messieurs Sandy and Daylight--alive or dead--I already consider as mine. It will give up a trip to Melbourne to see the Cup next year.”
“But you can't claim the money--you're an official.”
“This is an exceptional case, and no distinction is to be made between civilians and policemen--the Government does sensible things _sometimes_.”
* * * * * Two hours passed, and Sheila, anxiously awaiting the sound of the horses' bells, or the reappearance of Grainger and Scott, began to feel that something had gone amiss. The storm had ceased, and when she rose and stepped outside she saw that a few stars were shining. Seating herself upon a granite boulder, she listened intently, but the only sound that broke the black silence of the night was the rushing of the waters of the creek.
She placed her hands to her mouth, and was about to give a loud _Coo-ee! _ when her pride stopped her.
“If they hear me,” she thought, “they will think I am frightened.”
She went back into the tent and again lay down, and tried by the light of the lantern to read a book which Myra Grainger had given her. Her watch had stopped, and when she put the book aride she knew that the dawn was near for the harsh cackle of a wild pheasant sounded from the branches of a Leichhardt tree near by, and was answered by the shrill, screaming notes of a flock of king-parrots which the storm had driven to settle amidst the thick, dense scrub on the bank of the creek.
Quite suddenly she became aware that something was moving about in the grass outside the tent, and a thrill of alarm made her instinctively clutch the Winchester rifle beside her. Surely there was some one there, whispering! Very quietly she sat up and waited. Yes, there certainly were people outside, and a cold chill of terror possessed her when the whisperings changed to a rapid and louder muttering in an unknown tongue, and she knew that her visitors were blacks!
Unable to even speak, she heard the soft rustle of footsteps drawing nearer and nearer, and then the closed flap of the tent was pulled slowly aside by a long black hand, and the wicked eyes of the bearded face of a huge aboriginal, naked to the waist, gazed into hers. For a second or two he looked at her, watching her terrified expression as a snake watches the fascinated bird; then he drew back his lips and showed two rows of gleaming teeth in a fierce smile of exultation. By a mighty effort she tried to raise the Winchester, and in another moment the blackfellow sprang at her, covered her head with a filthy kangaroo skin and silently bore her outside.
For quite ten minâtes she felt herself being carried swiftly along, till her captor came to the creek, which he crossed. Then he uncovered her face and spoke to her in English.
“If you make a noise I will kill you, and throw your body in the creek. I am Sandy the Trooper.”
She gazed at him mechanically, too horrified at her surroundings to utter a sound. For dawn had just broken and she saw that she was standing in a small open space in the midst of a sandalwood scrub, and encircled by twenty or thirty ferocious-looking myall blacks all armed with spears and waddies. The strong ant-like odour which emanated from their jet-black skins filled her nostrils and, putting her hands to her eyes, she shuddered and fell upon her knees with a choking sob.
“Come, none of that, missie,” said another voice in English, and her hands were rudely pulled aside; “you must get up and walk. Perhaps we won't hurt you. But if you make a noise I'll give you a tap on the head with this waddy,” and the speaker flourished a short club over her head. “Come! get up!”
She obeyed him, rose slowly to her feet, and in another instant darted aside, and, breaking through the circle of myalls, plunged into the scrub towards the creek. But before she had gone twenty yards one of them had seized her by her loosened hair, and a long pent-up scream burst from her lips.
Again the filthy skin was thrown over her head, then her hands were quickly tied behind her with a strip of bark.
Sandy lifted her up in his arms, and he, Daylight, and their followers plunged into the forest and set off towards the mountains.
|
{
"id": "24805"
}
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13
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~ ON THE SCENT
|
Through the blackness of the night and the pouring rain Grainger and Scott made their way down the right bank of the creek to where, a mile or a mile and a half away, was a thick scrub of sandalwood trees, in which they imagined the terrified horses had taken refuge. The rushing, foaming waters guided them on their way, though every now and then they had to make a detour round the heads of some gullies, which were bank high with backwater from the swollen creek. As soon as there was a lull in the storm they again _Coo-eed_, but received no answer from Jacky. Grainger, who had the most implicit faith in the judgment of his blackboy, now began to fear that the horses, instead of making for the scrub, had gone towards the mountains, where it would perhaps be most difficult to get them. However, there was nothing to be done but to first examine the scrub, and then to see what had become of Jacky. Both he and Scott had brought their bridles with them, and the blackboy, they knew, had his as well, and they were hoping that at any moment they might meet him driving the horses back to the camp.
By the time the scrub was reached the storm had begun to break somewhat, for although rain still fell heavily, the wind was losing its violence; and presently, to their satisfaction, they heard Jacky's voice shouting somewhere near them.
“Where are you?” called out Scott.
“Here, on cattle camp, in middle of scrub. I been catch old Euchre and two more horse, but can't find other pack-horse and bay filly and roan colt. I 'fraid they been go 'way back up mountain.”
They found him engaged in tying up the foreleg of Scott's horse with strips of his shirt. The animal, when racing along in the dark, had fallen and out itself badly from knee to hoof. Grainger examined the injury, and saw that, although the poor creature was very lame, it could easily be led to the camp. But the loss of the remaining horses was a serious matter, and after a brief discussion it was resolved to first make a thorough search along the creek for another mile before giving up any hopes of finding them in the vicinity of the scrub. Then, if no traces could be found, they were to return to the camp for their saddles, and Jacky and Grainger would endeavour to pick up their tracks as soon as daylight broke.
An hour was spent fruitlessly, and they turned back and made for the camp, Scott and Grainger riding barebacked, and Jacky going ahead on foot, leading the lame horse. Presently they came to a deep, rocky gully, which they crossed, and were carefully ascending the steep bank when Scott's horse tripped over a loose stone and fell heavily, with his rider underneath.
Jacky and Grainger at once went to his assistance and got the horse away, but Scott lay perfectly motionless, and when spoken to did not answer. Grainger, like all good bushmen, had kept his matches dry, and, striking a light, he saw that the big digger had not only received some injury to his head, but, worse still had broken his leg; the bone had snapped completely across half-way down from the knee.
For quite ten minutes the poor fellow remained unconscious, then, when he came to his senses, his first question was about the horse. Was he hurt?
“No, Dick; but your leg is broken.”
The language that flowed from Mr. Scott's bearded lips cannot possibly be set down, but he resigned himself cheerfully to Grainger and Jacky when they put the broken limb into rough splints made of bark and twigs to keep it in position until they could do something better on their arrival at the camp.
Refusing to be carried, Scott dragged himself up the bank, and then allowed them to lift him on Euchre's back, Grainger riding and Jacky walking beside him.
By the time they reached the camp it was broad daylight, and an alarmed look came into Grainger's eyes when there was no response to his loud _Coo-ee! _ thrice repeated.
Suddenly Jacky, whose dark eyes were rolling unnaturally as he glanced all around him, let go the horse he was leading, sprang forward, and entered the tent. He reappeared in a moment.
“What is wrong, Jacky? Where is she?”
“Gone,” was the quick reply. “Myall blackfellow been here and take her away!”
“Good God!” said Grainger hoarsely, feeling for the moment utterly unnerved as he watched the black-boy walk quickly round and round the tent, examining the grass.
“Plenty blackfellow been here,” he said, “but only one fellow been go inside tent. I think it, he catch him up missie when she sleep------” An oath broke from Scott's lips. “Let me down, boss, let me down! It's all my fault. Quick! put me inside the tent and let me be. You and Jacky has two good horses, and Jacky is the best tracker this side o' the country.”
“I'll see to your leg first, Dick,” cried Grainger, as he and Jacky lifted him off Euchre and helped him into the tent.
“By jingo, you won't, boss!” was the energetic reply. “What does it matter about my leg? Let me be. I'll pull along all right, even if you are away for a day, or two days, or a week. For God's sake, boss, don't fool about me! Think of _her_. Saddle up, saddle up, and bring her back! They can't be far away. Jacky, I'll give you fifty pounds if you get her. Boss, take plenty o' cartridges an' some tucker. I'll be as right as rain here. But hurry, hurry, boss! If they get her into the mountains we'll never see any more of her but her gnawed bones,” and the big man struck his clenched fist passionately upon the ground.
But Grainger, although almost maddened with fear as to Sheila's fate, would not leave the man helpless, and whilst Jacky was saddling the horses, he put provisions and water, and matches and tobacco, near the poor, excited digger. Then, with the blackboy's aid, he quickly and effectively set the broken leg with proper splints, seized round with broad strips of ti-tree bark. “There, Dick, that's all I can do for you now.” “You're losing time over me, boss. Hurry, hurry! and get the young lady back for God's sake.”
Five minutes later Jacky had picked up the tracks of Sandy and Daylight and their allies, and he and Grainger, with hearts beating high with hope, were following them up swiftly and surely.
|
{
"id": "24805"
}
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14
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~ “MISS CAROLINE” IS “ALL RIGHT” (VIDE DICK SCOTT )
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The tracks of the abductors of Sheila were easily discernible to the practised eyes of Jacky--than whom a better tracker was not to be found in North Queensland. They led in an almost direct line towards the grim mountain range for about seventeen miles, and then were lost at a rapidly-flowing, rocky-bottomed stream--a tributary of that on which Grainger's camp had been made.
Never for one instant did Grainger think of questioning the judgment of his tried and trusted blackboy, when, as they came to the stream, he jumped off his horse and motioned to his master to do the same.
“Them fellow myall have gone into water, boss, and walk along up,” he said placidly, as he took out his pipe, filled and lit it. Then he added that they had better take the saddles off the horses, short-hobble them, and let them feed.
“You don't think, Jacky, that they” (he meant the blacks) “might get on too far ahead of us?” he asked, as he dismounted.
“No, boss, they are camped now, 'bout a mile or two mile farther up creek. We can't take horses there--country too rough, and myall blackfellow can smell horse long way off--all same horse or bullock can smell myall blackfellow long way off.”
Grainger knew that this was perfectly true--cattle and horses can always scent wild blacks at a great distance, and at once show their alarm. And that the country was too rough for Jacky and him to go any further with the horses was quite evident. However, he knew that as soon as his companion had taken a few pulls at his pipe he would learn from him what his plans were.
The weapon that the black boy usually carried was a Snider carbine, but he had left that at the camp, and taken the spare Winchester--the one Sheila had dropped in the tent: and he was now carefully throwing back the lever, and ejecting the cartridges, and seeing that it was in good order ere he re-loaded it.
“Your rifle all right, boss?” he asked.
“All right, Jacky; and my revolver too.”
Jacky grunted--somewhat contemptuously--at the mention of the revolver. “You won't get chance with rewolber, boss. Rifle best for you an' me this time, I think it. Rewolber right enough when you ride after myall in flat country.”
“Very well, Jacky,” said Grainger, “I'll leave the revolver behind. What are we going to do?”
“First, short-hobble horses, and let 'em feed--plenty grass 'bout here. Then you follow me. I think it that them fellow myall camp” (rest) “'bout two mile up creek.”
“How many are there, Jacky?”
“'Bout twenty, boss--perhaps thirty. And I think it that some feller runaway policeman with them--Sandy or Daylight, I beleeb.”
“What makes you think that?” said Grainger, instantly remembering that Lamington had said that he meant to try and head off Sandy and his myalls down into the spinifex country.
“Come here, boss.”
Grainger followed him to the margin of the creek, which although at dawn had been running half bank high, owing to the tremendous downpour of rain, was now at its normal level.
“Look at that, boss.”
He pointed to a triangular indentation, which, with footmarks, was imprinted in the soft yellow sand at the foot of a small boulder; and taking the butt of his Winchester rifle, fitted it into the impression.
“Some feller with Winchester rifle been sit down here, boss, and light his pipe. See, he been scrape out pipe,” and he indicated some partially consumed shreds of tobacco and some ashes which were lying on the sand.
“Ah, I see, Jacky,” and a cold chill of horror went through him as he thought of Sheila being in the power of such a fiend as Sandy. The myalls would in all likelihood want to kill and eat her, but Sandy or Daylight would probably wish to keep her a captive. And that Jacky was correct in his surmise there could be but little doubt--both the outlawed ex-policemen had Winchesters, taken from the Chinese packers whom they had murdered.
“Go on, Jacky, my boy, for God's sake!” he said hoarsely, placing his hand on the blackboy's shoulder. “Missie may be killed if we do not hurry.”
“No fear, boss!” replied Jacky with cheerful confidence, as he proceeded to strip. “You 'member what I told you 'bout that white woman myall blacks take away with them long time ago when ship was break up near Cape Melville, and they find her lying on beach? They didn't kill her--these myall nigger like White Mary {*} too much. I don't think these fellow will kill Missie. I think it Daylight or Sandy will want her for _lubra_. {**} Take off boots, boss.”
Grainger pulled off his knee boots, and threw them up on the bank, and then he and Jacky short-hobbled the horses, and let them feed. The blackboy had stripped himself of every article of clothing, except the remnants of his shirt, which he had tied round his loins; over it was strapped his leather belt with its cartridge pouch.
“Come on, boss,” and then instead of crossing the creek as Grainger had imagined he would, he led the way along the same side, explaining that the myalls, expecting--but not fearing--pursuit, would do all that they could to make the pursuers believe that they had walked up through the creek for a certain distance, and then crossed over to the opposite side. The gins{***} and picaninnies, he said, were not with the party that had seized Sheila, neither were there any dogs with them.
* “White Mary”--A white woman.
** Wife.
*** Gins. Synonymous with _lubra_--i.e., a wife.
“And you will see, boss,” he said, as, after they had come a mile and a half, he pointed to a sandbank on the side of the creek, deeply imprinted with footmarks, “we will find them eating fish in their camp. Look there.”
Grainger saw that on the sandbank were a number of dead fish which had been swept down the creek from pools higher up. That many more had been left stranded, and then taken away, was very evident by the disturbed state of the sand and the numerous footmarks.
Suddenly a harsh sound of many voices fell upon their ears, and Jacky came to a dead stop.
Motioning to Grainger to lie down and await his return, he slipped quietly away, his lithe, black body gliding like a snake through the dense jungle which clothed the banks of the creek.
A quarter of an hour later he came back, his black eyes rolling with subdued excitement.
“Come on, boss; it is all right. They are camped in an old _boora_ {*} ground, and Sandy and Daylight are going to fight for Missie. I saw Missie.”
* A place which the Australian aborigines use for their corroborées and certein religious rites.
“Where was she?” said Grainger, whose heart was thumping fiercely as, rifle in hand, he sprang to his feet.
“In the middle of the _boora_ ground. She sit up, but all the same as if she sleep---eyes shut.”
“Oh, God, to think that I left her! --to look after horses,” Grainger said bitterly to himself as he followed Jacky, who little knew how dear Sheila was to the heart of his “boss.”
Swiftly but cautiously Jacky led the way through the scrub until they came to the margin of the _boora_ ground, and then Grainger saw twenty or thirty blacks seated on the ground in a circle, spears and waddies in hand. In the centre was Sheila, crouched on her knees, with her hands covering her eyes. On each side of her was a Winchester rifle, and a belt with an ammunition pouch--her dowry. And standing near by her, attended by their nude seconds, were Daylight and Sandy, who were also armed with spears and waddies. They were both stripped and painted, and ready to slaughter each other.
“Boss,” whispered Jacky, “which feller you want to take?”
“I'll take the big man with the beard,” said Grainger, as he drew up his Winchester.
“All right, boss! I take the other man--that's Daylight. But don't shoot until they walk across _boora_ ground, and turn and face each other. Shoot him through _bingie_,{*} boss--don't try for head, you might miss him.”
* Stomach.
“All right, Jacky,” and Grainger lay flat on the ground and brought his rifle to his shoulder, “but don't miss your man.”
“No fear of that, boss. I'm going to give it to Daylight between the eyes. But let me drop him first.”
“Right.”
Daylight and Sandy were taken by their seconds to opposite sides of the ring, and then, drawing their heads back and poising their spears, they awaited each other's attack.
Then Jacky's Winchester cracked, and Daylight span round and fell dead, and Sandy's spear flew high in air as a bullet took him fair in the chest. And then the savage instinct to slay came upon and overwhelmed Grainger, as well as his black boy, and shot after shot rang out and laid low half a dozen of the sitting and expectant savages ere they could recover from their surprise and flee.
Grainger rushed forward to Sheila and lifted her up.
A hysterical sob burst from her as she put her trembling hands out towards him.
“Oh, I knew you would come! I knew you would come!” and then her eyes closed, and she lay quiet in his arms.
* * * * * That night, as Sheila, with tear-swollen eyes of gratitude to God for her preservation, lay sleeping in the little tent, Grainger and the ever-faithful Jacky sat smoking their pipes beside the recumbent figure of burly Dick Scott, who, broken-legged as he was, had insisted upon being taken outside and camping with them.
“Boss,” he said, as he handed his pipe to Jacky to be filled, “this will be suthin' for Mr. Mallard to put in the _Champion_, eh?”
“Yes, Dick, old son,” and Grainger put his hand on the big man's shoulder, with a kindly light shining in his quiet, grey eyes. “I'll write and tell him all about it. And I'll tell him what a real, downright, out-and-out 'white man' you are.”
“Git out, boss,” and the rough, bearded digger laughed childishly with pleasure; “if I sees anythin' in the Champion about me, blow me but I'm goin' back to Townsville, and I mean to spark that gal at 'Magnet Villa'--she that was a-cryin' when Miss Caroline came away.”
“Right you are, Dick. You have promised Jacky fifty pounds if he brought Miss Carolan back--and you will give it to him. But you are one of the 'Ever Victorious' crowd, and don't want money, so I won't say any more except that I'll give Mrs. Dick Scott five hundred sovereigns for a wedding present. What is her present surname, Dick?”
“Don't know, boss. Didn't ask her. But if she isn't snapped up by one of them flash banker fellows, or some other paper-collared swell, I think I'll get her. Mr. Mallard and Miss Myra said they would put in a good word for me, seein' as I hadn't no time to do any courtin' myself.”
“Dick, old son, she's yours! If you have got my sister and Mr. Mallard to speak for you, it's all right--that's a dead certainty. How is your leg?”
“Bully, boss--just bully. Say, boss!”
“Yes, Dick.”
“D'ye think we'll get them missin' horses?”
“Horses be hanged! Do you think I'm troubling about them just now?”
“Why, certingly you ought to be troublin' about 'em. Isn't the roan colt and the bay filly worth troublin' about? The best blood in the whole bloomin' country is in that bay filly o' Miss Caroline's. And Jimmy Ah San offered you ninety pound for the roan, didn't he?”
Grainger put out his hand, and grasping Scott's long beard, pretended to shake it.
“Just you go to sleep, Dick Scott, and don't waggle your chin and talk about horses or anything else. You are a blessed nuisance, and if you wake Miss Carolan up I'll pound you when you get better!”
Scott grinned, and then he put out his hand.
“Boss, have you fixed it up with her? I thought as how that there was nothin' in the world so sweet in the way of wimmen as Miss Myra; but Miss Caroline runs her a close second.”
“I have not asked her yet, Dick.”
“You ask her to-morrow, boss. You take my tip, or before you knows where you are some other fellow will be jumpin' your claim and gettin' her.”
“I'll think of it, Dick.”
“Don't think too long over it, boss. If it wos me, I'd see it through the first thing to-morrow momin'.”
“You mind your own business, Mister Richard Scott,” said Grainger, with a laugh.
“All right, boss; but what about them horses? That bay filly------” “Go to sleep, you silly old ass.”
* * * * * At dawn Lamington and his Danites came splashing through the creek, and Grainger was aroused by a loud “Hallo!” as the swarthy-faced Inspector cantered up to the tent and dismounted.
“Well, here you are, Grainger. I know all that has happened. I rounded up the myalls outside the _boora_ ground, only half an hour after you had left, and one of the bucks--whom I dropped with a bullet through his thigh--told me what had occurred, when Sandy and Daylight were just about to fight. How is Miss Carolan?”
“Well. She is sleeping. Take a peg,” and he handed Lamington his brandy flask.
The officer poured out a stiff nip, drank it off, and then pointed to one of his troopers, who had just dismounted, and was holding in his hand a heavy bundle, wrapped up in an ensanguined saddle-cloth.
“That's my £500, Grainger. I'll have to send those heads to Townsville for identification before I can claim the reward. Awfully smart of you to pot both of them.”
“Lamington, you're a _beast_. Tell that nigger of yours to take that infernal bundle away and keep it out of sight, or, by heavens, you and I will quarrel.”
Lamington, gentleman at heart, apologised: “I _am_ a beast, Grainger. I didn't think of Miss Carolan.”
* * * * * When Sheila awakened she had to bid Dick Scott goodbye, for Lamington was taking him back to Chinkie's Flat.
“Goodbye, Miss Caroline. You an' the boss will pull along all right to Minerva Downs. And when I sees you again, I hope that------” “Dry up, Dick,” said Grainger, with assumed severity.
“Oh, I know it's all right, boss; isn't it, Miss Caroline?”
“Yes, Mr. Scott,” said Sheila with a smile, as she put her little hand into his. “I don't think I shall stay very long at Minerva Downs, and I do think you will soon see me again.”
“At Chinkie's Flat?”
“Yes, at Chinkie's Flat,” said Grainger, as he put his arm round Sheila, and drew her to him. “Mr. Lamington is sending up a parson from the Bay to Minerva Downs.”
“Boss,” cried Scott, exultantly, “there's goin' to be a red, rosy, high old time by and by at Chinkie's Flat.”
THE END
|
{
"id": "24805"
}
|
1
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None
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A small, squat and dirty-looking trading steamer, with the name _Motutapu_ painted in yellow letters on her bows and stern, lay at anchor off the native village of Utiroa on Drummond's Island in the Equatorial Pacific. She was about 800 tons burden, and her stained and rusty sides made her appear as if she had been out of port for two years instead of scarcely four months.
At this present moment four of her five boats were alongside, each one piled high over the gunwales with bags of copra, which the steam winch was hoisting in as quickly as possible, for night was drawing on and Captain Louis Hendry, who was then ashore, had given orders to the mate, a burly Yorkshireman named Oliver, to be ready to heave up at six o'clock.
The day had been intensely hot and windless, the sea lay sweltering, leaden-hued and misty, and the smoke from the native houses in Utiroa village hung low down amid the groves of coco-palms which encompassed it on three sides.
On the after-deck of the steamer, under the awning, a man was lying on a bed of mats, with a water-bottle and a plate of bananas beside him. Seated cross-legged beside him was a native boy, about fifteen years of age, who kept fanning his master's face, and driving away the pestering flies. It was easy to see that the man was suffering from fever. His deeply-bronzed cheeks had yellowed and were thin and hollow, and his eyes dull and apathetic. He looked like a man of fifty, though he was in reality not more than thirty-two. Every now and then he drank, then lay back again with a groan of pain. Piled up on the skylight was a heap of rugs and blankets, for use when the violent chilling attack of ague would follow on the burning, bone-racking heat of fever.
Presently the mate, accompanied by the chief engineer, came aft. Both men were very hot and very dirty, and their faces were streaming with perspiration. They sat down on deck-chairs beside the sick man, called to the steward for a bottle of beer, and asked him how he felt.
Carr made a sudden effort and sat up.
“D---- bad, Oliver! I have about six hundred and forty-nine pains all over me, and no two of them in the same place. I've swilled enough water to float a battleship; and, look here! you must give me some beer: a bottle--two bottles--a gallon--a cask! Beer I will have if I perish like a beast in the field. I can't drink water like that-it's as hot as -----” Morrison, the Scotch engineer, smiled. “Don't swear, Carr. Ye shall have just one long drink of beer. 'Twill do ye no great harm on such a roasting day as this.”
The steward brought two bottles of lager beer, and Carr eagerly extended his thin, brown hand for the creamy, tempting liquid poured out for him by the mate. He drank it off and then laid down again.
“When are we getting out of this beastly hole, Oliver?” he asked.
“To night, I expect-that is, if the skipper comes aboard fairly sober. He doesn't often get too much grog aboard, but this island is one of the places where he is bound to get loaded up. The two traders ashore are countrymen of his, I believe, though they call themselves Britishers.”
Carr nodded. “Dutchmen of some kind, eh?”
“Yes, like himself. He's a Dane, though if you told him so he'd get nasty over it.”
“He's a nasty brute, anyway,” said Carr wearily. “I don't like that shifty eye of his. And I think he's a bit of a sneak.”
“You needn't _think_ it; you can be sure of it. I'll prove it to you in a minute,” said the mate. “Both he and that fat beast of a supercargo are a pair of sneaks, and they hate you like poison. What have you done to offend them?”
“Nothing that I know of. But I have always suspected that neither of them are too fond of me. Hendry I consider a low-lived scoundrel. I met his wife and daughters in Sydney a year ago--went to his house with him. They think he's a perfect saint, and at the time I thought so too, considering he's been in the island trade for ten years. But I know what he is pretty well by now. He's not fit to be married to a decent white woman and have children.”
The mate assented. “You're right, Carr. He's a double-faced swab, and a thundering hypocrite as well. There's only one good point about him--he's a rattling good sailor man. As for Sam Chard, he's simply a drunken bully. I shall be glad to be quit of this hooker. I'm not a paragon of virtue, but this ship is a bit too rocky for me. Now I will show you what I meant just now when I said I'll prove that both Hendry and Chard are sneaks, and have their knives into you.”
He disappeared below for a few seconds, and then returned carrying a letter-book.
“Now, Carr, my boy,” he said, seating himself beside the sick trader again, “just cock your ears and listen. This is our esteemed supercargo's letter-book. I had to go into his cabin yesterday to look for the list of ship's stores, and I saw this letter-book lying on his table, opened at this particular page. I caught your name, and took the liberty of reading the letter. It is addressed to the owners in Sydney, and is dated May 5, 1889.”
“That was two days after you and the skipper and Chard had the row about those flash Samoan girls coming aboard at Vavau,” put in Morrison, “and he and Chard started to knock the hands about.”
“I remember,” said Carr, as a grim smile flitted across his yellow face; “go on, Oliver.”
The mate began:-- “'SS. _Motutapu_. Niafu Harbour, “'Vavau, Tonga Islands, “'May 5, 1889.
“'Dear Sirs,--As the barque _Metaris_ leaves to-day for Sydney, I take the opportunity of writing you to report progress of cruise of the _Motutapu_ up to date.'”
Then followed an account of the various trading operations in which the steamer had been engaged from the time she left Sydney up to her arrival at the Friendly Islands. Then-- “'In pursuance of your instructions, we called at Kabaira Bay, New Britain, to remove Mr. Harvey Carr from there to a more healthy location. We found Mr. Carr's station in a satisfactory state, and his accounts were correct. But both Captain Hendry and myself are of the opinion that Mr. Carr was on altogether too friendly terms with the manager of the German firm at Blanche Bay, and we believe that your firm's interest has greatly suffered thereby. He certainly was ill, but we do not think his illness has been caused by fever, of which we could see no traces, but by his availing himself of the too lavish hospitality of the manager of the German firm. He had also, I learnt, become very thick with the Wesleyan missionaries at Port Hunter, and seems to have been continually visiting them under the pretext of getting medical attendance from the Rev. Dr. Bowen, who, as you are well aware, is a determined opponent of your firm in New Britain, and has made several adverse reports upon our manner of trading with the natives to the commander of H.M. ships.'”
“What do you think of that?” inquired the engineer wrathfully, striking his clenched hand upon his knee; “and the fellow is a Scotsman, too.”
Carr laughed. “Don't get angry, Morrison. He's one of the wrong sort of Scotsmen. Give me some beer. I'm a drunken beast, aren't I? Go on, Oliver.”
“'In fact Mr. Carr seems to have thoroughly ingratiated himself with the missionaries as well as with the Germans, and I think it is my duty to mention this to you at the earliest opportunity. I proposed to him that he should take charge of one of your stations in the New Hebrides, but he declined to remain in Melanesia, alleging that he is suffering from fever, and insisting on being given a station in the Caroline Islands. I pointed out to him that it would be to the firm's advantage for him to remain in the vicinity of New Britain, whereupon he was grossly insulting, and said that the firm could go to hell, that he studied his own health as much as anything. Furthermore, he made the direct statement that he was not anxious to continue in the service of a firm that resorted to shady and illegal practices, such as sly grog-selling, and other blackguardly things. These words he uttered to myself and Captain Hendry. On Sunday last, the 3rd inst., myself and the captain had occasion to exercise our authority over our native crew, who were making a noise on deck. Mr. Carr--who was violently excited from the effects of liquor--at once interfered and took the part of the crew, who not only threatened both myself and Captain Hendry with personal violence, but committed an assault on us. I consider that the firm will be wise to terminate their connection with Mr. Carr. His presence on board is a continual source of trouble, and I shall be glad to have authority from you to dismiss him. Captain Hendry bears me out in these statements, and herewith attaches his signature to mine.
“'I am, dear Sir, “'Yours very obediently, “'Samuel Chard, supercargo.
“'Louis Hendry, master. “'Messrs. Hillingdon & McFreeland, “'Sydney.'”
“What do you think of that, Carr?” “It doesn't astonish me, Oliver, for Chard, with all his seeming _bonhomie_, is as big a black-guard as Hendry. And there is a certain amount of truth in his letter--I did say that the firm of Hillingdon and McFreeland were guilty of shady and illegal practices, and that the High Commissioner in Fiji would bring them up with a round turn some day. But, as you know, all the rest is false--downright lies.”
The mate slapped him on the shoulder. “Lies! Of course they are! Now just listen to what I have written in my own private log.”
He stepped along to the deck-house, entered his cabin, and came back with the private log aforesaid.
“Here, listen to this:-- “'Vavau, Tonga Islands, May 3, 1889. --This evening Captain Hendry and Mr. Chard, the supercargo, came on board at six o'clock, accompanied by several white men and a number of loose Samoan women. They were all more or less under the influence of drink. As is usual, our native crew were seated on the fore-hatch, holding their evening service, when Mr. Chard went for'ard, and with considerable foul language desired them to stop their damned psalm-singing. He then offered them two bottles of Hollands gin. The native seamen refused to accept the liquor, whereupon Mr. Chard struck one of them and knocked him down. Then Captain Hendry, who was much the worse for drink, came for'ard, and calling on me to follow and assist him, attacked the crew, who were very- excited (but offered no violence), with an iron belaying- pin. He stunned three of them before the second mate, the chief engineer, and myself could restrain him, and he threatened to shoot what he called “the ringleaders of a mutiny.” He had a revolver belted round his waist. The native crew then came aft and made a complaint to. Mr. Harvey Carr, the trader, who was lying ill with fever in his berth. He came on deck, and speaking in Samoan to the crew and to the women who had been brought on board by Captain Hendry and the supercargo, urged the women to go on shore, as it was Sunday. This they at once did, and getting into a canoe, paddled away. Thereupon Captain Hendry, Mr. Sam Chard, and the white traders became very insulting to Mr. Carr, who, although he was so ill, kept his temper, until Mr. Chard called him a “missionary crawler.” This expression made Mr. Carr lose control of himself, and he used very strong language to Captain Hendry and the supercargo upon the gross impropriety of their conduct. He certainly used expressions that he should not have employed, but under the circumstances, and bearing in mind the fact that the native crew were ready for mutiny, and that mutiny was only averted by Mr. Carr's influence over the native crew, I and my fellow officers, whose names are attached, desire to record the facts of the case.
“'Then Captain Hendry and Mr. Sam Chard used very foul language to Mr. Carr, who again lost his temper and called the former a damned stock-fish eating Dutchman, who had no right to sail under British colours as an Englishman, and ought to be kicked off the deck of a British ship. He (Mr. Carr) then, being greatly excited, added that Captain Hendry, being a married man with a large family, was little better than a brute beast in his mode of life, else he would not have brought half a dozen native harlots on board--women whose very presence insulted even his native crew. Mr. Chard then advanced towards Mr. Carr in a threatening manner, whereupon the whole native crew, headed by a white stoker named Cleaver, rushed the after-deck, seized Captain Hendry and Mr. Chard, and threw them below into the saloon.
“'Mr. Carr then addressed the crew in their own several languages, and explained to them the danger of laying hands upon the captain or an officer of the ship; also he explained to them his own position as a passenger. They listened to him quietly, and promised to follow his directions. At six o'clock Captain Hendry and Mr. Sam Chard came on deck, and in my presence and in that of the second officer and Felix Latour, the steward, apologised to Mr. Carr. Mr. Carr, who was very exhausted with fever, shook hands with them both, and the matter has ended. I have briefly entered these occurrences in the ship's log, which Captain Hendry refuses to sign. But this statement of mine is signed as follows:-- “'James Oliver, Chief Officer.
“'Jos. Atkins, Second Officer.
“'Felix Latour, Steward.
“'Tom Cleaver, Fireman.”
The trader held out his hand, “Thank you, Oliver. But I'm afraid that the firm of Hillingdon and McFreeland will be glad to get rid of a man like me. I'm not the sort of trader they want. I took service with them under the impression that they were straight people. They are not--they are simply unmitigated sweeps. Hillingdon, with his solemn, stone-jug-like face, I _know_ to be a most infernal rogue. He fakes the firm's accounts to the detriment of the London people who are paying the piper, and who are really the firm. As for Sam Chard and this measly, sneaking, Danish skipper, they are merely minor thieves. But I didn't do so badly with them, did I, Oliver?”
The mate laughed loudly. “No, indeed. You settled them that time. But you must be careful. Hendry especially is a dangerous man. I believe that he wouldn't stick at murder if it could be done without any fear of detection. And he hates you like poison. Chard, too, is a scoundrel, but wouldn't do anything worse than he has done, which is bad enough, for the fat blackguard always keeps up the appearance of a jolly, good-natured fellow. But be careful of Hendry. Don't lean on the rail on a dark night when he's on deck. He'd give you a hoist overboard in a second if you gave him a chance and no one was about.”
“I'll watch him, Oliver. And when I get better, I'll take it out of him. But I'm not going to let him and Chard drive me out of the ship. I am under a two years' engagement to this rascally firm, and have only three more months to put in. I'll settle in the Carolines, and start trading there on my own account. I'm sick of this filthy old tub.”
“So is Morrison, and so am I,” said the mate, as he rose to go for'ard again. “Hallo, here is the skipper coming at last.”
A quarter of an hour later the captain's boat, came alongside, and Hendry and his supercargo came aft under the awning, and with much solicitude asked Carr how he was feeling. He replied civilly to their inquiries, but excused himself when Chard asked him to have a small bottle of lager. They were accompanied by two respectable-looking white men, who were resident traders on Drummond's Island.
“I have some news for you, Mr. Carr,” said the supercargo genially; “there's an old friend of yours here, a trader named Remington.”
Carr raised himself with an expression of pleasure lighting up in his worn, thin face. “Old Jack Remington! Where is he? I _shall_ be glad to see him again.”
“He'll be aboard here in another hour. He has a station at the north end of the island. The moment we mentioned your name he said he would come and see you. His daughter is going on to the Carolines with us, and he has just now gone off to his station to bring her on board, as the captain wants to get away at daylight in the morning.” Then with a pleasant nod he moved his chair some little distance away, and began talking business with the two traders.
Carr, lying on his side with half-closed eyes, apparently was trying to sleep, in reality he was studying the supercargo's face. It was a handsome, “taking” sort of face, rather full and a bit coarse perhaps, deeply browned by tropic suns, and lit up by a pair of jet black eyes, which, when the possessor was in a good temper and laughed, seemed to dance in unison. Yet they were eyes that in a moment could narrow and show an ugly gleam, that boded ill for the object of their owner's resentment. His curly hair and beard were jet black also, save here and there where they were streaked with grey, and his figure, stout, but close and well-knit together, showed him to be a man of great strength and activity.
From the face of the supercargo Carr let his glance light upon the figure of Captain Louis Hendry, who was standing at the break of the poop talking to the chief mate. He was a small, slightly-built man of about fifty years of age, with regular features, and wore a flowing grey beard trimmed to a point. His eyes were those of the true Scandinavian, a bright steely blue, though at the present moment the whites were bloodshot and angry-looking. As he talked he kept stroking his beard, and directing sullen glances at the crew, who were still working hard at hoisting in the bags of copra. It was not a pleasant face to look at--a sullen ill-humour seemed to glower forth from under the bushy grey eyebrows, and vie with a nervous, sneaking apprehensiveness, as if he every moment feared to be struck from behind. That he was a bit of a dandy was very evident, for although his navy serge coat and cap were soiled and dirty, they were both heavily trimmed with gold lace--a most unusual adornment for the master of an island trading steamer. Like his supercargo, he carried a revolver at his side, and at this Carr looked with a contemptuous smile, for neither of the two traders, who actually lived on the island, thought it necessary to carry arms, though the natives of Taputeauea, as Drummond's Island was called, had a bad reputation.
An hour after sunset, and whilst supper was proceeding in the saloon, a smart whaleboat, manned by a crew of half-naked natives of Pleasant Island, came alongside, and an old white-haired man of past sixty stepped on deck. He was accompanied by a fair-skinned, dark-haired girl of about twenty. The boatswain conducted them aft to where Carr, now shaking with a violent attack of ague, was lying.
“My dear boy,” cried the old man, kneeling beside the trader, and looking into his face with intense sympathy. “I am so glad to meet you again, though sorry to see you so ill.”
Carr, with chattering teeth, held out an icy-cold hand.
“How are you, Remington? And you, Tessa? I'll be all right in another ten minutes, and then we can talk.”
Tessa Remington slipped down on the deck into a sitting posture beside him, and placed her soft, warm hand on his forehead.
“Don't talk any more just now, Mr. Carr. There, let me tuck you in properly,” and she wrapped the rugs more closely around him. “I know exactly what to do, don't I, father?”
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From his boyhood Harvey Carr had been a wanderer among the islands of the Southern Seas. Before he was sixteen his father, who was owner and master of a Hobart Town whaleship, had perished at sea in one of the ship's boats after the loss of his vessel upon an uncharted reef in the South Pacific. And though another sixteen years had almost passed since that dreadful time of agony and hunger, and thirst and madness, when men looked at each other with a horrid meaning in their wolfish eyes, the boy had never forgotten his dying father's words, spoken to the lad when the grey shadow of the end had deepened upon the old seaman's rugged face-- “I'm done for, Harvey. Try to keep up the men's courage. Rain will fall before morning. I know it is coming, though I shall never feel it. Stick to your two little sisters, boy; you must be their mainstay when I am gone. Lead a clean life, Harvey. You can do it if you think of your dead mother and of me.... And tell the men to stick steady to an east-southeast course. They'll feel fresh and strong when the rain comes. Drop me over the side the moment I'm gone, lad, won't you? Don't let any one of them touch me. Goodbye, my son.”
Those awful days of horror had helped to strengthen Harvey Carr's natural resolution and steadfastness of purpose in life. When the famished and hideous-looking survivors of the crew of the _City of Hope_ were picked up two days later the orphaned sailor lad made a vow to devote himself to his sisters and “live clean.” And he had kept his vow, though for many years he had lived as trader, mate, or supercargo, among people and in places where loose living was customary with white men, and where any departure from the general practice was looked upon with either contemptuous pity or open scorn. Yet no one, not even the roughest and most dissolute beachcomber in the two Pacifics, would have dared to “chaff” Harvey Carr upon his eccentricity, for he had an unpleasant manner when aroused which meant danger to the man who was so wanting in judgment. Yet some men _had_ “chaffed” him, and found out to their cost that they had picked upon the wrong sort of man; for if he was slow with his tongue he was quick with his hands, and knew how to use them in a manner which had given intense pleasure to numerous gentry who, in South Sea ports, delight to witness a “mill” in default of being able to take part in it themselves.
And so the years had slipped by with Harvey Carr, wandering from one island to another either as trader or seaman. Of such money as he made he sent the greater portion to his sisters in the Colonies, retaining only enough for himself to enable him to live decently. He was not an ascetic, he drank fairly with his rough companions, gambled occasionally in a moderate manner with them, swore when the exigences of seafaring life demanded it, but no one had ever heard his name coupled with that of a woman, white or brown, though he was essentially a favourite with the latter; for at the end of fifteen years' experience in the South Seas, from Easter Island to the far Bonins, he was one of the few white men who thoroughly understood the character and disposition of the various peoples among whom he had lived. Had he been a man of education his knowledge of native languages, thought and mode of life generally, might have brought him some money, fame, and distinction in the world beyond, but he took no thought of such things; for to him the world beyond was an unknown quantity, only associated in his mind with his sisters, who had sometimes talked to him of their hopes and aspirations. They would, when he had made plenty of money, go to England, to France, to Italy. They would, with him, see the quaint old church on the sands of Devon where their mother, and her mother too, had been christened so long, long ago. And Harvey had only shaken his head and smiled. They, he said, might go, but he had no care for such things; and he would work hard and make money for them until they married and wanted him no longer.
And then after a brief stay in the quiet little Australian country town where his sisters lived, he would again sail out to seek the ever-fleeting City of Fortune that has always tempted men like him into the South Seas, never to return to the world of civilisation, but with an intense, eager desire to leave it again as quickly as possible. To him the daily round of conventional existence, the visitings, the theatres, the church-goings, the talkings with well-dressed and highly cultured men and women, whose thoughts and life seemed to him to be deadly dull and uninteresting when contrasted with his own exciting life in the South Seas, palled upon and bored him to the verge of desperation. From his boyhood--from the time of his father's death he had moved among rough men--men who held their lives cheaply, but whose adventurous natures were akin to his own; men “who never had 'listed,” but who traded and sailed, and fought and died from bullet, or club, or deadly fever in the murderous Solomons or New Hebrides; men whose pioneering instinct and unrecorded daring has done so much for their country's flag and their country's prestige, but whose very names are forgotten by the time the quick-growing creeper and vine of the hot tropic jungle has hidden their graves from even the keen eye of the savage aboriginal. Go through a file of Australian newspapers from the year 1806 to the year 1900 and you will see how unknown Englishmen have died, and are dying, in those wild islands, and how as they die, by club, or spear, or bullet, or fever, how easily the young hot blood of other men of English race impels them to step into the vacant places. And it is well that it is so the wild wide world over, else would Britain be, not the mistress of the seas, but only a sharer of its sovereignty with France and Germany.
***** About five years previous to his entering the service of Hillingdon and McFreeland, Carr had been mate of a trading vessel whose cruising-grounds were that vast chain of islands known as the Caroline Group, in the North-West Pacific, and there he had made the acquaintance of old John Remington and his family, an acquaintance that in the course of two or three years had deepened into a sincere friendship. The old trader was a man of means, and owned, in addition to his numerous trading stations throughout the North Pacific, a very smart schooner, of which eventually Carr took command, and sailed her for him for a couple of years. Then Remington, who, old as he was, was of an eager, adventurous disposition, decided to seek new fields for his enterprise among the low-lying equatorial islands to the south, and Carr and he parted, the former resuming his wanderings among the wild and murderous peoples of New Britain and the Solomon Archipelago. Since then they had never met, though the young man had heard that Remington, accompanied by one or more of his children, had opened up a trading business in the Gilbert Islands.
Exhausted with the violence of the fit of ague, Carr had dropped off into a broken slumber, from which he did not awaken till eight bells were struck, and the steward came to ask him to try and eat a little. Chard, Hendry and the two traders were below in the saloon, drinking, smoking, and talking business; Remington and his daughter, who had declined to join them at supper, were still on deck waiting for Carr to awaken; Malua, Carr's native servant, still sat beside his master, from whom he was never long absent, and from the main deck came the murmur of voices from the native crew, who were lying on their mats enjoying the cool breath of the evening land breeze.
The moment the young trader opened his eyes Tessa's father came over to him and they began to talk.
“I was delighted beyond words to learn you were on board, Harvey,” said the old man. “I didn't care about the idea of letting Tess go away under the care of strangers; but now I shall know that she will be well looked after, and that she will be in Ponapé in less than a month.”
Carr heard him in silence, then he said frankly, “And I shall be delighted too; but, at the same time, I wish she were leaving you by any other ship than this. Cannot you keep her with you until one of the German ships come along? Is it necessary she must go home by this steamer?”
“Time is everything, Harvey. Her mother is ill, and wrote to me a few months ago, begging me, if I could not return myself, to at least try and send Tess home. The two other girls are married, as you know, and my two boys are both away--one is second mate on the _Jacinta_, of New Bedford, and the other is in California. And I can't leave Drummond's Island for another four months or so. I have made a good business here and throughout the group, and to leave it now to the care of any one else would mean a heavy loss to me. Then, you see, this steamer will land Tess at home in less than a month. If she waits for one of the German ships to call she may have to wait three or four months. And her mother wants her badly.”
Again Carr was silent. He knew that Mrs. Remington had always been more or less of an invalid for many years. She was a Portuguese of Macao, and though her three daughters and two sons were strong and robust, she had always struck him as being of a delicate physique--the very antithesis of her husband, whose fame as an athlete was known from one end of the Pacific to the other. Presently Carr sat up.
“Do you mind going away, Tessa, for a few minutes?” he said. “I want to talk to your father on some business matters.”
A vivid flush spread over Tessa's pale cheeks. “Oh, I'm so sorry, Harvey.”
She rose and walked aft to where the mate was standing, and began to talk to him, her heart beating double quick time the while, for she had never forgotten Harvey Carr, though he had never spoken a word of love to her in the olden days when she was a girl of sixteen, and he was the master of her father's schooner.
And now, and now, she thought, they would be together for nearly a month. And what were the “business matters,” she wondered, about which he wanted to speak to her father. Perhaps he was coming to them again! How hollow-cheeked, yellow, and dreadful he looked, except for his eyes, which were always kind and soft! She was nineteen, and was no longer the child she was three years ago, when, with her gun on her shoulder, she used to accompany Harvey Carr and her brothers out pigeon-shooting in the dark, silent mountain forest of Ponapé. And then, too, she knew she was beautiful; not so beautiful, perhaps, as her two sisters, Carmela and Librada, whom she had heard Harvey say were the handsomest girls he had ever seen. But yet--and again a pleasant flush tinged her pale cheeks--he had always liked to talk to her most, although she was only a girl of sixteen, just returned from school in California.
She sighed softly to herself, and then looking up suddenly saw the kindly-faced mate regarding her with a smile in his honest grey eyes, for she was answering his questions at random, and he guessed that her thoughts were with the sick trader.
As soon as she was out of hearing Carr spoke hurriedly, for he every moment expected to see either Chard or the captain appear on deck.
“Jack,” he said, speaking in the familiar manner borne out of their past comradeship, “you know that I would do anything for you, don't you? But while I shall take good care of Tessa, I would rather she was going back home to Ponapé by any other ship than the _Motutapu_.”
“What is wrong with the ship, Harvey?”
“Nothing. But the captain and supercargo are a pair of unmitigated scoundrels. I have seen a good deal of them since I came on board at New Britain, and I hate the idea of Tessa even having to sit at the same table with them. If I were free of this cursed fever, I wouldn't mind a bit, for I could protect her. But I'm no better than a helpless cripple most of the time, and one or the other, or both, of these fellows are bound to insult her, especially if they begin drinking.”
Old Remington put his hand on Carr's shoulder. “You're a good boy, Harvey, and I know what you say of Chard at least, is true But have no fear for Tessa. She can take good care of herself at any time, and I have no fear for her. Just let me call her for a moment.”
“Tessa,” he called, “come here.” Then speaking in Portuguese, he added, “Show Harvey what you have in the bosom of your dress.”
The girl smiled a little wonderingly, and then putting her hand in the bosom of her yellow silk blouse, drew out a small Smith and Wesson revolver.
“Don't worry about Tessa, Harvey,” added her father; “she has not travelled around the Pacific with me for nothing, and if either that rat-faced Danish skipper or the fat supercargo meddles with her, she will do what I would do. So have no fear. And she is as anxious as I am myself to get home to her mother.”
Harvey was satisfied. “Perhaps I am doing these two fellows an injustice, Jack. When a man has fever he always takes a black view of everything. And then I should remember that Malua here, and the mate, and nearly all the crew, will see that Tessa is not interfered with. I am sorry, however, that I shall not be with Tessa all the way to Ponapé--I am going ashore at the Mortlocks. There is a good opening there----” “Don't be in too much of a hurry, Harvey. Now, listen to me. Go on to Ponapé. Leave this employ, and come in with me again.”
Harvey promised to think it over during the next few days; but the old man could see, to his regret, that the Mortlocks group of islands possessed a strong fascination for his young friend.
Remington remained on board for the night; and then at daylight he bade Tessa and Harvey farewell and went ashore, and half an hour later the steamer had left the island, and was heading north-west for the Carolines.
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Five days out from Drummond's Island Carr had so much improved in health that he was able to take his seat at the saloon table for breakfast, much to the annoyance of Chard, who had been making the best of his time in trying to produce a favourable impression upon Tessa Remington. He pretended, however, to be delighted to see the trader mending so rapidly, and was most effusive in his congratulations; and Hendry, of course, followed suit. Harvey responded civilly enough, while Tessa, who had learned from the chief mate of the treacherous part they were playing towards her friend, could not repress a scornful curl of her lip as she listened to Chard's jocular admonition to Harvey, “to hurry up and put on some flesh, if only for the reputation of the cook of the _Motutapu_.”
Immediately after breakfast Carr went on deck again, and began to pace to and fro, enjoying the bright tropic sunshine and the cool breath of the trade wind. In a few minutes Tessa, accompanied by her native woman servant, appeared, followed by Chard and Captain Hendry.
“Won't you come on the bridge, Miss Remington?” said Chard, “I'll take a chair up for you.”
“No, thank you,” she replied, “I would rather sit here under the awning.”
The supercargo and Hendry went up on the bridge together, where they could talk freely. The man at the wheel was a thick-set, rather stupid-looking native from Niué (Savage Island), who took no notice of their remarks, or at least appeared not to do so. But Huka was not such a fool as he looked.
“_You'll_ stand little chance with her,” said Hendry presently, in his usual low but sneering tones as he tugged viciously at his beard.
The supercargo's black eyes contracted, “Wait and see, before you talk. I tell you that I mean to make that girl marry me.”
“_Marry_ you!”
“Yes, marry me. The old man will leave her pretty well everything he has, and he has a lot. I've been making inquiries, and am quite satisfied.”
“How are you going to do it?”
“Don't know just yet. Must think it out. But I never yet knew the woman whom I could not work my own way with--by fair means or foul, as the penny novelists say.”
“It strikes me that she likes that damned fellow. Look round presently and see for yourself. She's reading to him.”
“Bah! That's nothing. He used to sail one of the old man's schooners, and of course they have a good deal to talk about. I'll settle _him_ as far as she is concerned. Wait till I get a chance to talk to her a bit,” and taking off his cap the supercargo passed his brawny hand through his curly hair with a smile of satisfaction. “She'll be tired of talking to him before the day is out.”
“Where is he going to land? Has he told you?”
“Yes. He wants to be put ashore at the Mortlocks Islands. We have no trader there, and he has lived there before.”
“I'd like to see him go over the side in some new canvas, with a couple of fire bars slung to his heels,” snarled Hendry viciously.
“So would I,” said Chard meditatively.
At four bells the wheel was relieved, and Huka the Niué native trotted off, and immediately sent a message to Carr's servant Malua to come for'ard. The boy did as requested, and remained away for about ten minutes. When he returned he seated himself as usual near his master. Hendry was in his cabin on deck, Chard was below in the trade room, and only Tessa, Harvey, and himself were on the after-deck.
“Master,” he said in Fijian, to Harvey, “listen to what Huka, the man of Niué, has told me. The captain and the supercargo have been talking about thee and the lady.” Then he repeated all that which Huka had heard.
“The infernal scoundrels!” Harvey could not help exclaiming. “But they won't get rid of me as easily as they think.”
“What is it, Harvey?” asked Tessa, anxiously bending forward to him.
The trader thought a moment or two before speaking. Then he decided to tell her what he had just heard.
She laughed contemptuously. “_His_ wife! _His_ wife!” she repeated scornfully. “If he knew what my father knows of him, and how I hate and despise him, he would not have said that. Does he think that because my mother was a Portuguese, I am no better than some native slave girl whom he could buy from her master?”
Harvey smiled gravely as he looked into her flashing eyes, and saw her clench her hands angrily. Then he said-- “He is a dangerous man though, Tessa. And now listen to me. When I came on board this steamer I intended to land at the Mortlocks Islands. But I think now that I will go on to Ponapé.”
“Do not change your plans, Harvey, on my account. I am not afraid of this man. He dare not insult me, for fear my father would hear of it.”
“I know him too well, Tessa. He and the skipper are, I fear, a pair of cunning, treacherous villains. And so I am going on to Ponapé. And I will stay there until your father returns. I daresay,” he added with a smile, “that he will give me a berth as a trader somewhere.”
A sudden joy illumined the girl's face. “I _am_ so glad, Harvey. And mother, too, will be overjoyed to see you again; father has never ceased to talk about you since you left him. Oh, Harvey, we shall have all the old, old delightful days over again. But,” she added artlessly, “there will be but you and I now to go fishing and shooting together. Carmela and her husband are living in the Ladrones, and Librada and her husband, though they are still on Ponapé, are ten miles away from mother and I. Then Jack is in California, and Ned is away on a whaling cruise.”
A quick emotion stirred his bosom as he looked into her now joyous face. “I don't think you and I can go out shooting and fishing together, Tessa, as we did in what you call 'the old, old days.'”
“Can't we, Harvey?” she asked wonderingly.
He shook his head, and then mused.
“Tessa, I wish you could meet my sisters.”
She clasped her hands together. “Ah, so do I, Harvey. I should love to meet them. Do you think they would like me?”
“I am sure they would.”
They were silent for a while, the girl with her head bent and her long lashes hiding her eyes from him as she sat in the deck-chair, and he thinking of what his sisters would really say if he wrote and told them that he thought he had at last found a woman he would wish to make his wife.
“Tessa.”
“Yes, Harvey.”
She did not look at him, only bent her head still lower.
“_Tessa! _” “Yes, Harvey.”
Her hands were trembling, and her courage was gone, for there was something in his voice that filled her with delight.
“Tessa,” he said, speaking softly, as he drew nearer to her, and tried to make her look at him; “do you know that you are a very beautiful woman?”
“I am glad you think so, Harvey,” she whispered. “You used to tell father that Carmela and Librada were the most beautiful women you had ever seen.”
“So they were. But you are quite as beautiful. And, Tessa----” “Yes, Harvey”--this in the faintest whisper.
“Could you care for me at all, Tessa? I do not mean as a friend. I am only a poor trader, but if I thought you could love-me, I----” She took a quick glance around the deck, and bent towards him. “I have always loved you, Harvey; always, always.” Then she pressed her lips to his, and in another moment was gone.
***** Harvey, with a sense of elation in his heart, walked for'ard to where Morrison was standing in the waist.
“Why, man, ye look as if ye could take the best man aboard on for four rounds,” said the engineer, with a smile.
“I do feel pretty fit, Morrison,” laughed the trader; “have you anything to drink in your cabin?”
“Some real Loch Dhu, _not_ made in Sydney. Man, your eye is as bright as a boy's.”
***** Just before eight bells were struck Chard came on deck. He was carefully dressed in shining, well-starched white duck, and his dark, coarsely-handsome face was aglow with satisfaction; he meant to “rub it in” to Carr, and was only awaiting till Tessa Remington and Captain Hendry were present to hear him do it. He knew she would be on deck in a minute or so, and Hendry he could see was sitting at his cabin table with his chart before him. Harvey was strolling about on the main deck, smoking his first pipe for many weeks.
Presently Tessa appeared with her woman attendant. She, too, had dressed in white, and for the time had discarded the wide Panama hat she usually wore. Her face was radiant with happiness as she took the deck-chair which Chard brought, and disposed herself comfortably, book in hand. She had seen Harvey on the main deck, and knew she would at least have him with her for a few minutes before dinner.
Hendry stepped out from his cabin.
“Ha, Miss Remington. You give an atmosphere of coolness to the whole ship. Mr. Chard, big as he is, is only a minor reflection of your dazzling whiteness.”
“Thank you, Captain Hendry. I am quite sure that my father will be astonished to learn that I have been paid so many compliments on board the _Motutapu_. Had he known that you and Mr. Chard were such flatterers he would not have let me come away.”
Neither Chard nor Hendry could detect the ring of mockery in her tones. They drew their chairs up near to that in which she was sitting and lit their cigars, and she, impatient for Harvey, talked and laughed with them, and wished them far away. Less than two hours before she had felt an intense hatred of them, now she had but a quiet contempt for both the handsome, “good-natured” supercargo and his sneaking, grey-bearded jackal.
Eight bells struck, and presently Carr ascended the poop deck, took in the little group on the starboard side of the skylight, and went over to his own lounge, beside which his watchful servant was seated. He knew that Tessa would be alone in a few minutes, and he was quite satisfied to wait till Chard and the Dane left her free.
He lay back in the lounge, and lazily conversed with Malua. Then Chard, who had been watching him keenly, rose from his seat.
“Pray excuse me for a few minutes, Miss Remington. Even _your_ charming society must not make me forget business.”
He spoke so loudly that Carr could not fail to hear him, but he was quite prepared, and indeed had been on the alert.
Chard walked up to within a few feet of the trader.
“I want you to come below, Mr. Carr, and pick out your trade goods for the Mortlocks.”
Harvey leant back in his lounge. “I don't think I shall require any goods for the Mortlocks Islands, Mr. Chard.”
“What do you mean?” and Chard's face flushed with anger.
“I mean exactly what I say,” replied Carr nonchalantly. “I say that I shall not want any trade goods for the Mortlocks Islands. I have decided not to take another station from the firm of Hillingdon and McFreeland. I have had enough of them--and enough of you.”
Chard took a threatening step towards him.
“Stand back, Mr. Chard. I am not a man to be threatened.”
Something in his eyes warned the supercargo, whose temper, however, was rapidly taking possession of him.
“Very well, Mr. Carr,” he said sneeringly; “do I understand you to say that you refuse to continue your engagement with our firm?”
“I do refuse.”
“Then, by God, I'll dump you ashore at the first island we sight. The firm will be glad to be rid of you.”
“I don't doubt the latter part of your assertion; but their satisfaction will be nothing to equal mine,” he said with cutting irony. “But you'll not 'dump' me ashore anywhere. I am going to land at Ponapé, and nowhere else.”
Again Chard took a step nearer, his face purpling with rage; and then, as Hendry came to his side with scowling eyes, Tessa quickly slipped past them, and stood near her lover.
“You'll land at Ponapé, will you?” sneered the supercargo, “It's lucky for you we are not in port now, for I'd kick you ashore right-away.”
The insult had the desired effect, for, weak as he was, Harvey sprang forward and struck Chard full upon the mouth, but almost at the same moment the captain, who had quietly possessed himself of a brass belaying-pin, dealt him a blow on the back of the neck which felled him to the deck, and then bending on one knee, he would have repeated the blow on Harvey's upturned face, when Tessa sprang at him like a tigress, and struck him again and again on the temple with her revolver. He fell back, bleeding and half stunned.
“You cowards--you pair of miserable curs!” she cried to Chard, who was standing with his handkerchief to his lips, glaring savagely at the prostrate figure of Harvey. “Stand back,” and she covered him with her weapon, as he made a step towards her, “stand back, or I will shoot you dead.” Then as the second mate, Huka, and another native appeared on the poop, she sank on her knees beside Harvey, and called for water.
Hendry, whose face was streaming with blood, though he was but little hurt, rose to his feet and addressed the second mate.
“Mr. Atkins, put that man in irons,” and he pointed to Harvey, who was now sitting up, with Tessa holding a glass of water to his lips.
The second mate eyed his captain sullenly. “He is scarcely conscious yet, sir.”
“Do you refuse to obey me? Quick, answer me. Where is the mate? Mr. Chard, I call on you to support my authority.”
Harvey looked at the second mate, whose features were working curiously. He rose and pressed Tessa's hand.
“You must obey him, Atkins,” he said. “If you don't he'll break you. He's a spiteful hound.”
Atkins, with a sorrowful face, went to his cabin and returned with a pair of handcuffs, just as the chief officer appeared. As he stepped on the poop he was followed by half-a-dozen of the native crew, who advanced towards Hendry and the supercargo with threatening glances.
“Go for'ard, you swine!” shouted Chard, who saw that they meant a rescue. He darted into Hendry's cabin, and reappeared with the captain's revolvers, one of which he handed to him.
Harvey looked contemptuously at the supercargo, then turning to the natives he spoke to them in Samoan, and earnestly besought them to go for'ard, telling them of the penalties they would suffer if they disputed the captain's authority. They obeyed him with reluctance, and left the poop. Then he held out his hands to the second mate, who snapped the handcuffs on his wrists.
“Take him to the for'ard deck-house,” snarled Hendry viciously.
“I protest against this, sir,” said Oliver respectfully. “I beg of you to beware of what you are doing.”
Hendry gave him a furious glance, but his rage choked his utterance.
Tessa Remington followed the prisoner to the break of the poop and whispered to him ere he descended the ladder. He nodded and smiled. Then she turned and faced Chard and the captain.
“Perhaps you would like to put me in irons too, gentlemen,” she said mockingly. “I am not very strong, though stronger than Mr. Carr has been for many months.”
The captain eyed her with sudden malevolence; Chard, bully as he was, with a secret admiration as she stood before them, still holding her revolver in her hand. She faced them in an attitude of defiance for a second or two, and then with a scornful laugh swept by them and went below to her cabin.
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{
"id": "24838"
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At six o'clock that evening the _Motutapu_ was plunging into a heavy head sea, for the wind had suddenly hauled round to the northeast and raised a mountainous swell. Chard and his jackal were seated in the latter's cabin on deck. A half-emptied bottle of brandy was on the table, and both men's faces were flushed with drink, for this was the second bottle since noon. Hendry did not present a pleasant appearance, for Tessa's pistol had cut deeply into his thin, tough face, which was liberally adorned with strips of plaster. The liquor he had taken had also turned his naturally red face into a purple hue, and his steely blue eyes seemed to have dilated to twice their size, as he listened with venomous interest to Chard. “Now, look here, Louis,” said the latter, “both you and I want to get even with him, don't we?”
It was only when the supercargo was planning some especial piece of villainy that he addressed his _confrere_ by his Christian name. Secretly he despised him as a “damned Dutchman,” to his face he flattered him; for he was a useful and willing tool, and during the three or four years they had sailed together had materially assisted the “good-natured, jovial” supercargo in his course of steady peculation. Yet neither trusted the other.
“You bet I do,” replied Hendry; “but I'd like to get even with that spiteful little half-bred Portuguese devil----” “Steady, Louis, steady,” said Chard, with a half-drunken leer; “you must remember that she is to be Mrs. Samuel Chard.”
“Don't think you have the ghost of a chance, as I said before. She's in love with that fellow.”
“Then she must get out of love with him. I tell you, Louis”--here he struck his fist on the table--“that I mean to make her marry me. And she'll be _glad_ to marry me before we get to Ponapé. And if you stick to me and help to pull me through, it's a hundred quid for you.”
“How are you going to do it?” and the captain bent forward his foxy face and grinned in anticipation.
“Same old way as with that Raratongan girl last year. She'll go to sleep after supper, and I can open any door in the saloon, as you know, don't you, old man?” and he laughed coarsely. “Dear, dear, what times we have had together, Louis, my esteemed churchwarden of Darling Point, Sydney!”
The Dane tugged at his beard, and then poured out some brandy for himself and his fellow scoundrel. “We have, we have, Sam,” he said, uneasily. “But what about the native woman who sleeps with her?”
“The native woman, when _she_ awakes, my Christian friend, will find herself in the trade-room in the company of Mr. Tim Donnelly, one of the firemen. And Mr. Tim Donnelly, to whom I have given two sovereigns, will bear me out, if necessary, that 'the woman tempted him, and he did fall.' Also he will be prepared to swear that this native woman, Maoni, told him that her mistress expected a visit from Mr. Chard, and had asked her to be out of the way.”
“Well, after that.”
“After that, my dear Christian friend, with the rudely executed diagrams in sticking-plaster on the facial cuticle, my pious churchwarden with the large family of interesting girls--after that, Miss Tessa Remington will be glad to marry Mr. Samuel Chard, inasmuch as when _she_ awakes it will be under the same improper conditions as those of the dissolute Tim Donnelly and the flighty Miss Maoni; for the beauteous Tessa will be fortuitously discovered by Captain Louis Hendry and several other persons on board, in such circumstances that an immediate marriage of the indiscreet lovers by one of the American missionaries at Ponapé will present the only solution of what would otherwise be a 'terrible scandal.'”
“And what will you do with this fellow Carr?”
“Chuck him ashore at the Mortlocks,” replied Chard with an oath; “we'll be there in a couple of days, and I'll kick him over the side if he turns rusty. Hillingdon doesn't like him, so we are quite safe.”
“When is the love-making to come off?” asked Hendry, with a fiend-like grin.
“As soon as we are clear of Carr--or sooner; to-night maybe. We must log it that he was continually trying to cause the native crew to mutiny, and that for the safety of the ship we got rid of him. Hillingdon will back us up.”
***** Tessa did not appear at supper. She kept to her cabin with Maoni, her dear Maoni, who, though but little older than herself, was as a mother to her; for the native girl had been brought up with her and her sisters from their infancy. And as Tessa lay back with her dark head pillowed against the bosom of the native girl, and sobbed as she thought of her lover lying in the deck-house with the handcuffs on his wrists, Maoni pressed her lips to those of her mistress.
“Lie there, little one, lay thy head on my bosom,” she said; “'tis a bad day for thee, but yet all will be well soon. These sailor men with the brown skins will not let thy lover be hurt. That much do I know already. Speak but one word, and the captain and the big fat man with the black eyes will be dead men.”
Tessa smiled through her tears. “Nay, Maoni, that must not be; I desire no man's death. But yet if he be not set free to-morrow trouble will come of it, for he hath done nothing wrong; and the brown men, as thou sayest, have a strong friendship for him.”
“He shall be set free to-morrow,” said Maoni, with quiet emphasis. “The brown sailor men have talked together over this thing, and they say that they are ready at thy word to make captive the captain, the big fat man, and all those white men who tend the great fires in the belly of the ship.”
Tessa knew that the half-dozen of white firemen and stokers were on bad terms with the native crew. They were a ruffianly, drunken set of scoundrels, and their leader, a powerfully built man named Donnelly, had grossly insulted both the first and second mates. He was an especial _protégé_ of the supercargo, who, as well as the captain, secretly encouraged him and his fellows to annoy and exasperate the two officers and the chief engineer.
They remained in their cabin talking together in low tones and without a light till they heard eight bells strike; and ten minutes afterwards, just as they were going on deck, some one tapped at the cabin door.
“It is me, Miss Remington,” said the voice of Oliver; “please let me come in for a moment. Be quick, please, as I don't want the captain to know I am here.”
Tessa at once opened the door. “Come in Mr. Oliver. But we have no light.”
“Never mind that, miss,” he said in a low voice, carefully closing the door and then bolting it, “I cannot stay long. I came to warn you that there is likely to be trouble tonight about Mr. Carr, and you had better not come on deck. Keep to your cabin, and don't open your door to any one except myself, the second mate, or the steward. The native crew are in a dangerous state of excitement, and I am sure they will attempt to liberate Mr. Carr before morning. Both the captain and Chard are more than half-drunk; and the chief engineer tells me that for some reason they have given liquor to the firemen and stokers, who have set him at defiance. I fear, I fear greatly, miss, that some calamity may occur on board this ship to-night. Therefore I beg of you to keep to your cabin.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Oliver. We certainly did intend to go on deck and remain some hours, but shall not do so now. But tell me, please, have you seen Mr. Carr? Is he well?”
“Quite well. I saw him a few minutes ago, and he bade me tell you to have no fear for him. I am now again going to Captain Hendry to ask him, for his own and the ship's safety, to set Mr. Carr free. If he refuses I cannot say what will happen.”
Tessa put her little hand upon the mate's huge, rough paw, and looked into his honest, troubled eyes through the darkness.
“It is good of you,” she whispered. “Oh, do try, Mr. Oliver, try your best to make the captain set him at liberty.”
“Indeed I will, miss,” replied the mate earnestly, as he pressed her hand, and went softly out into the main cabin. He stood by the table for a minute or two, thinking with wrinkled brow of the best way to approach the captain and bring him to reason. Presently he sat down, took his pipe from his pocket, filled it, and began to smoke.
A heavy step sounded on the companion steps, and Chard descended somewhat unsteadily, and calling for the second steward--who was in the pantry--to come to him, brushed past the chief officer, and went into his own cabin.
The second steward--a dirty, evil-faced little cockney named Jessop, whom Oliver and his fellow officers particularly abhorred--at once followed the supercargo in to his cabin, which was immediately closed. In less than five minutes it opened again, and Jessop came out and returned to the pantry, and presently Oliver heard the rattle of cups and saucers as the man made preparations for the coffee which was always served to Hendry, Chard, Carr, and Tessa and her attendant, and the officer on watch at nine o'clock every evening.
“Would you like a cup of coffee, sir, as you have not turned in?”
It was Jessop who was speaking, and Oliver looked up in some wonder, for the man knew that he disliked him, and indeed he (Oliver) had once smartly cuffed him for creating a disturbance for'ard with the native crew.
Most fortunately for himself, Oliver did not want any coffee, so merely giving the man a gruff “No, thank you,” he rose and went on deck.
The moment he was out of the cabin Chard appeared, and looked inquiringly at the second steward.
“'E won't 'ave any, blarst him!” said the man, speaking in a whisper, for Latour, the chief steward, was in his cabin, which was abreast the trade-room.
Chard uttered a curse. “Never mind him, then. Sling it out of the port or you'll be giving it to me instead perhaps. Are the other two cups ready?”
The man nodded. “All ready, but it's a bit early yet.”
“That doesn't matter. Pour it out and take it to them--the sooner the better.”
Chard, whose dark face was deeply flushed, sat down at the table, lit a cigar, and watched his villainous accomplice place the two cups of coffee with some biscuits on a tray, take it to Miss Remington's door and knock.
“Coffee, ma'am.”
“Thank you, steward,” he heard Tessa's soft voice reply as Maoni opened the door and took the tray from Jessop.
The supercargo rose from his seat with a smile of satisfaction. The crime he meditated seemed no crime to his base and vicious heart. He merely regarded it as a clever trick; dangerous perhaps, but not dangerous to him; for deeply steeped as he was in numerous villainies he had never yet been called to account for any one of his misdeeds, and long immunity had rendered him utterly hardened and callous to any sentiment of pity or remorse.
He went on deck and walked leisurely for'ard till he came abreast of the funnel. A big swarthy-faced man who was standing near the ash-hoist was awaiting him.
“Are you sober enough, Tim, not to make any mistakes?” asked Chard, leaning forward and looking eagerly into the man's face.
“Just as sober as you are,” was the reply, given with insolent familiarity. “I've kept my head pretty clear, as clear as yours and the skipper's, anyway.”
The two conversed for a few minutes, and then separated, the supercargo going up on the bridge to join his jackal. Half-way up the ladder he heard the sound of angry voices. Hendry was quarrelling with his chief officer.
“Go and keep your watch below,” said the captain furiously, his bloodshot eyes glaring fiercely upon the mate. “I tell you that I'll keep the beggar in irons till he rots in them, or until Mr. Chard kicks him ashore.”
“Very well, sir,” said Oliver quietly, placing his hand on the bridge rail to steady himself, for the _Motutapu_ was now plunging and labouring in the heavy head sea, and Hendry was staggering about all over the bridge--“very well. But I call on Mr. Atkins here to witness that I now tell you that you are putting the ship into great danger.”
“Say another word to me, and by God I'll put you with your friend Carr to keep him company!” shouted Hendry, who had now completely lost control of himself.
Oliver smiled contemptuously, but made no answer. He at once descended the bridge, and in the starboard alleyway met the chief engineer.
“This is a nice state of affairs, Oliver. Those blackguards of mine are half-drunk, and unless I get some assistance from the captain I can't keep up steam. They won't work and are saucy as well.”
The mate shook his head. “You'll get no help from the captain. He and I have just had a flare-up. He's half-drunk himself, and threatened to put me in irons. And none of the native crew will go into the stokehole, that's certain.”
“Well then, something serious will happen. I can keep her going at four or five knots for another hour or so, and that is all I can do. The second engineer and myself are dead-beat. She'll broach-to presently, and then you will see a pretty mess.”
“I can't help it, Morrison,” said the mate gloomily, as he went to his cabin.
Up on the bridge Hendry and Chard were talking and looking out ahead. The second mate, a young, muscular man, was standing by the wheel, and giving a word of warning now and then to the native helmsman, who was Huka. Although it was not blowing hard the sea had increased greatly, and every now and then the steamer would make a plunge into a mighty valley of darkness, and only struggle up out of it with difficulty. Careful steering was a necessity, for the ship was not steaming more than four knots, and the least inattention might result in serious consequences.
“Look out for'ard!” Atkins shouted, as he saw a particularly loose, knobby sea rise suddenly up over the starboard bow. His warning was just given in time, for in another moment down dropped the black mass of water on the well deck with a thundering crash, burying the steamer completely from the bridge to foc'scle head. She rose slowly, very slowly.
Hendry lurched up towards the helmsman.
“You damned, red-hided kanaka! Couldn't you see that coming?” and he struck the man a violent blow on the mouth. In an instant Huka let go the wheel, swung himself over the rail on to the deck, and ran for'ard. Atkins looked at his captain with suppressed rage as he seized the wheel, and then began to watch for the next sea.
Five minutes passed, and then a dozen dark figures made a sudden rush towards the deckhouse in which Carr lay in irons. Then came the sound of smashing blows as the door was burst open with an axe, and in a few seconds Carr was brought out upon the main deck and quickly freed from his irons by Malua, to whom a duplicate key had been given by the second mate.
At first Chard and Hendry scarcely comprehended what had happened, so sudden was the onslaught, but when they saw Carr standing free on the main hatch they both made a rush aft towards Hendry's deck cabin. This they gained without opposition, and seizing two loaded Winchesters which lay in the captain's berth they darted out again, and began firing into the group of excited native seamen ten paces away. Three men at once dropped, either killed or wounded; but the rest, nothing daunted at this, made a rush towards the two men, knives in hand, bore them down to the deck by sheer weight, and in a few seconds would have ended their lives had not Carr, Oliver, and Latour the steward flung themselves into the fray.
“For God's sake, stop!” cried Oliver, “the ship is on fire!”
And then seizing Hendry by the throat, he lifted him to his feet, and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. “You damned, drunken villain! You are not in a fit state to take charge. Lie there, you brute, and let better men try to save the ship.”
He swung Hendry's slight figure to and fro, and then sent him reeling, to fall like a log on the deck.
“Men,” he cried, “we are in great danger, the trade-room is on fire! Atkins, for God's sake try to keep us head to wind. Mr. Carr, you and some of the hands see to the boats. There are over fifty cases of powder in the for'ard end of the trade-room, and we can't shift them; but only the after part is burning so far. Steward, see to Miss Remington. Her cabin is locked, and I cannot make her hear. She and her maid must be awakened at once. Pass the word to Mr. Morrison to get the fire hose aft. Some of you cut a hole here in the deck on the port side, just abreast of that bollard. Smart's the word and quick's the action, or we shall all be blown to hell in ten minutes if we can't flood the trade-room.”
He stopped to give a brief scrutiny to the prone figure of Mr. Samuel Chard, who had been struck a smashing blow on the head from the butt of his own Winchester, which Huka had wrested from him.
“Put this beast into one of the boats, Mr. Carr. We must not leave the blackguard here, as he is not dead, and we can't save the ship, I fear. Now then, hurry along that hose.”
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{
"id": "24838"
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Whilst the chief mate, aided by the now willing crew, ran aft the hose and set to work to flood the trade-room, Latour the steward, a smart little Frenchman, taking a man with him, jumped below and knocked loudly at the door of Tessa's cabin, which was the foremost but one of five on the starboard side, the intervening one separating it from the trade-room. There was no answer to his repeated cries and knocking. Then he and the native sailor each tried to force the door, but it defied their efforts, and then, as they paused for a moment, they heard the crackling sound of fire within a few feet of them.
The native seaman, a big, square-shouldered Manhikian, looked around the main cabin for a second; then he darted into the second mate's cabin, and returned with a carpenter's broad axe. One smashing blow with the back of the tool started the lock, and a second sent the door flying open.
The lamp was burning brightly, but both Tessa and Maoni were sunk in a heavy slumber, and although Latour called loudly to them to arise, they made no answer, though Tessa tried to sit up, and her lips moved as she muttered incoherently, only to fall back again with closed eyelids.
There was no time to lose. Latour lifted Tessa out of her berth, and followed by the native, who carried Maoni, they hurried up the companion-way, and laid the two girls down upon the quarter-deck, where Malua took charge of them.
For nearly ten minutes the mate and crew worked hard to subdue the fire, and all might have gone well had there been a sufficient head of steam to keep the ship head to wind and the donkey-engine going, but at the first alarm the drunken, cowardly firemen had refused duty and tried to rush one of the boats, and amidst the curses and blows which Carr and Atkins were showering upon them another mighty sea tumbled aboard for'ard, and the _Motutapu_ was half-smothered again.
Morrison crawled up exhaustedly on the deck from the engine-room.
“It's a case as far as steaming goes, Mr. Atkins. I'm done up. Send some one down into the stokehole for Mr. Studdert. He dropped a minute ago. But if you'll give me a couple of your men I can keep the engines going.”
“It's no use, Morrison. None of my men would go into the stokehole to work, but they'll bring Mr. Studdert up quick enough. The ship is doomed, so don't bother. We'll have to take to the boats.”
The _Motutapu_ was indeed doomed, for, despite the frantic efforts of Oliver and the native crew, the fire had gained complete possession of the saloon, though every opening on deck had been battened down and all cabin ports had been closed. Most fortunately, however, the fore part of the trade-room, where the powder was stowed, had been thoroughly saturated, and both Oliver and Atkins felt assured that no danger need be apprehended from that source.
In a few minutes the engines ceased to work, but the donkey-engine on deck, with its furnace filled with cotton waste soaked in kerosene, kept the hose going, and sent a steady stream of water through the hole cut in the after-deck. Meanwhile Harvey and the second mate, aided by the energetic little French steward, had made good progress with the boats, all three of which were ready for lowering, and contained some provisions and water. Such fore and aft canvas as the steamer carried was set, so as to keep her to the wind as much as possible, and help to steady her. Then, seeing that the flames were bursting through the sides of the saloon skylight, and that the ship would scarcely answer her helm under such miserable canvas, Oliver abandoned all hope of saving her.
“All ready, sir?” replied Atkins.
And then before they could be stopped the firemen made a rush for the best boat of the three, a fine new whaler, hanging in davits just abaft the bridge. Four of them jumped into her, the remaining two cast off the falls, and began to lower away hastily.
“You cowardly dogs!” shouted the second mate, rushing up to the nearest man, tearing the after-fall out of his hands, and making it fast again round the cleet, and then springing at the other man, who paused irresolutely, intimidated by Atkin's threatening visage. But though he paused but momentarily, it was fatal, for the instant the mate's back was turned the first man, with an oath of drunken defiance, cast off the fall and let it go with a run, just as the _Motutapu_ was heaved up by a lofty sea, and rolled heavily to port.
A cry of terror burst from the four doomed men in the boat, as they fell headlong into the sea, and she hung by the for'ard fall, straight up and down.
“Let them drown!” roared Atkins to some native seamen who sprang to his assistance, “overboard two or three of you, and save the boat. She'll be smashed to matchwood in a minute, the after-fall has unshipped;” then whipping a knife from the belt of one of them he severed the remaining fall, and saw the boat plunge down sternwards and outwards from the side just in time; another half-minute and she would have disappeared under the steamer's bottom to be hopelessly stove in. And with cries of encouragement to each other, four natives leapt over the side, swam after her, clambered in and then shouted that they were all right, and would come alongside and stand by, for although the oars and other fittings had been lost, there were half a dozen canoe paddles lashed under the thwarts, and these were quickly brought into use.
All this happened in a few minutes, and as Atkins ran to assist Harvey with the two quarter boats which had been lowered, and were now standing by alongside, there came a sudden crashing of glass, as the flames in the saloon burst through the sides of the skylight, and drove every one to the main deck.
“That settles the matter,” said Oliver quietly to Harvey, as a sudden gust of flame leapt from the lee side of the skylight, and caught the fore and aft mainsail, which was quickly destroyed; then the steamer at once fell off, and the flames began to travel for'ard.
With all possible speed, but without excitement, Tessa and Maoni, who were still under the influence of the drugged coffee, and unable to stand, or even utter a word, were placed in the first boat, of which Atkins took charge for the time, with four natives as a crew. The second quarter boat, in which Hendry and Chard had been placed, then came alongside, and the two surviving firemen, now thoroughly cowed and trembling, and terrified into a mechanical sobriety, were brought to the gangway and told to jump.
“Jump, you rotten beggars, jump,” said Morrison; “over you go into the water if you want to save your useless lives. The men in the boat will pick you up. We are not going to risk bringing her alongside for the sake of swine like you. Over you go,” and then seizing one of them by the collar of his shirt and the belt, he sent him flying over the side, the other man jumping over to avoid rougher treatment from the native seamen, who were disgusted at their cowardice. Then Morrison, Studdert, and three natives followed, and the boat pulled away clear of the ship, and stood by.
“Pull up, boys!” cried Oliver to the men in the third boat--the one which the firemen had rushed. Then turning to Latour, who was standing near him with a sack half full of heavy articles--firearms, ammunition, the ship's books, etc.--he bade him go first.
Disdaining to wait for the boat to come alongside the little Frenchman sprang over the side and swam to the boat; then the bag--its contents too precious to be wetted--was adroitly lowered and caught by one of the hands. Jessop, the second steward, whose limbs were shaking with terror, was told to jump, but pleaded that he could not swim.
“You miserable hound!” cried Oliver fiercely, and he raised his hand to strike him; then a scornful pity took the place of anger, and he ordered the boat to come alongside so that he could get in.
“Now's your chance, you dirty little cur,” he said, as the boat's bow came within a foot of the steamer's side.
The fear-stricken man jumped, fell short, and in an instant disappeared under the ship, as she rolled suddenly to starboard. When he came to the surface again it was at the stern, with several broken ribs, he having struck against the propeller. He was, however, soon rescued and placed in safety, and then but three natives and Harvey and Oliver remained on board. The natives went first, the white men quickly followed, and clambered into the boat, which at once joined the two others, and then all three lay to, and their occupants watched the _Motutapu_ drifting before the wind, with the red flames enveloping her from stern to stem.
***** Ordering the other boats to remain close to him until further orders, but to steer W. by N. if anything should part them from him during the night, Oliver and Harvey, as they watched the burning steamer lighting up the heaving sea for miles around, discussed their future plans, and quickly resolved upon a certain course of action to be followed in the morning.
Towards midnight the wind died away entirely, and an hour later the heavy, lumpy sea changed into a long, sweeping swell. A mile to leeward the _Motutafu_ still blazed fiercely, and sent up vast volumes of smoke and flame from her forehold, where some hundreds of cases of kerosene were stowed.
The three boats were pretty close together, and Harvey, exhausted by the events of the day, and knowing that Tessa was safe with the second mate, was just dozing off into a “monkey's sleep” when he was awakened by a hail from Atkins.
“What's the matter, Atkins?” cried Oliver.
“We're all right, sir; but Miss Remington has just come to, and is asking for Mr. Carr, so I said I'd hail you just to show her that he is with you. Better let me come alongside.”
Oliver looked at Harvey with something like a smile in his eyes.
“All right, Atkins,” he replied, and then to Harvey, “Here, wake up young-fellow-my-lad, and get into the other boat with your sweetheart. I don't want you here. What's the use of you if you haven't even a bit of tobacco to give me?”
The second mate's boat drew alongside, and in another minute Harvey was seated in the stern sheets with Tessa's cheek against his own, and her arms round his neck.
“Any of you fellows got any tobacco, and a pipe to spare?” said the prosaic Oliver. “If you haven't, sheer off.”
“Lashings of everything,” said Atkins.
“Here you are: two pipes, matches, bottle of Jimmy Hennessy, and some water and biscuits. What more can you want? Who wouldn't sell a farm and go to sea?”
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{
"id": "24838"
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At sunrise the three boats were all within a half-mile of each other, floating upon a smooth sea of the deepest blue. Overhead the vault of heaven was unflecked by a single cloud, though far away on the eastern sea-rim a faintly curling bank gave promise of a breeze before the sun rose much higher.
At a signal from Oliver the second mate pulled up, and he, Harvey, and the chief mate again held a brief consultation. Then Harvey went back to Oliver, and both boats came together, rowing in company alongside that of the captain's, no one speaking, and all feeling that sense of something impending, born of a sudden silence.
The captain's boat was steered by Huka, the Savage Islander; Hendry himself was sitting beside Chard in the stern sheets, Morrison and Studdert amidships amidst the native crew, whose faces were sullen and lowering, for in the bottom of the boat one of their number, who had been shot in the stomach by either the captain or Chard, was dying.
Hendry's always forbidding face was even more lowering than usual as his eyes turned upon the chief officer. Chard, whose head was bound up in a bloodstained handkerchief, smiled in his frank, jovial manner as he rose, lifted his cap to Tessa, and nodded pleasantly to Oliver and Harvey.
“What are your orders, sir?” asked the chief mate addressing the captain.
Hendry gave him a look of murderous hatred, and his utterance almost choked him as he replied-- “I shall give my orders presently. But where are the other firemen--five of them are missing.”
“Six of them rushed this boat,” answered the mate quietly; “two of them--those scoundrels there,” and he pointed to the two in Hendry's boat, “let the after fall go by the run, and drowned the others.”
“I hold you responsible for the death of those men,” said Hendry vindictively.
“Very well, sir,” answered the mate, “but this is not the time nor place to talk about it.”
“No,” broke in Atkins fiercely; “no more is it the time or place to charge you, Captain Hendry, and you, Mr. Chard, with the murder of the two native seamen whose bodies we saw lying on the main hatch.”
Hendry's face paled, and even Chard, self-possessed as he always was, caught his breath.
“We fired on those men to suppress a mutiny----” began Hendry, when Oliver stopped him with an oath.
“What are your orders, I ask you for the second time?” and from the natives there came a hissing sound, expressive of their hatred.
Chard muttered under his breath, “Be careful, Louis, be careful.”
Suddenly the second steward raised himself from the bottom of Oliver's boat, where he had been lying, groaning in agony, and pointed a shaking finger at Chard.
“That's the man who caused it all,” he half sobbed, half screamed. “'E told me to let Tim Donnelly go into the trade-room, and it was Donnelly who upset the lamp and set the ship afire. ' E sent Donnelly to 'ell, and 'e's sending me there, too, curse 'im! But I'm goin' to make a clean breast of it all, I am, so help me Gawd. ' E made me give the young lady and the girl the drugged coffee, 'e did, curse 'im! I'll put you away before I die, you----” He sank back with a moan of agony and bloodstained lips as Chard, with clenched hands and set teeth, glared at him savagely.
A dead silence ensued as Harvey picked up a loaded Winchester, and covered the supercargo.
“You infernal scoundrel!” he said, “it is hard for me to resist sending a bullet through you. But I hope to see you hanged for murder.”
“You'll answer to me for this----” began Chard, when Oliver again interrupted.
“This is no time for quarrelling. Once more, Captain Hendry--what are your orders?”
Hendry consulted with Chard in low tones, then desired first of all that the wounded native should be taken into Oliver's boat.
The mate obeyed under protest. “I already have a badly injured man in my boat, sir; and that native cannot possibly live many hours longer.”
Hendry made no answer, but gave the officer one of his shifty, sullen glances as the dying man was lifted out and put into Oliver's boat. Then he asked Oliver if the ship's papers, chronometer, charts, and his (Hendry's) nautical instruments had been saved.
“Here they are,” and all that he had asked for was passed over to him by Harvey.
“Did you save any firearms?” was Hendry's next question.
“Yes,” replied Harvey; “two Winchesters, a Snider carbine, and all the cartridges we could find in your cabin.”
“Give them to me, then,” said Hendry.
Harvey passed them over to the captain, together with some hundreds of cartridges tied up in a handkerchief. Hendry and Chard took them with ill-concealed satisfaction, little knowing that Harvey had carefully hidden away the remainder of the firearms in Atkins's boat, and therefore did not much mind obeying Hendry's demand.
When Hendry next spoke he did so in a sullenly, authoritative manner.
“Miss Remington, you and your servant must come into my boat. Mr. Morrison, you and the second engineer can take their places in the mate's boat.”
The two engineers at once, at a meaning glance from Oliver, stepped out of the captain's boat, and took their seats in that of the mate. Neither Tessa nor Maoni moved.
“Make haste, please, Miss Remington,” said Hendry, not looking at her as he spoke, but straight before him.
“I prefer to remain in Mr. Atkins's boat,” replied Tessa decisively.
“And I tell you that you must come with me,” said the captain, with subdued fury. “Mr. Atkins has no compass, and I am responsible for your safety.”
“Thank you, Captain Hendry,” was the mocking reply, “I relieve you of all responsibility for my safety. And I absolutely refuse to leave Mr. Atkins, except to go with Mr. Oliver.”
For a moment Hendry was unable to speak through passion, for he had determined that Tessa should come with them. Then he addressed the second mate. “Mr. Atkins, I order you to come alongside and put Miss Remington and that native girl into my boat.”
“You can go to hell, you Dutch hog!” was the laconic rejoinder from Atkins, as he leant upon his steer-oar and surveyed the captain and Chard with an air of studied insolence. “I'll take no orders from a swab like you. If Miss Remington wants to stay in my boat she _shall_ stay.” Then turning to Tessa he said so loudly that both Chard and captain could hear, “Never fear, miss; compass or no compass, you are safer with us than with those two.” And as Tessa looked up into his face and smiled her thanks to the sturdy young officer, Chard ground his teeth with rage, though he tried to look unconcerned and indifferent.
“It's no use, Louis,” he muttered, “we can do nothing now; time enough later on. Give your orders, and don't look so infernally white about the gills.”
The taunt went home, and Hendry pulled himself together. The violence with which he had been thrown down upon the deck the previous evening by the angered mate, and his present passion combined had certainly, as Chard said, made him look white about the gills.
“Very well, Miss Remington,” he said, “if you refuse to come with me I cannot help it. Mr. Oliver, is your boat compass all right?”
“Yes,” was the curt answer.
“Then our course is north-north-west for Ponapé. You, Mr. Atkins, as you have no compass, had better keep close to me, as if we get a squally night with heavy rain, which is very likely, we may lose sight of each other. You, Mr. Oliver, can use your own judgment. We are now five hundred miles from Ponape.” Then, true seaman as he was, for all his villainy, he ascertained what provisions were in Atkins's boat, told him to put half into Oliver's, and also overhauled what was in his own. There was an ample supply for two or three weeks, and of water there were two breakers, one in his own the other in the second mate's boat. That which had been in the mate's boat had been lost when she was rushed by the firemen, and had hung stern down by the for'ard fall.
“I'll see that Mr. Oliver's boat has all the water she wants to-day,” said Atkins. “She won't want any to-night. We'll get more than we shall like. It'll rain like forty thousand cats.”
Hendry nodded a sullen assent to this, and turned to take the steer-oar from Huka, who, with the other native seamen, had been listening to the discussion between the captain and his officers.
Huka gave up the oar, and then telling the other natives in their own tongue to follow him, quietly slipped overboard, and swam towards the second mate's boat. They leapt after him instantly.
Hendry whipped up one of the Winchesters, and was about to stand up and fire at the swimming men when Chard tore the carbine from his grasp.
“Let them go, you blarsted fool! Let them go! It will be all the better for us,” he said with savage earnestness, but speaking low so that the two firemen could not overhear him; “we can send the whole lot of them to hell together before we get to Ponapé. Sit down, you blithering Dutch idiot, and let them go! They are playing into our hands,” and then he whispered something in the captain's ears.
Hendry looked into the supercargo's face with half-terrified, half-savage eyes.
“I'm with you, Sam. Better that than be hanged for shooting a couple of niggers.”
“Just so, Louis. Now make a protest to Oliver and Atkins, and ask them to send those three natives back. They won't do it, of course, but be quick about it. Say that you have only the two firemen and myself--who are not seamen--to help you to take the boat to Ponape.”
Hendry took his cue quickly enough, and hailed the two other boats.
“Mr. Oliver, and you, Mr. Atkins. My crew have deserted me. I do not want to resort to force to make them return, but call upon you to come alongside, and put those three men back into my boat.”
Oliver made no answer for the moment. He, Harvey, Atkins, and Huka talked earnestly together for a few minutes, and then the mate stood up and spoke.
“The native crew refuse to obey your orders Captain Hendry. They accuse you and Mr. Chard of murdering three of their shipmates. And I, and every one in these two boats, know that you and Mr. Chard _did_ murder them, and I'm not going to make these three men return to you. You have a good boat, with mast, mainsail and jib, and more provisions than either the second mate or myself. We have, in this boat of mine, only six canoe paddles and no sail; the second mate has oars, but no sail. You could reach Ponape long before we do if you want to leave us in the lurch.”
“And we'll be damned glad to be quit of your company,” shouted Atkins. “Hoist your sail, you goat-faced, sneaking Schneider, and get along! When we are ashore at Ponapé I'll take it out of _you_ captain, and Mr. Carr will settle up differences with _you_ Mr. Chard--you black-faced scoundrel! And, please God, you'll both swing in Fiji after we have done with you.”
Hendry made no answer to the second mate's remarks, which were accompanied by a considerable number of oaths and much vigorous blasphemy; for the honest-hearted Atkins detested both his captain and the supercargo most fervently, as a pair of thoroughpaced villains.
But for very particular reasons Captain Hendry and Mr. Samuel Chard did not wish to part company with the other two boats, and therefore Atkins's gibes and threats were passed over in silence, and Oliver acceded to Hendry's request to let him tow his boat, as with the gentle breeze, and with the six canoe paddles helping her along, the two could travel quite as fast as the second mate with his six oars.
And so with a glorious sky of blue above, and over a now smooth and placid sea, just beginning to ripple under the breath of a gentle breeze, the boat voyage began.
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{
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All that day the three boats made excellent progress, for though the wind was but light, the sea was very smooth, and a strong northerly current helped them materially.
As night approached heavy white clouds appeared on the eastern horizon--the precursors of a series of heavy rain squalls, which in those latitudes, and at that season of the year--November to March--are met with almost nightly, especially in the vicinity of the low-lying islands of the Marshall and Caroline Groups.
Then, as the sun set, the plan of murder that was in the hearts of the captain and supercargo began to work. During the day they had been unable to converse freely, for fear of being overheard by the two firemen, but now the time had come for them to act.
In all the boats' lockers Harvey and Latour had placed a two gallon wicker-covered jar of rum, and presently Hendry hailed Oliver, whose boat was still towing astern. It was the first time that he had taken any notice of the occupants of the other boats since the morning.
“You can give your men some grog if you like, Mr. Oliver,” he said, “and you might as well hail the second mate, and tell him to do the same. I shall have to cast you off presently, as the first rain squall will be down on us, and each boat will have to take care of herself. We are bound to part company until the morning, but I rely on you and the second mate to keep head to wind during the squalls, and stick to the course I have given you between times.”
“Very well, sir.”
Chard took out the rum and filled a half-pint pannikin to the brim.
“Here you are, boys,” said he pleasantly to the two firemen, who looked gloatingly at the liquor; “this will warm you up for the drenching you will get presently.”
The unsuspecting, unfortunate men drank it off eagerly without troubling to add water, and then Chard, who feared that Hendry sober would be too great a coward for the murderous work that was to follow, poured out a stiff dose into another pannikin, and passed it to him. Then he took some himself.
“Pass along that pannikin, boys,” he said; “you might as well have a skinful while you are about it.”
The men obeyed the treacherous scoundrel with alacrity. Like their shipmates who had perished the previous night, they were thoroughly intemperate men, and were only too delighted to be able to get drunk so quickly.
Filling their pannikin, which held a pint, to the brim, Chard poured half of it into his own empty tin, and then passed them both to the men. They sat down together on the bottom boards amidships, and then raised the pannikins.
“Here's good luck to you, Mr. Chard, and you, skipper.”
“Good luck, men,” replied Hendry, watching them keenly as they swallowed mouthful after mouthful of the fiery stuff, which from its strength was known to the crew of the _Motutapu_ as “hell boiled down to a small half-pint.”
Ten minutes passed, and then as the darkness encompassed the three boats, a sudden puff of wind came from the eastward. Hendry hailed the mate.
“Here's a squall coming, Mr. Oliver; haul in your painter.”
He cast off the tow line, and Chard lowered the mainsail and jib, the two firemen taking not the slightest notice as they continued to swallow the rum.
In another five minutes the white wall of the hissing rain squall was upon them, and everything was hidden from view. Hendry swung his boat's head round, and let her drive before it. The other boats, he knew, would keep head on to the squall, and in half an hour he would be a couple of miles away from them.
The captain's boat drove steadily before the rushing wind, and the stinging, torrential rain soon covered the bottom boards with half a foot of water. Chard took the bailer, and began to bail out, taking no heed of the firemen, who were lying in the water in a drunken stupor, overcome by the rum.
At last the rain ceased, and the sky cleared as if by magic, though but few stars were visible. Chard went on bailing steadily. Presently he rose, came aft, took a seat beside Hendry and looked stealthily into his face.
“Well?” muttered the captain inquiringly, as if he were afraid that the two poor wretches who but a few feet away lay like dead men might awaken.
For the moment Chard made no answer, but putting out his hand he gripped Hendry by the arm.
“Did you hear what Carr and Atkins said?” he asked in a fierce whisper.
Hendry's sullen eyes gleamed vindictively as he nodded assent.
“Well, they mean it--if we are fools enough to give them the chance of doing it. And by God, Louis, I tell you that it means hanging for us both; if not hanging, imprisonment for life in Darlinghurst Gaol. We shot the niggers, right enough, and every man of the crew of the _Motutapu_, from Oliver down to Carr's servant, will go dead against us.”
He paused a moment. “This has happened at a bad time for us, Louis. Two years ago Thorne, the skipper of the _Trustful_, labour schooner, his mate, second mate, boatswain and four hands were cast for death for firing into native canoes in the New Hebrides. And although none of them were hanged they are rotting in prison now, and will die in prison.”
“I know,” answered the captain in a whisper. “Thorne was reprieved and got a life-sentence, the other chaps got twenty-one years.”
“And I tell you, Louis, that if you and I face a jury we shall stand a worse chance than Jim Thorne and his crowd did. The whole crew will go dead against us, and swear there was no attempt to mutiny--that girl and her servant too, and Jessop as well. Jessop would give us away in any case over the cause of the fire, if he said nothing else. It's their lives or ours.”
“What is it to be?” muttered Hendry, drawing the steer oar inboard, and putting his eager, cruel eyes close to Chard's face.
“This is what it must be. You and I, Louis, will be _'the only survivors of the “Motutapu” which took fire at sea. All hands escaped in the three boats, but only the captain's boat, containing himself and the supercargo, succeeded in reaching Ponapé after terrible hardships. The mate's and second mate's boats, with all their occupants, have undoubtedly been lost. _' That is what the newspapers will say, Louis, and it will be quite true, as all those in the other boats will perish. By sunrise tomorrow none of the ship's company but you and I must be alive.”
“How are we going to do it?”
“Wait till nearly daylight, and then we can get within range of them, and pick them off one by one, if there is a good breeze. If there is no wind and we cannot keep going, we must put it off for the time. There's two hundred and thirty Winchester and Snider cartridges in that handkerchief--I've counted them--and we can make short work of them.”
“What about these fellows?” said Hendry, inclining his head towards the drunken firemen.
“They go first. They must go overboard in the next squall, which will be upon us in a few minutes. Take another drink, Louis, and don't shake so, or--” and Chard grasped Hendry by the collar and spoke with sudden fury--“or by God, I'll settle _you_ first, and do the whole thing myself!”
“I'll do it, Sam; I'll do it.”
Again the hissing rain and the hum of the squall was upon them as the ocean was blotted out from view.
“Now,” said Chard--“quick.” They sprang forward together, lifted the unconscious men one by one, and threw them over the side.
“Run up the jib,” said Hendry hoarsely; “let us get further away.”
“You rotten-hearted Dutch cur,” and Chard seized the captain by the beard with his left hand and clenched his right threateningly, “brace yourself up, or I'll ring your neck like a fowl's, and send you overboard after them. Think of your wife and family--and of the hangman's noose dangling between you and them.”
***** Throughout the night the rain squalls swept the ocean at almost hourly intervals, with more or less violence, but were never of long enough duration to raise more than a short, lumpy sea, which quickly subsided.
About an hour before dawn, however, a more than usually heavy bank formed to windward, and Harvey, with Huka and the other natives, could see that there was more wind in it than would be safe for the mate's boat, which was deep in the water, owing to the number of people in her. Oliver agreed with them that they should tranship three or four of their number into the second mate's boat.
“Better be sure than sorry, Carr,” he said; “can any one of you see Mr. Atkin's boat?”
Nothing could be seen or heard of her until a boat lantern was hoisted on an oar by Oliver, and a few seconds after was responded to by Atkins soaking a piece of woollen cloth in rum, wrapping it round the point of a boathook, and setting it alight. Its flash revealed him half a mile away to leeward. Hendry and Chard, who by this time were quite three miles distant, saw the blazing light, and the latter wondered what it meant.
“They have parted company, I think,” said Hendry, “and as the mate's boat is too deep I daresay he wants Atkins to take some of his people before this big squall comes down. It's going to be an ugly fellow this, and we'll have to drive again. I wish it would swamp 'em both. The sharks would save us a lot of trouble then.”
As quickly as possible Oliver paddled down to Atkins, and Harvey, Latour, Huka, and another native got into the second mate's boat.
“We'll have to run before this, Atkins,” said the mate, alluding to the approaching squall; “it will last a couple of hours or more by the look of it. Are you very wet, Miss Remington?”
“Very, Mr. Oliver,” answered the girl, with a laugh; “but I don't mind it a bit, as the rain is not cold. I am too old a 'sailor man' to mind a wetting. Are you all quite well? I can't see your face, Mr. Studdert, nor yours, Mr. Morrison, it is so dark. Oh, Mr. Studdert, I wish I had one of your cigarettes to smoke.”
“I wish I had one to give you, miss,” answered the pale-faced young engineer. “A pipe is no to my liking, but I fear me I'll have to tackle one in the morning.”
Alas, poor Studdert, little did he know that the morning, now so near, was to be his last.
“Goodbye for the present, Miss Remington,” called out Oliver as the boats again separated. “Take good care of her, Harvey, and of yoursels too. He'll be getting an attack of the shakes in the morning, miss, after all this wetting. Give him plenty of rum, my dear, whether he likes it or not. You're a plucky little lady, and next to having you in my own boat I am glad to see you with Atkins. Cheer up, lads, one and all; we'll have the sun out in another hour.”
Half an hour later both boats were driving before the fury of the squall, and the crews had to keep constantly bailing, for this time the violence of the wind was such that, despite the most careful steering of the two officers, large bodies of water came over amidships, and threatened to swamp the boats.
When dawn came the sky was again as clear as it had been on the previous morning, and Atkins stood up and looked for the captain's and mate's boats.
“There they are, Harvey,” and he pointed to the westward; “the skipper is under sail, and making back towards Oliver. Well, that's one thing about him, dog as he is--he's a thorough sailor man, and is standing back to take Oliver in tow again.”
At this time the captain's boat was about three miles distant from that of the second mate, and Oliver's between the two, but much nearer to Hendry and Chard's than to Atkins's. She was under both mainsail and jib, and as the sea was again very smooth was slipping through the water very quickly under a now steady breeze, as she stood towards the mate's boat.
As the red sun burst from the ocean Atkins told the crew to cease pulling for a few minutes and get something to eat. The men were all in good humour, though they yet meant to wreak their vengeance on Chard and Hendry for the murder of their shipmates. The wounded man who had been put in Oliver's boat they knew had also died, and this had still further inflamed them. But for the present they said nothing, but ate their biscuit and tinned beef in cheerful silence, after waiting for Tessa and Maoni to begin. Huka, their recognised leader, and Malua, Harvey's servant, had both assured them that the captain and Chard would be brought to punishment, but this assurance was not satisfactory to the majority of them. One of them, the big Manhikian who had helped Latour to rescue Tessa and Maoni from their cabin, was a brother of the man who had just died from his wounds in Oliver's boat, and he had, during the night, promised his shipmates to take his own and give them their _utu_ (revenge) before the boats reached Ponapé.
“Turn to again, boys,” said Atkins presently, as soon as the men had satisfied their hunger; “we must catch up to the others now.”
The natives bent to their oars again, and sent the boat along at a great rate, when suddenly Harvey heard the sound of firearms. He stood up and looked ahead.
“Good God!” he cried, “look there, Atkins! The captain and Chard are firing into Oliver's boat!”
Even as he spoke the repeated crackling of Winchester rifles could be heard, and the mate's boat seemed to be in great confusion, and her occupants were paddling away from their assailants, who, however, were following them up closely at a distance of about fifty yards.
“Pull, men, pull! For God's sake, lay into it! The captain and firemen are murdering Mr. Oliver and his party.”
The seamen uttered a shout of rage, and made the boat leap through the water as now, in addition to the sharp crackle of the Winchesters, they heard the heavier report of a Snider, and Harvey, jumping up on the after whaleback, and steadying himself with one hand on Atkins's shoulder, saw that only two or three of Oliver's crew were now paddling--the rest had been shot down.
“We'll never get there in time, Atkins,” he cried, “unless we can hit those who are firing. It's Chard and the skipper! Let Huka steer.”
In a few seconds the change was effected. Huka took the steer-oar, two of the after-oars were double-banked, and Atkins and Harvey sprang forward with their Sniders, and began firing at the captain's boat, though at a range which gave them little chance of hitting her. Every moment, however, the distance was decreasing, and the two men fired steadily and carefully. But the Winchesters still cracked for another five minutes. Then the fire from the captain's boat ceased as a shot from Atkins's rifle smashed into her amidships. She was suddenly put before the wind, and then Chard came aft, and began firing at the approaching boat with his Snider, in the hope of disabling her, so that he and his fellow-murderer (now that their plan of utterly destroying all the occupants of both boats had been so unexpectedly frustrated) might escape.
But the work of slaughter in which he had just been engaged and the rolling of the boat, together with the continuous hum of bullets overhead, made his aim wild, and neither the second mate's boat nor any of its people were hit, and she swept along to the rescue.
|
{
"id": "24838"
}
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8
|
None
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An exclamation of horror burst from Harvey as the boat, with its panting crew, dashed up alongside that of the chief mate.
“For God's sake, Tessa, do not look!” he cried hoarsely.
For the half-sunken boat was a shambles, and of her nine occupants only three were alive--the second steward Jessop, Morrison, and Oliver himself. The latter lay in the stern sheets with a bullet hole through his chest, and a smashed hip; he had but just time to raise his hand in mute farewell to Harvey and Atkins, and then breathed his last.
Morrison, whose spine was broken by a Winchester bullet, but who was perfectly conscious, was at once lifted out and placed in Atkins's boat, and Tessa, with the tears streaming down her pale face, and trying hard to restrain her sobs, pillowed his old, grey head upon Atkins's coat. Then Jessop, who was evidently still in agony from his broken ribs, one of which, so Morrison said in a faint voice, had, he thought, been driven into his lungs, was placed beside him.
Poor Studdert and the five native seamen were dead, some of them having received as many as five or six bullet wounds. Studdert himself had been shot through the head, and lay for'ard with his pale face upturned to the sky, and his eyes closed as if in a peaceful sleep.
The boat had been pierced in several places below the water-line by Snider bullets, and by the time Morrison and Jessop had been removed, and Harvey and Atkins had satisfied themselves that the other seven men in her were dead, she was nearly full of water--not the clear, bright water of the ocean alone, but water deeply stained with the blood of the murdered men.
“We must cast off,” said Atkins in a low voice, “we can do no more.”
As he spoke a bullet from Chard's Snider struck the water about thirty yards away, and springing up, he seized his own rifle again.
Huka placed his hand on the officer's arm, and then turned to Harvey and spoke in Samoan, gravely and with solemn emphasis, though his brown cheeks were wetted with tears.
“Let us take no heed of the bullets that come. Here be six dead men whose souls have gone to God for judgment. Let us pray for them.”
Atkins, his blazing eyes fixed on the captain's boat, from which every few seconds a bullet came humming overhead, or striking the water within a few yards, laid down the rifle and took off his cap.
“Go ahead, Huka. You're a better Christian than me. Sling out a prayer for these poor chaps as quick as you can. We can't bury them in a decent, shipshape fashion.”
Two men stepped into the sinking, shot-torn boat, and then Huka stood up amidships among his comrades, with bowed head, and his hands crossed upon his great naked chest. He prayed in Samoan.
“_O Jehovah, who holdeth the great sea in the hollow of Thy hand, we commit to its depths these the bodies of our shipmates who have been slain. O Father', most just and most merciful, let them become of Thy kingdom. Amen_.”
Then, one by one, the bodies of Studdert and of the five natives were dropped overboard by the two seamen as reverently as circumstances permitted, and in silence broken only by the suppressed sobbing of the two girls.
Such stores as were in poor Oliver's boat were next taken out, and then the wrecked and bloodstained craft was cast adrift and left to fill.
As the second mate grasped the haft of the steer-oar again another shot from the captain's boat fell some distance ahead.
“He's running away from us as fast as he can,” said Harvey; “look, he's hauled up a couple of points!”
“Ay, so he has. And our short Sniders won't carry any further than the one he's firing with, so we have no chance of hitting him, I'm afraid. However, just let us try. How many Sniders have we?”
“Seven.”
“Avast pulling, lads. We'll give him a parting shot together. Maybe we might drop a bullet into him. Get out the other five Sniders, Harvey; the Winchesters are no use at such a range.”
The boat was swung broadside on, and the two white men and five natives fired a volley together. Tessa stood up on the after-thwart, and watched through Atkin's glasses; the heavy bullets all fell short.
“Never mind, lads,” said Atkins. “God Almighty ain't going to let those two men escape. Now, Harvey, what about ourselves? What is it to be? Ponape, or the nearest land?”
“The nearest land, tor Gawd's sake,” sobbed Jessop. “I ain't got long to live, and for Christ's sake don't chuck me overboard to be chawed up by the sharks like a piece o' dead meat.”
“Man,” said a faint voice beside him, “ye're ower particular, I'm thinking. And it would be a verra hungry shark that wad hae the indecency to eat such a puir chicken-hearted creature as yourself, ye miserable cur! Are ye no ashamed to be whining before the two lasses?”
It was the dying Morrison who spoke. Tessa bent over him. “Do not be angry with him,” she whispered, “he is in great agony.”
“Ay, I hae no doubt he's in verra great pain; but ye see, my dear, I'm auld and crotchety, and the creature's verra annoying wi' his whining and moaning and fearsome blasphemy.”
Tessa, who knew as well as the brave old man knew himself that he was dying, placed her soft hand on his rugged brow in silent sympathy; he looked up at her with a cheerful smile.
Harvey and Atkins consulted. Ponapé was between four and five hundred miles distant, a long voyage for a deeply-laden boat without a sail. Two hundred miles to the westward was Pikirami Atoll (the “Greenwich Island” of the charts), and a hundred and eighty miles north of that was Nukuor, the most southerly of the vast archipelago of the Caroline Islands.
“I don't know what is best for us to do, Atkins,” said the trader. “At this time of the year we can count upon every night being such as it was last night, perhaps a great deal worse; and we must either turn tail to the squalls or put out a sea anchor and drift. This means that we'll make no headway at all at night time, and be set steadily to the westward, and out of our course for Ponapé. If we had a sail it would be right enough, as we could lay up for there--within a couple of points anyway. But we have no sail, and willing as the men are to pull, it will be terribly exhausting.”
Atkins nodded. “Just so, Mr. Carr. If, as you say, we had a sail it would be different. Without one it may take us a fortnight or more to get to Ponapé.”
“Quite. Now on the other hand, Pikirami Lagoon lies less than a hundred and fifty miles dead to leeward of us. It is low, but I don't think we shall miss it if we steer W. by S., as on the south end there is a coral mound about a hundred feet high. If we do miss it we can steer south for New Ireland; we can't miss _that_ if we tried to, and would get there sooner than we could reach Ponapé. Then there is another advantage in our making for Pikirami--we can run before the night squalls, and the harder they blow the better it will be for us--we'll get there all the sooner.”
Then Harvey went on to say that at Piki-rami--which he knew well--they would meet with a friendly reception from the few natives who inhabited two islets out of the thirty which formed the atoll. Twice every year the place was visited by a small German trading schooner from Blanche Bay, in New Britain, and possibly, he thought, they might either find her there loading a cargo of copra; or, if not, they could wait for her. In the latter case he would on Tessa's behalf charter the vessel to take them all to Ponapé, for her father's name and credit were well known from one end of the Pacific to the other, and there would be no difficulty in making terms with the master.
Atkins agreed willingly to Harvey's suggestions, for he well knew the great risks that would attend the attempt to reach Ponapé under such circumstances as were theirs; and the native crew, much as they wished to pursue the captain and wreak their vengeance upon him and the supercargo, readily acquiesced in Harvey's plan of steering for Pikirami Lagoon in when he pointed out to them the difficulties and dangers that lay before them by making for Ponapé, or, indeed, any other island of the Caroline Group.
“And those men there,” said Harvey, speaking in Samoan, and pointing to the captain's boat, which was now more than a mile distant, “cannot escape punishment for their crimes; for is not this the word of God: 'Thou shalt do no murder'? And those two men have done murder, and God will call them to account.”
Roka, the big Manhikian native, whose brother had been killed, answered for himself and his comrades in the same tongue.
“Ay, that is true. But yet it is hard that I, whose brother's blood is before my eyes and the smell of it in my nostrils, cannot see these men die. How can we tell, master, that men will judge them for their crimes? They are sailing away, and may reach some country far distant, and so be safe.”
Harvey partly assented. “They may escape for a time, Roka, but not for long. Rest assured of that.”
Then a tot of rum was served out to each man, and the boat's head put W. by S. for Pikirami Lagoon, while Tessa and Maoni set to work under Atkins's directions to sew together some odd pieces of calico and navy blue print, which Latour the steward had fortunately thrust into the sack containing the firearms. When it was completed it made a fairly sized squaresail, which could always be used during light winds.
The captain's boat had disappeared from view, when Jessop the second steward beckoned to Harvey to come to him.
“Ask the young lady to go for'ard, mister, will you?” he said, turning his haggard eyes upon the trader's face. “I feel as 'ow I'm goin', an' I said I would make a clean breast of it. But I don't want 'er to 'ear; do ye twig, mister, though I'll tell you and Mr. Hatkins?”
Harvey nodded, and whispered to Tessa to go for'ard. “The poor little beggar is dying, Tessa, and has something to tell me.”
Tessa and Maoni went for'ard and sat down under the shade of the newly-made mainsail, which was hoisted upon an oar with a bamboo yard. There they were quite out of hearing of the vile confession of Jessop's complicity with Chard and the captain made by the wretched man, who was now sinking fast, and knew that his hours were numbered, for, as Morrison had surmised, one of his lungs was fatally injured. And when he had finished the low-spoken tale of his villainy even the rough-natured Atkins was filled with pity when he saw how the poor wretch was suffering, both physically and mentally.
“You've done right, Jessop, in telling us this; it'll be all the better for you when you have to stand before the Almighty, won't it, Mr. Carr?”
“Yes, indeed, Jessop,” said Harvey kindly; “and I wish we could do something to alleviate your pain, poor fellow!”
“Never mind, sir. You're a gent if ever there was one, and you 'as taken away a lot o' the pain I've 'ad in me 'eart by forgivin' me. And perhaps the young lady will just let me tell 'er I'm sorry, and give me 'er 'and before I go.”
Atkins beckoned to Tessa, who came quickly aft and knelt beside the dying man, who looked into her soft, sympathetic face longingly yet fearfully.
“I'm a bad lot, miss, as Mr. Carr will tell you when I'm dead. It was me that give you and Monny the drugged coffee, and I want you to forgive me, an' give me your 'and.”
Tessa looked wonderingly at Harvey, who bent towards her and whispered a few words. In an instant she took Jessop's hand between both of hers.
“Poor Jessop,” she said softly, “I forgive you freely, and I do hope you will get better soon.”
He looked at her with dimmed, wistful eyes. “Thank you, miss. You're very kind to a cove like me. Will you 'old me 'and a bit longer, please.”
Early in the afternoon, as the boat slipped lazily over the gentle ocean swell, he died. And though Atkins and Harvey would have liked to have acceded to his last wishes to be buried on shore, stern necessity forbade them so doing, for they knew not how long it would be ere they reached Pikirami; and so at sunset his body was consigned to the deep.
***** For the rest of that day, and during the night, when the white rain squalls came with a droning, angry hum from the eastward and drenched the people with a furious downpour, flattening the heaving swell with its weight, the boat kept steadily on her course; and, but for the shadow of death which hourly grew darker over poor Morrison, the voyagers would have talked and laughed and made light of their sodden and miserable surroundings. Morrison himself was the most cheerful man in the boat, and when Atkins and Harvey rigged an oilskin coat over him to keep the rain from his face at least he protested as vigorously as he could, saying that he did not mind the rain a bit, and urging them to use it to protect “the two lassies” from the blinding and deafening downpour.
***** Dawn at last.
The misty sea haze lifted and scattered before the first breath of the gentle breeze, a blood-red sun leapt from the shimmering water-line to windward; a frigate bird and his mate swept swiftly through the air from the westward to view the dark spot upon the ocean two thousand feet below, and day had come again.
Tessa had the engineer's old, grey head pillowed on her lap. Harvey held his right hand, and Atkins, who knew that the end was near, had taken off his soddened cap, and bent his face low over the haft of the steer-oar.
“Do you feel any pain, Mr. Morrison?” asked Tessa, as she stroked the old man's face, and tried to hide her tears.
“Well, I wouldna be for saying no, and I wouldna be for saying yes, my dearie,” replied the brave old fellow; “I'm no complaining aboot mysel', but I'd like to see ye 'saft and warm,' as we Scots say, instead of sitting here wi' my auld, greasy head in your lap, and your ain puir body shivering wi' cauld. Gie me your hand, Harvey Carr... and yours too, Miss Remington.... May God guide ye both together; and you too, Atkins, for ye are a guid sailor man, and a honest one, too. And if ye can get to this lagoon in time--ye know what I mean--ye'll pit my auld bones under God's earth and no cast me overboard?”
Atkins was beside him in a moment. “Brace up, Morrison, old man, you're a long way off dead yet,” he said, with rough sympathy.
“Nay, Atkins, I'm verra near... verra near. But I hae no fear. I'm no afraid of what is to come; because I hae a clean sheet o' my life to show to the Almighty--I'm no like that puir devil Jessop. Harvey man, listen to me. Long, long ago, when I was a bairn at my mother's knee, I read a vairse of poetry which has never come to my mind till now, when I'm verra near my Maker, I canna repeat the exact words, but I think it goes like this,” he whispered, “'He who, from zone to zone, Guides o'er the trackless main the sea-bird's flight, In the long way that I must tread alone Will guide my steps aright.'”
“May God guide us all as He guides the sea-bird, and as He has guided you,” said Tessa sobbingly, as she pressed her lips to his cheek.
Morrison took her hand and held it tightly, “God help and bless ye, lassie. May ye and Harvey never see the shadow of a sorrow in your lives. Atkins, ye'll tak' guid care to remember that there is a hundred and sixty-three pounds due to me frae Hillingdon and MacFreeland, and that if ye do not care to take it yoursel', it must go to auld John Cameron, the sailors' parson in Sydney. Ye hae ony amount of witnesses to hear what I'm now telling ye. I'm no for being long wi' ye, and I dinna want yoursel' nor auld Jock Cameron to be robbed.”
“I'll see that the old parson gets it, Morrison,” said Atkins huskily; “he'll do more good with it than a man like me.”
“Man,” said the old engineer, as he lifted his kindly grey eyes to the second mate, “ye're welcome to it. I wish it were a thousand, for ye're a grand sailor man, wi' a big heart, and maybe ye hae some good woman waiting for ye; and a hunner and sixty pound is no sma' help to----” His voice failed, but his lips were smiling still as he gave his last sigh; and then his head lay still in Tessa's arms.
|
{
"id": "24838"
}
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1
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GRACE MORGAN AND HER TREASURE-CHEST
|
"Are you an honest man, sir?" asked a very pretty young woman, not more than twenty years old, as she stopped in the open field in front of Sergeant Life Knox of the Riverlawn Cavalry, as it was generally called, though the squadron belonged to a numbered regiment in Kentucky.
The non-commissioned officer was a tall Kentuckian, over six feet high, lank and raw-boned. He looked at the young woman, and a smile lighted up his thin face.
"I reckon I am, Miss; I never robbed a bank, or stole a poor woman's last dollar," he replied, thinking it was a queer question if the lady proposed to trust him on his own recommendation.
"Are you a Confederate soldier, for I see that you wear a uniform?" continued the young woman, looking behind her with a timid glance.
"I am not!" protested Life with earnestness enough to prove that he meant all that he said. "Don't you see that I wear the uniform of the United States army? and, Hail Columby! if I ain't a Union man from the smallest nail in the heel of my boot to the top hair on my Kentucky skull!"
"You won't rob me if I tell you the truth, will you?" asked she very simply, and evidently agitated by painful doubts.
"No, indeed, Missy! I wouldn't do that even if you didn't tell me the truth; not if you lied to me till you was black in the face," replied the sergeant warmly. "But what difference does it make to you whether I am honest or not? I am forty-two, and I reckon you don't think of marrying me without my mother's consent."
"I am very serious, sir, and I hope you will not make fun of me," pleaded the young woman with a deep blush on her face, as she looked behind her and listened.
"I wouldn't say a sassy thing to you for half a Kentucky county; but you asked me a queer question. I'll do anything I kin for you. I reckon I'm an honest man; and I don't reckon you kin find anybody in my county that would say I'm not honest."
"That's enough; you look like an honest man, and I believe you," added the fair woman, as she took from under her clothing a hard-wood box about eight inches long by four in width and depth.
From the effort it required for her to handle it, Life judged that it was quite heavy. It was bound with straps of brass, screwed to the wood; and the sight of it was enough to convince the sergeant that it contained something valuable. Her strange question seemed to be explained by this supposition.
"What is your name, Missy?" asked Life, becoming very sedate all at once; for, rough as his manners were, he had a kind heart, and would not trifle with the feelings of any one.
"My name is Grace Morgan," replied the lady, looking behind her once more, as though she dreaded some peril in that direction.
"Be you afeerd of sunthin', that you keep lookin' over yender?" inquired the cavalryman in kindly tones. "What is it? Tell me all about it."
"You say you are a Union man?" she inquired doubtfully.
"Bet your life on't! I'm orderly sergeant of the fust company of the Riverlawn Cavalry. What's it all about?" asked Life, very tenderly for him.
"Stephen Halliburn, who lives about half a mile over there, is my guardian. About twenty Confederate soldiers, or guerillas, I don't know which, are plundering his house and stable, and they say they will have his money if they have to pull his house down to find it," answered Grace, trembling, and glancing frequently behind her, as though she were in mortal terror of the approach of the enemy.
"Oh, ho, Grace! That's what's the matter, ain't it? We'll soon fix the gorrillas, or the soldiers, whatever they may be," replied Life, as he looked earnestly in the direction of the road, a few rods distant from the spot.
"But I can't carry this chest any farther. I am worn out bringing it so far; for I have been so frightened that all the strength has gone out of me," said Grace, as she placed the box on a rock near her. "I am terribly afraid that Mr. Halliburn will be killed or badly hurt; for he is a Union man, and speaks out just what he thinks."
"We will do what we can for him," added Life, still looking in the direction of the road, and listening for sounds from the north.
"But you are only a single man; and what can you do against twenty ruffians?" asked the Kentucky girl, who still trembled, and did not seem to believe that the stalwart cavalryman could do anything to aid Mr. Halliburn.
"About fifty on us," added Life quietly, still looking and listening. "I'm a scout sent out ahead of half the fust company marchin' this way. I left my horse in the road, to come over this way and take a look, for I had an idee I heerd sunthin' on the left."
"Perhaps you heard the ruffians who are plundering my guardian," replied Grace, brightening up when she learned that fifty Union soldiers were in the neighborhood. "He is a dear good man, and I love him as though he were my father. I would not have left him if he had not insisted that I should do something with the chest, which contains all his money and papers. I can't carry it any farther, for it is very heavy."
"And what were you gwine to do with it?" inquired Life, looking into her pretty face.
"I was going to carry it over to the house of Colonel Ben Halliburn, my guardian's brother, as he told me to do."
"All right, Missy; I'll tote it over to the road, and report to the leftenant as soon as he comes up with the men," added Life as he picked up the treasure-chest.
It was heavy, as the young woman had said, though it was a light load for the powerful Kentuckian; and he concluded at once that it must contain a considerable amount of gold. In the distracted condition of the State very few had any confidence in the banks, and some had turned their bills into coin for any emergency that might arise. Before he reached the road he saw another scout getting over the fence.
"Get on your hoss agin, Fronklyn!" shouted Life, who walked with long and hurried strides, so that Grace had to run in order to keep near him.
The story of the bearer of the chest had fully aroused him by this time; and he was ready for action, whether it was in a fight, or in the service of the fair maiden, though there was hardly a fibre of sentimentalism in his composition. When he reached the road, Sergeant Fronklyn had mounted his horse, and was waiting for orders from the chief scout.
"Ride back like a streak o' lightnin', and tell Leftenant Lyon that the gorrillas is cleanin' out a house over yender!" said Life in hurried speech. "How fur back is the platoon?"
"Not more than half a mile," said Fronklyn.
"Go it, and don't let the grass grow under your hoss's irons!"
The other scout went off at the fastest gallop of his steed, and soon disappeared beyond a turn in the road. The Riverlawn Cavalry had been enlisted, drilled, and mustered into the loyal army at the plantation of Noah Lyon, who had inherited the property under the will of his elder brother. The raising of hemp and horses had made the deceased brother, Colonel Duncan Lyon, a rich man, as worldly possessions were gauged in this locality. His property had been fairly divided among his heirs. The plantation had been given to his younger brother, greatly to the dissatisfaction of the elder one.
Titus Lyon, the other surviving brother, was an entirely different kind of man from Noah, as the original owner of Riverlawn was well aware when he gave the place to his younger brother. All of them had come from New Hampshire, the colonel in his early manhood, and Titus a few years before Noah. The latter was a man of character, with lofty principles, while his living brother was far from being a high-toned person. He had always been what is called "a moderate drinker," and his politics had always been the opposite of Noah's in the North.
Titus believed that he ought to have been born a rich man. He was a mason by trade, and had gone to Kentucky to establish himself in this business. For a time he did very well. He fawned upon and tried to flatter his brother; but he drank more whiskey than ever. When the colonel's health began to fail him, he looked forward to the possession of Riverlawn. When it went to Noah he was mortally offended, and an unhappy feud grew into being, though it was altogether on the side of Titus.
The dissatisfied brother, apparently as much to spite Noah, who was an enthusiastic Union man, cast in his lot with the Secessionists. With the money he had received from his deceased brother's estate he became a leader among them. They were bullies and ruffians for the most part, operating at first in the interests of neutrality, the governor's favorite scheme, and in the end falling very naturally into the ranks of the enemies of the Union. Titus raised a company of Home Guards, in which thousands of the citizens of the State were organized, some on one and some on the other side of the question.
Titus was ambitious, and he was chosen captain of his company. He displayed more energy and activity than he had ever manifested in his business, and spent his money recklessly in fitting out and arming his recruits. He purchased a considerable quantity of muskets, cannon, and revolvers, with the ammunition for them. He concealed these military supplies in a "sink," or cave, till he could organize his command. One of Noah's sons discovered them while exploring the creek that flowed by Riverlawn.
When the discovery was reported to his father, Major Lyon, as he was courteously called before he was entitled to this handle to his name, immediately decided that his duty to his country required him to take possession of the arms and munitions. They were all removed to a building prepared for their reception at Riverlawn. Captain Titus knew, or suspected, that his brother had taken the military supplies, and his wrath knew no bounds. When the Union men held a meeting in a schoolhouse the smouldering fire was fanned into a blaze. The ruffians, led on by their captain, marched upon Riverlawn, proposing to burn the mansion and hang its owner to a tree on the lawn, though Titus denied that he had any such intention, and declared that he had prevented his followers from committing this outrage.
Major Lyon had heard of the threats against him and his property, and he was prepared for the marauders. With the aid of his neighbors, and arming his negroes, he fought the "Battle of Riverlawn," defeating and dispersing the ruffians. Then, as arranged at the Union meeting, he proceeded to raise a company of cavalry. The enthusiasm among the loyal people was immense, and two companies were enlisted and mustered in. Against his wishes he was chosen major of the battalion.
Levi Bedford was his overseer. He was a Tennessee Unionist in whom the planter had unbounded confidence. When the major left his home in command of the squadron of two companies, Levi took charge of his family and estate. This family consisted of a daughter Hope, and a son Dexter, now a lieutenant at eighteen. Noah had brought up in his family from their early childhood the children of a brother who died penniless in Vermont. Artemas, always called Artie, was sixteen, and a soldier in one of the companies. Dorcas, the adopted daughter, was eighteen. They had always been a happy family; and all the young people called Noah and his wife, who treated them as their own, father and mother.
The squadron had been on detached duty. Their first service was to protect a railroad bridge which Captain Titus's company and a troop of Texan cavalry had been sent to destroy in order to prevent the transportation of Union forces to Bowling Green. The Texans were thoroughly defeated, and the Home Guards surrounded, beaten, and captured. The major's brother was sent with them to the North, where he had the opportunity to repent and get sober. His two sons, Alexander and Orlando, half starved and disgusted, had fled from Bowling Green; and when their mother and sisters went back to the North, the two boys had enlisted in the Riverlawn Cavalry.
The next service of the squadron was in repressing guerilla outrages; and they took part in the small battle of Munfordsville. When it was known that the Confederates were marching into Kentucky from the south and east, the squadron was sent to take part in the operations in this quarter. The command arrived at Columbia, from which Major Lyon sent the first company towards Mill Springs, where the enemy were reported to be, by the way of Liberty and Miltonville. The second company were to proceed by Millersville and Jamestown, with the same objective point in view.
|
{
"id": "24866"
}
|
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